Sherlock made his way downstairs to where Wiggins lay passed out on the couch, an empty glass pipe lay on the floor. “Get up,” he growled, kicking his foot.
“What?” Wiggins whined.
“You smoked a whole bowl by yourself?”
“I was bored. There’s nothing to do.”
“Well, get up. We’re going to make John his first dose.”
Wiggins sighed. “Fine, then.”
“First, help me unload the supplies from the car.”
Sherlock brought in one box, then sat down, studying its contents. Wiggins set a couple of boxes next to his feet. “There should be five more, hurry up.”
“How come you get to sit there, while I have to bring in the boxes like some lackey?”
Sherlock set a beaker on a near-by table, then glared at him. “Because that’s what you are—the lackey, or would you rather be called the minion?”
“Ow, no need to be insulting, your majesty.”