Prompt: Sherlock and John go to a beer festival (either as part of a case or just for a day out) and Sherlock's reluctant and crabby at first but then gets swept up in it and eventually wins the Yard of Ale competition and then John has to help a very drunk Sherlock home with a very bloated belly & use his doctors skills to tend to his drunken, bloated flatmate
"Honestly, John, I can hardly stand the idiocy I'm forced to interact with on a daily basis. Why on Earth would I enjoy watching idiots drink themselves into progressively larger idiots?" Sherlock grumbled as they made their way through the rather merry gathering of beer enthusiasts. Sherlock met every cheery hello and toast with a withering scowl and turned more than one burly man sheepishly back to his tankard.
"Oh come on... we deserve a break! After that last one I thought we'd need a few drinks," John said, doing his best not to let Sherlock's mood infect him or sour his beer too badly. The buzz did help a bit. He had hoped he might see a more relaxed version of Sherlock today, have a day out full of drinking and shouting with him. It was what best mates were supposed to do wasn't it?
Sherlock sniffed, and then appeared to immediately regret that decision as his scowl deepened and he swept back out of the tent. John sighed and followed behind. Maybe if he could just get a drink into the lanky git.
John supposed he should have known that Sherlock was drawn to the most expensive and uptight of the tents. The material was a dark color, which was actually an awful idea under the heat of the sun. This tent was dark and quiet compared to the happy camaraderie they had wandered through on the way here. Sherlock stepped up to the booth smartly.
"Two beers please," he said, sounding bored. John eyed the alcohol dubiously as Sherlock forked over a rather hefty sum.
"Blimey, hope it's worth it," said John, also noting that the glasses were at the half pint mark.
"Hm," was all Sherlock replied as he took the glasses and lead John over to a rather morose looking table. There sounds of the large happy and drunk crowd outside seemed rather subdued. Maybe it was that material. God, it was hot in here.
John took a drink of his beer and nearly choked on it. It was ghastly. Warm as bathwater as well. He coughed and looked up at Sherlock incredulously as the man laughed and took a sip of his own, looking rather smug. That is until John noticed the slight twitch that was unmistakably a grimace.
"Enjoying yourself?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Immeasurably," replied Sherlock, nodding to John's cup. "Drink up."
John took another draught and muscled it down. It wasn't any better the second time around.
"Enjoying yourself?" Sherlock repeated mockingly, though he was smirking again.
John snorted, shuddering around his next mouthful. "Ugh. You git! You knew it would be aw-" He stopped as he caught the proprietor's eye.
Sherlock chuckled then, causing John to look back at him in surprise.
"Come on then," said the detective, as he downed the last of his glass, "Let's get this over with."
"Nice spending time with you too," John replied forcing the last of it down and pushing the glass very far away from himself.
Sherlock stood, then gave John an odd look.
"We always spend time together," he said, then left the tent, his stride still perfectly measured. John blinked, then hurried after his mad flatmate.
At first John thought that he had severely underestimated Sherlock's tolerance, but then he noticed a faint flush, a slight slurring, a few misplaced words and most of all a loose happy smile wriggling onto the detective's mouth as they made their way through the booths. They sampled and drank, tasted greasy pub food that seemed to become the world's finest dining when coupled generously with beer. Sherlock took to deducing people at other tables, his conclusions becoming increasingly far-fetched as his eyes grew glazed and slow. John dissolved into several fits of the giggles as a result. But that was alright because it seemed to make Sherlock laugh too. Yeah, it was nice...
Shame all that beer was making him have to piss like a racehorse. John excused himself to use the loo and Sherlock waved him off with a warbling "Fine, fiiine."
However, when John returned, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. He blinked, trying to get things to stop swaying and kick his sleepy brain into action again.
"Sh'lock? Where... S'cuse me have you seen my friend? He's a tall bloke, really amazing cheekbones," John asked the women who had now taken their seats.
"Ooh! Was he the really tall one?" asked the plumper of the two.
"Tallish," John clarified.
"Think he got picked for the yard."
"The what?" asked John.
"The Yard of Ale, s'about to start! The men's anyway. Me and her already had ours, didn't we, Deb?"
The two dissolved into giggles, the mousy brunette throwing her arms around her companion and kissing her. John smiled and then ambled off to look for Sherlock. There was a loud sound of drunken cheering and so John thought that might be a good place to start. He hurried towards the noise, pushing gently through the crowd.
"Hey!" John shouted, as he spotted Sherlock. The detective waved vaguely at him, grinning and swaying slightly. His coat was against a chair and his shirt was partially untucked, revealing a tiny little sliver of pale skin and dark hair just under his navel. In his hand was a long thin glass with a bulb at the end, filled with amber beer just as the other men who were gathered on the stage. John listened vaguely as the announcer explained the rules, his gaze and attention more fixated on Sherlock. He watched him muffle a small burp, his stomach contracting and pushing against his sharply tailored shirt. John had rather lost count of how much each of them had had...
"Cheers!" shouted the announcer, and all the participants lifted the yard-long glass to their lips before beginning to drink. John cheered along with the other spectators, watching Sherlock with surprised admiration as the detective swallowed and swallowed, his throat bobbing, giving no sign of taking a breath. A few of the other competitors paused to gasp and belch before hurriedly trying to make up for lost ground. And still Sherlock chugged, that elegant swan-neck working, sending beer sloshing down to a belly that slowly swelled to accommodate it all.
Then there were two of them still drinking without drawing breath. Sherlock tilted his head further back, pushing the glass up. His competitor, choked as he was hit with the sudden volume from the bottom, a splash or two escaping around his mouth before he had to take a breath. The crowd cheered as Sherlock elegantly swallowed down the last of his glass, then raised it in triumph. John punched the air and dissolved into laughter as he watched Sherlock sway and wrap an arm around the announcer who had come over to congratulate him. When asked how he felt about winning, well, Sherlock could only let out an earth shattering belch.
John smiled as the others laughed and climbed up on stage to fetch his champion.
"Oh good you saw," Sherlock slurred, practically oozing into John's arms instead. "They're all s'nice, John. Sush lovely people..." He waved and the crowd cheered again.
"Yeah, I know, you're amazing!" John laughed, staggering under Sherlock's dead weight, "But I think we'd better get you home." Sherlock protested, burped a few more times, but allowed John to lead him safely, though weaving slightly, home.
Once they were back, both the detective and his blogger flopped onto the sofa. Sherlock burped again, then grumbled and rubbed at his bloated stomach.
"Argh... My stomach hates me," Sherlock whined, grimacing and pressing against where it ballooned up under his shirt. "Ugh, John'it hurts..."
"Prob'ly all that beer you drank," John chuckled, but took sympathy on the man and moved closer, "Lemme see."
"No!" Sherlock said, his face getting a bit redder, "I'll be fine, jus need to get less fat. You can't see me like-hurp."
"You're not fat," John said, barely keeping a giggle out of his voice, "C'mon I'm a doctor, I can help."
"What d'you call this then?" Sherlock asked, tugging his shirt up to perch atop his round sloshy ball of a stomach. He blew a raspberry, then squashed the sides of it lightly. "Why'so big then?"
"Hmm," said John, giving Sherlock's belly a good poke. It did feel quite astonishingly full, almost hard. But springy. "You're just a bit bloated from the alcohol, it'll go down. Or you'll piss it away."
"Hurts though," Sherlock insisted, pouting at his midsection as he slouched a bit on the sofa and his belly poked out further as a result.
"I know. Do you want me to help? I can, m' a doctor."
Sherlock looked at John a moment, his head swaying slightly. "Okay."
John moved over and let his hands slip onto Sherlock's stomach, marveling once again at how full and round it felt, how warm and smooth the skin was... no focus. He began to gently palpate and rub at the bloated mass, trying to settle it's discontent and get rid of uncomfortable gas. Sherlock burped a few more times, then relaxed.
"Better?" John asked.
"Hm," Sherlock answered drowsily.
"Want your trousers undone?"
Sherlock didn't answer for a time, then nodded. John popped the button open and Sherlock's stomach rounded out more comfortably.
"There we are," John said, smiling and continuing to rub at Sherlock's belly. The detective hummed and sighed in response. Then quite soon after he was snoring. The ex army doctor chuckled, looking up. He looked oddly soft when he slept.
John fetched a blanket and drew it around his flatmate, then fetched a tall glass of water and some headache meds and set them on the coffee table along with some biscuits. He watched Sherlock snore gently a while longer, then dared to lean in and plant a small kiss on his forehead. John then climbed the stairs up to his own room, safe in the knowledge that neither of them would likely remember much in the morning.