Sherlock groans and rolls over in his bed, one arm flung across his face. His eyelids feel like sandpaper and his mouth tastes as though he’s licked the inside of a rubbish bin. What on earth had possessed him to indulge in those ridiculously flashy drinks John had made? What were they called? Something awfully distasteful having to do with the IRA, he thinks. It started as a curious interest in the foaming action when the multiple beverages were combined, but why on earth had he had more than one? Or six?
And good lord, what had he said to John afterwards? And what had he done? He distinctly remembers loudly proclaiming words like “attractive,” “brave,” and “charming”, and, could it be he’d even resorted to the L-word? But then, he also remembers the feel of hands, rough and solid and warm, on the small of his back and slightly chapped but very yielding lips pressed against his own (hopefully before whatever resulted in the foul taste had occurred). Can it be, then, that his feelings aren’t entirely unreciprocated? Is John (attractive, brave, charming, wonderful John) currently lying in his own room, waffling about in the same manner?
Only one way to find out, he supposes. Sherlock gets up, gets dressed, and emerges from his room, looking distinctly and uncharacteristically bashful.