[John takes a deep breath, balls his hands into fists as he closes his eyes, and clamps down on the urge to take a swing at the consulting detective's face. He just has to remind himself that that's not going to help. It would be extremely satisfying, but it's not going to help. And he'd prefer Sylar not see them scrapping like schoolboys.]

Sherlock, you have four bottles of narcotics, at least. You can spare a few pills for someone who I have to chop fingers off of. [There's a pause, and he opens his eyes. His expression is repressed fury.] Please.