1/3
A.N. this turned out longer than it was meant to be. So off they go to get the weed. Cue hot nerdy/hipster Sherlock when there isn't really need for one.

Sunday morning, seven o’clock, finds Sherlock out of bed and dressed. Sherlock in a ratty wool - cardigan? - that hangs around his thighs, a tight shirt, tight pants, teased hair and thick-rimmed glasses shakes John awake less than five minutes later.
“John. John, its Sunday.”
John sighs, eyes still tight, rebelliously shut, “I know. Let me sleep.”
There’s a pause.
And then the entire weight of Sherlock’s body slams into John’s sleepy form.
“Fuck off,” says John, shout lost in the slam of air leaving his lungs. He fights his way out from under the press of Sherlock’s body through the covers, and once out, pins Sherlock to the bed, squirming wrists trapped under his palms. Its only then that he gets a good look at him.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Sherlock peers down at himself like he isn’t quite sure.
“It’s from Barry Sherwood’s drawers. Thought I’d try it,” he squirms his nose in an attempt to get the glasses, which have been slightly jolted in the fall, back in a comfortable position on his nose.
John relaxes his hold on the pale wrists a little and leans down to nudge the frames back in place with his own nose, and then press a kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
“You look fit in everything you ever wear and its unfair.”
Sherlock makes a face, “Yes, yes, you poor, ugly thing. Go brush your teeth.”
John breathes out long and slow all over Sherlock’s face in retaliation. “I’ll have you know, that Alice Taylor thinks I’m fit. I bet she would kiss me if I had morning breath.”
“No, she would give you a blowjob, but that’s it. Now go brush your teeth, we’re out of weed.”
John slumps a little, but rolls out of bed and meanders to the far side of the dorm to grab his toothbrush. He roots around for a moment, just in a pair of low slung sweats, dark grey against the tan of his skin. “You’ve got to stop using my toothpaste, where did you put it?”
“Under your French folder,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, searching through the mess of clothes and books across the floor and in the pile of stuff that props open the lazy creak of John’s cupboard door. He lingers appreciatively, eyes flicking over the roll of muscles as John picks up a few stray shirts and tosses them over his chair.
When John gets back, mouth minted, there is a pile of clothes on his bed. Sherlock is counting out money and shoving it in the pocket of his tight grey jeans. John throws on the pair of slightly looser jeans, the white T-shirt, and the loose army jacket. He tugs at the hem a little, “This smells heavily of cologne.”
Sherlock glances up, and throws John’s wallet at its owner’s chest.
“Come on.”
He tugs open the door and steps through. John follows.
“We both look really gay.”
“Well that’s handy as we are both very gay.”
A few boys lounge on couches in the hallway, half asleep, hair stuck up by hungover nights. “And, as it happens, so is our dealer.”
Sherlock holds open the front door for John and follows him out, “And I’m nearly out of pocket money.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. You wouldn’t be opposed to some light making out in front of a strange man, would you, John?”
“Isn’t that a bit like whoring?” questions John. They duck their heads as they pass by their housemaster’s extension, under the open window.
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise, and John shrugs.