"Come on, Sherlock. Let's go." John Watson sighed resignedly, slamming his laptop lid shut while grabbing his coat. He dismally noticed that the elbow pads were getting a bit frayed. He dutifully noted to replace it later, if ever such an opportunity arose for such a mundane task.
"What? To where?"
"A club. We're going clubbing."
"But why?" Sherlock could not help but contemplate this seemingly random turn of events. Could he have accidentally drugged John earlier with one of his experiments in the kitchen?-No, Sherlock was painfully acute with labelling, and John Watson was no man to make accidents. Which meant John was entirely in his right mind, and acting completely different.
"Because you've shouted 'bored' seventeen times in the last three minutes, and shot two of our crystal wine glasses. Which means we've only got three left." John turned to look at his flat mate, hoping to see some flush of self-abashment on his cheeks, but naturally received no such look.
"All right," said Sherlock, putting on his coat and pulling an arm through his scarf. He upturned the collar, hoping to scrape by with some shred of decency.
After arriving at their destination via a cab, John gently put a hand on Sherlock's back, guiding him into the bar of flashing lights and pulsating music. The base thrummed so deeply, it seemed that Sherlock could touch it.
John hopped into a barstool while Sherlock gracefully plonked down, not much shorter than when he was standing.
"Two Jello shots, please," John said loudly to the barman over the music.
"Jello shots?! John, please, act like an adult! Since when do we drink Jello shots?"
"Since tonight," John said mischievously. He widened his eyes in slight frustration at Sherlock. He could be so stubborn and childish, yet claimed that Jello shots were for children. Inwardly, John figured he needed the alcohol more than Sherlock did.
When the barman returned, John grabbed his shot without delay and drank it at once. He gave a cough afterward, and thumped his chest soundly. He looked at Sherlock, as if daring him to consume his as well.
Sherlock eyed the shot, then eyed John, raising an eyebrow as if he could magically disprove it away. He licked his lips, knowing John would never let him live it down if he didn't drink it.
He threw his head back and tasted the sweet, fiery taste of the alcohol. He huffed a little bit and tried to save some decency by not coughing. John continued to look at him, giving him the I'm-not-pleased-one-bit look that he was so capable of possessing.
"Not good?" Sherlock asked.
"Bit not good, yeah," replied John, calling for another round. "Bet I can drink more than you," he said.
"What? That's preposterous, John. I am clearly more capable of exuding a typical outward-appearance under the influence of alcohol, and we both know that."
"Oh? Then drink." He slid a shot down the bar to Sherlock, who deftly caught it and swiped it up to his lips in one move.
On the third round, Sherlock looked at John before drinking. With a silent mutual nod, both men tipped their heads back and downed the alcohol simultaneously.
John gave a sharp intake of breath and smiled, shaking his head at the bar. "Never thought I'd see the day," he said.
"See what?" asked Sherlock.
"The day you were at a bar."
"Would you care to dance?"
"W-What?" The question caught John so off-guard, he realized Sherlock HAD to be drunk. He would never partake in something as pedestrian as dancing. John briefly reveled in the fact that he had beaten Sherlock, but his curiosity to see Sherlock dance quickly won out over his self-accomplishment.
Sherlock took John's sweaty hand in his own and pushed his way through the meriad of dancers pulsating on the floor.
John swayed back and forth awkwardly. He had never really been to a bar before, that was more Harry's thing than his. As he got into the music, he started snapping his fingers a little bit, exuding "cool guy."
"Oh, come off it, John!"
"What?" he asked, affronted.
"You look preposterous."
"E-excuse me?"
"That's not how you dance."
"And how do you dance, then?"
"Like this."
And with that, John's jaw surely dropped to the ground. He had never seen Sherlock behave like this before, and quickly wondered if a little bit of alcohol more often might do him some good.
Sherlock bobbed his head left and right, throwing his hands up in little cat-like motions to the beat of the music. John thought it was utterly adorable and could imagine his heart breaking on the spot. He immediately wished for a gif set somewhere on tumblr that he could blog to all his friends when he returned home.
Then Sherlock wiggled his spine back and forth like a snake, obviously thinking that he possessed "moves."
He suddenly viciously snapped his head back and forth, his piercing blue eyes matching John's own. His brown curls, slightly matted with sweat, flopped every which way possible.
Sherlock gave a couple hip thrusts, occasionally throwing his arms out to the side to accentuate his movements. He smiled coyly at John and spun around in a little circle. He was in his own world, almost like a mind palace.
John looked at his white shirt, saw his torso through the sweat. He could see the buttons straining against the fabric as Sherlock twisted this way and that. He wanted nothing more than to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair, and since they both were drunk, he thought "Why not?" and acted on his impulse.
He stepped forward, closing the three feet or so that separated them. He looked Sherlock up and down, as if deciding how Sherlock would react to his next actions.
Suddenly throwing caution to the wind, not caring how this would look the next day, not caring if they would remember it, not caring how Sherlock would respond - he threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling them even closer together. He ran his hands through Sherlock's dark curls, caressing them and firmly planted his lips onto Sherlock's.
They were sweet and tasted of Jello. John could smell alcohol on their breaths along with sweat, but he didn't care. The only thing in the world that mattered right now was him and Sherlock. Sherlock and him.
He closed his eyes tightly, shutting out the world around him, and allowed himself to be lost in Sherlock.