Sherlock was never one to drink so often. He would rather go outside for a smoke or just slap on one of his nicotine patches if John was scolding him for the acrid odor of smoke hanging heavy in the flat. Sherlock, of course, didn't really care about the smell soaking into the couches or carpets, but John was always the one to tidy up the flat and spray the air with some sort of freshener to get the bitter smell out of the room, even if it was just a little bit. Even if Sherlock came into the house and John smelled smoke on him, he told Sherlock to go shower and shake off his jacket, which the detective would turn up his nose and mumble to himself, walking off to go take a shower and simply get back to his studying.
There was times where Sherlock could be free with these sorts of things- when he was with Moriarty.
When he was with Jim, he could drink and smoke as much as he wanted, and the criminal didn't mind one bit. Partly because he joined Sherlock in drinking or having a smoke, chatting it up as if they were best friends and they simply went out for a drink together rather than rivals who worked against each other, pushing against each other until the other gave out and failed in some way or another.
Tonight, Jim chose a fancy restaurant just down the street from 221B. It was an elegant setup with deep maroon colors and greys, gold moldings around the walls and on the handles of chairs. The customers sitting at the tables were dressed to the nines and not a hair was out of place on even one of them. The waiters and waitresses had the simple uniforms of black and white, form fitting and not too tight or not too loose; flattering on their shape, no matter what it be (though most of them were slimmer).
Jim had on his usual getup, a crisp, clean, perfectly-fitting suit. This time it was grey along with a solid black tie, sharply contrasting the paler color of the jacket and pants. On the other hand, Sherlock wore a tighter fitting black button-up dress shirt tucked into black pants, donning his usual long, woolen coat and thick scarf around his neck. Jim pushed him to look nice for this outing, so his hair was meticulously groomed, his curls tamed so there was no cowlicks or stray hairs mucking up his style.
On the table in front of them sat a bottle of red wine, two shining wine glasses filled halfway with the maroon colored alcohol. They sat in silence at the moment, simply observing each other.
Jim was the first to pick up his glass and raise it to his lips, taking a small sip of the wine.
"Aren't you going to drink your wine, dear? I paid good money for it, and I'm sure it caters to your taste." Jim raised an eyebrow, taking another miniscule sip of his alcohol.
"You put something in my drink when I wasn't looking." Sherlock stated bluntly, glancing down at his glass before looking back up at the consulting criminal.
Jim chuckled in response, still cradling the glass in his hands gently. "So observant. I'm proud of you, Sherly." He praised, almost sounding mocking to the detective.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "An aphrodisiac. Two of them." He continued, picking up the glass only to tip it gently from side to side, watching the liquid move in the glass. "You think I wouldn't catch this."
"Mm, I knew you would get it, honey." Jim corrected him. "It was just a test." He took another sip of his own wine, not altered by any drugs. "Daddy's proud of you," He crooned, having the audacity to reach over the table with his free hand and ruffle Sherlock's hair, a low chuckle falling past his lips. Sherlock's lips pressed into a thin line, eyes staying narrowed. He seemed to tense up slightly, though he didn't move from his spot or put down the drink just yet.
Jim couldn't help but sit there and smirk at the detective.
"Such an observant little detective."