Watson is not drunk—not disgustingly so, just enough to lack his usual composure: just enough that he can't quite seem to manage walking in a straight line and he has to lean his weight against Holmes's shoulder to keep from lurching when world decides to tip out from under his feet. Just enough that his words slur together and he has to cling to Holmes's coat for purchase. Just enough that the world has started to blur around the edges.
But he's not really drunk, of course. No, he's completely, reasonably, rationally—
Who in the hell put that curb there?
He tumbles into Sherlock's grasp rather than away from it, holding on to the man's coattails like a needy child. He buries his face in Holmes's shoulder and snorts in laughter.
"I swear, didn'tseeit." He mumbles against the jacket. He has to take a moment to stop his low, intoxicated laughing.
Okay, so maybe he's a little drunk.
He's trying to pull his face away from Holmes, he really is, it's just—it smells nice.
Well, not nice, exactly. It smells like pipe smoke and formaldehyde and exotic plants and all manner of strange experiments he never had the pleasure of witnessing in person but—but it smells familiar. It's so… Holmes and he just wants to sink into it, become a part of it and surround himself in that smell that was always so present when they were still living together.
He really does miss living together.
"Watson." Sherlock's voice is soft. He pats Watson's head and puts his arm around him, trying to lever the man back upright. "Watson."
"Hmm?" Watson keeps his face stubbornly pressed against the other man's shoulder, drinking him in.
"Watson, it's the middle of the night. We've got to get you home."
"Let's stay here," Watson suggests, peering up to look at Holmes. His drunken grin melts off his face when he sees just how close the other man's face is—sees those lips at eye level. He blinks a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus before giving in entirely and practically falling forward against them.
Holmes makes a noise of surprise, caught off guard by John, whom he is now catching and kissing. At first it's all he can do to keep them upright, but then he lets himself have this moment—even if this may be the only one. He presses against John and holds him so tight he can almost feel their chests meld together.
He lets himself have this one thing. This one thing he's denied himself. This one thing he may never have again.
They pull apart, breathless, and a smile pours sloppily across John's face. "Been wanting t'do that," he slurs.
Something tightens in Sherlock's chest.
"Come on, John. It's time to go home."
"We don't have to." John reaches up to cup the back of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock closes his eyes, sighing. "John. Stop."
"Why?" The doctor asks, drunken and infatuated and confused.
"You're getting married in the morning."
"Oh."
Oh.