A/N: So, I wrote something with a similar premise to this story, but this story is closer to my original idea for What Happens In Vegas Quite Likely Began in London. I don't expect this to be nearly as dark and twisty... but then again, the angst finds me, I don't go looking for the angst.
Regardless, I don't own or claim rights to BBC's Sherlock- that's left to Moffat and Gatiss. As for Sherlock and all his friends, that's the doing of Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm just playing around.
I'll end my rambling. Enjoy!
Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't find Las Vegas as anything but insufferable. And at the rate things were going, it wasn't likely that Vegas would be scoring any points whatsoever in Sherlock's book, considering there was a silver wedding band digging into his ring finger, his head was pounding, and for whatever reason, he was only wearing one sock and his boxers.
Of course, he had to play the part of a male looking for a good time in Vegas—going to gentlemen's clubs, consuming alcohol and the scantily-clad women who were all "working their way through school", but in reality, had some sort of deficiency in their personal lives that spurred these women to take this route in life. It had been years since Sherlock had had any sort of alcohol; his drug of choice was nicotine, but that had only been a recent development. He'd learned years earlier that mixing and matching drugs often had poor outcomes that were best to avoid.
And, contrary to belief, he hadn't used cocaine in nearly five years, despite the fact that he did have stashes of it in his room back in London. He kept a small stash just as a security blanket… if that was an appropriate term for illicit drugs that you kept hidden despite the fact that you like to ignore the horrid side effects it had on your body whilst granting you heightened mental power and pseudo-immortality.
He exhaled and blinked. The room was familiar to him, so that was a plus. Sherlock was certain that he wouldn't find his wallet, but he wasn't too concerned. He had multiple aliases and never carried cash.
A noise from across the room prompted him to sit up. After deciding it was only a trolley going down the hallway outside his room, he fell back onto his pillow and resumed his staring contest with the ceiling. He was starting to feel like he was in that wretched movie that John seemed to love… the one with the men on a stag weekend and ultimately wind up with a tiger in their bathroom, a baby named Charles or something, and one of the men goes missing. Sherlock couldn't remember the name of the film—if it was worthy of such classification—and groaned when he realized that he was thinking of such an inane subject. He thought that he had deleted that from the hard drive long ago, two seconds after John had turned to Sherlock to ask what he had thought of the film and Sherlock had only rolled his eyes before he left the room.
But, unfortunately, this film appeared to be what his experience in Vegas was shaping out to be.
Gazing at the silver band on his left hand and fighting to avoid thinking about the film, Sherlock wondered if he should go check the bathroom for a rather large jungle cat before cursing at himself for such a stupid thought.
He really hated Las Vegas.