[John stares for an expectant second, wondering if Sherlock could somehow deduce the fact he was feeling delusional-- and decides the relief of the idea is worth it too much to care.]
Oh thank god.
[He sags against the table, rubbing his hand over his face.]
Mm. Morphine. Right.
[In monotone he repeats the details, simultaneously trying to grasp it while also gathering his things and wandering about the flat. Hmm? Now where is his coat, he could swear he just left it over here??]
[Private Video: Encrypted]
Oh thank god.
[He sags against the table, rubbing his hand over his face.]
Mm. Morphine. Right.
[In monotone he repeats the details, simultaneously trying to grasp it while also gathering his things and wandering about the flat. Hmm? Now where is his coat, he could swear he just left it over here??]
Punctured lung?