"I've been slaughtered, Watson, by this intoxicating drink."
Joan rolled her eyes, her arms folded neatly across her chest as she stood in the doorway. Sherlock was in his favourite chair, his long legs hanging off one of the armrests. His head was cushioned against the opposite side, staring up at the ceiling. He was in his sweatpants and a baggy Queen T-shirt that was wrinkled in too many places.
"You're not dead," Joan replied, "You're hung over." She quirked an eyebrow. "Have you never gotten drunk before?"
"I did once," Sherlock replied listlessly, "during an experimental phase of my youth. Poison dulls the senses, makes your brain go slack and chuggy. I've regretted that experience ever since."
Sherlock groaned, and drew his fingers down his face, stretching the skin and making his eyes go wide. "There are a thousand drums beating within my attic, Watson."
"Do you want some aspirin?" Joan asked him, "or will pharmaceutical medication 'dull your senses' as well?"
"Karma is a cruel mistress," Sherlock replied groggily. "You need not add to her endless plague against me."
"I'll go find some then," Joan smiled, turning on her heel as she headed to the kitchen.
As she opened up the cupboards—Sherlock had a bizarre way of organizing their contents—Joan remembered the events of the night before. It was March seventeenth, and Sherlock had insisted that he had important work to do that "indulging in a senseless display of merriment was a useless gesture that would insult the Irish, since I'm an Englishman." Joan had told him that he was being ridiculous.
Sherlock that then tried a different tactic. "You may be my former sober companion, Watson, but allowing a previous patient of yours to gorge themselves on an addictive elixir would be highly irresponsible of you."
"I'll be there to cut you off," Watson had countered. "You're not staying cooped up at the apartment with Clyde while you memorize Wikipedia."
"What a ridiculous notion," Sherlock had scoffed, but he finally collapsed under the impressive force that was Joan Watson.
He refused to wear green, though.
"Here you go," Joan said, handing him two aspirin and a large glass of water. Sherlock shrugged himself into a sitting position, and tossed the pills into his mouth, and swallowed the water in enormous gulps.
"Bell most definitely took photos," Sherlock said. "Watson, we must purge his phone of the evidence when we are summoned for the next case."
Joan shook her head. "That's not going to happen," she told him. When Sherlock gave her a wide-eyed look she shrugged her shoulders. "Look, you're not going to try and deny the one time you loosened up and—"
"Emptied the contents of my stomach in the loo," Sherlock finished. He pulled his legs up to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, pouting at Joan. "You intend to betray me by allowing those photos to continue thriving within the memory of his phone?"
"It won't kill you," Joan said. "I know you won't admit it, but you had fun."
"The taste of my own bile doesn't count as fun," Sherlock grumbled, and closed his eyes.
Later that night, Joan felt the corner of her mattress sag. Without opening her eyes, she said, "Still have a headache?"
"It has subsided significantly since this morning," Sherlock replied softly. Joan cracked open one eye, and saw Clyde sitting on top of her other pillow.
"It's four in the morning."
"I know."
Joan rolled her eyes, pulling her covers up to her shoulders. "Did you need something?"
"I lied the other day," Sherlock said, watching Joan carefully. "I never had that experimental phase in my youth. Rather, it was more of a test that I provided for myself, with the added pressure of Father's lackluster approval."
Joan blinked and sat up, her focus purely on Sherlock now. Sherlock, meanwhile, was avoiding her gaze, grabbing Clyde and holding him gently in his hands.
"Daddy loved to collect an assortment of poisons from around the world, but he saved them specifically for special occasions. He gathered them from every corner of the world: France, Norway, Cuba, and so forth. He liked to look impressive.
"Unlike every other boy my age, I staved off the temptation. Mother approved of this, but Father saw this as a little strange. I came home one holiday from the university and found him pouring two glasses of scotch in his study. He handed me one, and I could see him watching me. He was testing me, to see whether or not I've indulged myself in the sins that were most common for a young man. I downed it in one gulp, and it burned my throat. I could feel it flaying my chest on the way down. I tried to pass it off as a natural occurrence for me, but Father saw my slight grimace of the taste, and frowned. He was disappointed in me and I knew it.
"I never touched another drop until… Well, she was no stranger to the drink, and I only allowed myself a taste when she was around. I allowed myself to enjoy it when I was with her. She found my stance against it humorous more than mortifying."
Joan watched Sherlock carefully in the near-darkness, filing away this new information. This was the most that her friend had ever divulged about his past in a single sitting, especially about his mysterious father.
"Goodnight Watson," Sherlock said, carefully standing up. "I have come to a conclusion, and will permit Detective Bell to covet those disastrous photos for the time being."
"Goodnight," Joan called out as Sherlock closed the door behind him.