John awoke earlier than usual that morning, as a recurring nightmare had jolted him awake. He was used to them by now, but it was still a mild inconvenience to be rudely awaken at 5 in the morning, though admittedly its not as if Sherlock was one for mild mannered, soft voiced awakenings. He stumbled groggily around the kitchen trying to make tea, momentarily forgetting where everything was in his sleep hazed state. Looking for a mug he accidentally opened a cupboard he'd never seen before, much less opened.
Inside were a myriad of different bottles. Glass bottles, prescription bottles, and the like, all filled with different pills and liquids, and all labeled with unpronounceable scientific terms that were all Greek to him excepting a few he knew were for medicinal purposes. He surmised that the others were poisons, and he even recognized some of them, too. What he didn't know was what they were for. While it would have been simple to say they were for cases, knowing Sherlock as well as he did they could just as well be for some more sinister purpose. He imagined what other uses these drugs could have, and a chill raced up his spine. Forcing the thought out of his mind, he scanned the bottles curiously, noting one with not just one, but 2 labels. One was the scientific name, but underneath was a neatly written second label, only one word. In layman's terms, he supposed. It read ecstasy.
Ecstasy? John thought, chuckling to himself. What use could Sherlock have for ecstasy? Though Sherlock had dabbled in a couple drugs, this didn't really seem like his area. Sherlock was always calculated and logical, and though he did have his share of emotional outbursts, he was never a very sexual creature. He never wanted to enhance the softer, feeling side of himself, much less to this extent. The drugs he used were always either to speed up or slow down his brain, but never just for the innate pleasure. He would never allow himself to be seen as deriving pleasure from anything. Except crime, that is. It was an interesting thought, though... What would Sherlock be if not cool and calculated? If he finally let his inner walls crash and let himself just... feel? John just couldn't see it. As the kettle whistled and his curiosity soared, he made a snap decision and went for the bottle. he took a pill, but in returning it to its position on the shelf he knocked it over, along with the bottle next to it, mixing their contents on the counter. He swore under his breath as he tried to figure out which pills belonged in which bottle. Hearing Sherlock's footsteps down the hall he hurriedly scooped up all the pills and divided them evenly across both bottles, poured Sherlock his tea, and slipped the pill in, hoping it would dissolve quickly.
Sherlock appeared a moment later, his curls a mess and eyes glazed over with sleep. He took the tea without a word, grumbling about 'not enough sugar' after taking a sip. As he strolled slowly to the couch, John watched him.
He had just drugged Sherlock Holmes.