AN: This is my first submission into Sherlock fanfiction, though I've been an avid writer for years. I'm obsessed with this series, and I love Johnlock. I don't know who started the five and one thing, or where it came from, but I absolutely adore it. The format is perfect for fluff and doesn't take a huge amount of commitment when you've got a horrible busy schedule (like me!). Enjoy the story, and please let me know what you think.

Drinking Games

by
SARXII

Five times John was very drunk.
Then one time, he wasn't.


John tripped his way out of the cab and threw too much money into the front seat. It drove off without a second look, leaving the doctor wobbling uncertainly on the sidewalk in front of 221B. Pulling together the remaining soldier determination he had, he stepped up to the doorway and attempted to get his key into the front door.


Sherlock sat, perched on a stool at the kitchen table. He'd been staring into the same microscope for nearly an hour, and his cheek began to twitch in discomfort at keeping one eye open the whole time.

Standing, Sherlock paced the room and stretched his stiff muscles. For the fifth time he wondered where John was that evening, and for the fifth time saw the note pinned to the door that read, "William's Stag Party. Will be home later."

John had gotten in the habit of leaving reminders like that for Sherlock. He eventually realized that no matter how many times he told the detective something, it was still unlikely he'd remember. So, the doctor left notes to remind him in his absence. 'Thoughtful John.'

The clock read 2:37AM. It was an hour later than Sherlock thought. What felt like 60 minutes of staring at the same sample was actually closer to 120. The results he wanted were now an hour outside of their window of opportunity, and with a huff he realized he would have to reevaluate and begin again in the morning.

Bored of the whole thing, the sleuth collapsed onto the couch and placed a pillow over his face. It was the pillow John tended to recline with and it smelt like him. He allowed himself a moment of relaxation to relish in John's aroma.

There was a noise downstairs and he sat stark straight. The only sound for hours had been Mrs. Hudson's telly blaring through the floorboards. Was it a break in? Was it Lestrade? Was something interesting about to happen?

The flat was silent for a long moment and he groaned. He collapsed back again and resigned to a boring night without his flat mate.

However, the strange scraping sound began again in vigor. Standing up this time, he listened intently. "Keys!" he cried suddenly, realizing it was the sound of keys against the downstairs doorknob, which meant that John was finally home. But what the hell was taking him so long to get in?

Sherlock walked out of the flat and was halfway down the stairs before the door finally burst open. John hung desperately onto the doorknob and almost fell over as it swung in. He shushed the door loudly, trying to get his footing. "John?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised high.

Suddenly aware of his friend's presence, John stood as straight as a soldier awaiting his orders. They had an almost comically long staring contest before John finally gave a curt nod and muttered, "Sherlock."

The detective was at a loss for words. He knew that John drank, of course, and he'd come home with a few pints in him before, but never like this. He could smell the alcohol on him from the door. Without another word, John marched up the stairs and past his friend. He'd somehow gotten it in his mind that he could convince Sherlock he wasn't completely pissed.

"Would you like some assistance?" Sherlock asked as he tripped on one of the stairs.

John straightened again and with an indignant tug on his shirt nearly shouted, "No, thank you!"

Sherlock stayed frozen on the stairs as John disappeared into the flat. It looked like his boring night might have just gotten a little more interesting.

The doctor had left the door standing wide open in his stupor, his keys dangling from the handle. Sherlock collected them and bolted the door, cataloguing the fact that alcohol made John very one-track minded. By the time he'd gotten upstairs John had the telly on and was settled on the couch. Sherlock chuckled deeply at the sight of him.

"What?" John asked, not looking up from the telly.

"It would appear that in your fruitless effort to appear sober, you've put on MY robe."

John looked down and his scowl deepened. Sherlock could see the wheels turning in his mind as he attempted an excuse for wearing his flat mate's robe. "Your robe was closer," was his final replay, quickly followed by, "And I am sober."

Sherlock didn't respond, just sat down on his side of the couch and faced John, observing every detail. The shorter man was staring intently at the late night program, barely blinking his eyes. His brow was furrowed in a way that clearly showed deep concentration. He didn't show any reaction to the show, however, meaning his concentration was completely internal. His shirt had a few stains on it from beverages and food alike, and Sherlock could make a chronological road map of his friend's night from them.

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

His hair was unkempt and he reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. He'd obviously visited a strip club at some point, which accounted for the left over bits of glitter on his trousers.

"Stop it."

"No."

He'd taken his wallet from his pants and put it on the coffee table before Sherlock had returned. There was the same amount of bills in it as when he'd left it on the table before leaving for his coworker's stag party, meaning he'd used his card all night.

"You went to a strip club, but didn't prospect any of the ladies. There is body glitter on your pants, so obviously one of your mates paid for it. Or perhaps it was complimentary for the stag party? Either way, it was short, and I doubt you enjoyed it, seeing as you didn't tip the young lady. I believe I am safe to assume you spent the rest of the night flirting with the bartender harmlessly while your chaps thoroughly enjoyed themselves."

There was a long, pregnant pause that followed in which Sherlock was suddenly worried he'd somehow insulted his only friend. He really didn't need John to stop talking to him for the second time that month. However, instead of getting angry, John finally closed his eyes and dropped back his head, letting the tension out of his body. With a huff, John asked, "Were you fooled for a moment?"

"Hardly," Sherlock snorted.

Suddenly, John fell sideways, startling the younger man as he let his head rest on his shoulder. Thinking John had passed out, Sherlock bounced the doctor's head on his shoulder, but the doctor didn't move.

"You smell nice," John remarked, showing he was still awake.

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips at his friend's statement. He felt a tug in his chest. "You smell like strippers."

The older man broke out in laughter, and Sherlock followed quickly. The tug in his chest melted into a subtle warmth as they relaxed into each other. Once they'd collected themselves they fell into a comfortable silence, and Sherlock found himself actually watching the ridiculous program on the telly. He had a question pulling at the corners of his mind, though, and wanted to ask it while he still might get an honest response. "John, why didn't you want me to know you're drunk?"

The doctor audibly sighed at the question. He opened his eyes, but wouldn't look at Sherlock. "I don't like allowing myself to be this drunk. My sister is an alcoholic. I'm supposed to be the upstanding Watson. I don't want anyone to judge me like her. Especially you."

Sherlock snorted at the preposterous idea. "You're nothing like your sister."

That simple statement was enough to put John at ease. The last of his worries fell from him like silk, and he admitted that he should have known to think better of Sherlock.

They sat together for a few more minutes, and Sherlock quickly realized John wasn't planning on going anywhere. He decided to make the best of the situation. He lifted his arm and rested it on the back of the couch, allowing John to lie against him more easily. John burrowed deeper into him, pulling Sherlock's robe tighter around himself.

"Comfy?" the doctor asked.

"Very."

John had fallen asleep within minutes, and Sherlock found himself without the urge to occupy his mind the rest of the night.

AN: Please leave me reviews! I'd really appreciate any feedback on the characterization. It's really, really important to me that I get it right, and I think I've done a good job, but I can never be so sure. Also, look for my tumblr on my profile and follow me if you'd like. Or at least promote the story to the fandom on there if you like it :D

Go, be merry, and review!