"I think a lot about people," Sherlock mumbled, his soft damp hair resting on Jim's bare chest. Jim was quiet, dreading the idea of having to listen to one of Sherlock's sad speeches again. Only Sherlock didn't. He was quiet, riding Jim's chest as it rose and fell with the oxygen that entered and exited his body.

"And?"

"What?"

"Sherlock, are you just high?"

Sherlock hummed to himself and sighed. "Yes, but people are boring. People have separate identities and ideas and thoughts and families and stereotypes; but even with all that in mind, they're all so fucking boring. No set person is exactly the same, y'know, because they all think differently and will never ever have exactly the same thought at exactly the same time. And yet they're all uninteresting and dull and pointless."

Jim squinted up at the ceiling fan, watching the blades slice through the salty post-sex air. His head pounded with the words Sherlock uttered, comprehending them carefully.

"Now we can say we agree on one thing."