"No, John—that one's empty…" Sherlock just barely glanced up from his microscope as John bumped into the kitchen table, picking up one of the champagne bottles on it clumsily.
The hand of the clock was ticking closer to 12 AM, and somehow the empty flat still seemed to quietly resonate with the energy of the Christmas party that had all filtered out the door an hour and a half ago. Maybe it was the tinsel draped over the mirror, or the soft glow of the strings of fairy lights wrapped around various bits of furniture.
It certainly couldn't have been John's tacky holiday jumper, which he'd insisted on wearing—even if, earlier on in the evening, he hadn't completely been in a festive mood.
He'd been irritated with Sherlock over his unwillingness to get rid of the human foot in the refrigerator prior to the party.
And also maybe for the way he'd spoken to John's girlfriend.
Possibly.
Either way, John had soon warmed his holiday spirit with a glass or two of champagne, and things had seemed to improve a little.
"One o' these should be full…" John mumbled, putting the bottle down on its rim and leaving it to Sherlock to reach over and catch it before it tipped over.
"They're all empty. You drank the better part of them." Sherlock turned his eyes back to the microscope and adjusted the focus. "Along with those beers…"
"Didn't…" He pulled a face, turning unsteadily and looking around the room.
Sherlock finally glanced up at him quietly, trying to follow his gaze. "…What?"
"She's gonna break up with me… again…"
Sherlock nodded and looked down, but then he frowned slightly. "Again?"
It seemed John wasn't listening, however, and had made his way slowly back out into the living room and to his armchair, murmuring a disjointed version of some Christmas carol under his breath.
The detective waited another minute or two before he heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes, and got to his feet. "Let's get you to bed, hm?"
A giggle escaped the slouched form in the armchair.
"What…?"
"Bed…" John snickered again into the quiet of the flat, eliciting an enquiring raise of the eyebrows from Sherlock.
Apparently that one wasn't going to be explained.
"Yes… bed. You'll thank me in the morning. Now, can you get up?"
John sat up a little, but then he tipped forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He held up a hand, forgoing any actual gesture and just wiggling it a little. "…c'm'ere…"
Sherlock hesitated before he stepped out farther into the living room.
A light snow had started falling outside the windows…
John twisted around in his chair a bit so he could face him somewhat, wiggling his hand again. "Curly, c'm'ere…"
"Ah, no. Don't… call me that…"
12 O'clock AM, on the dot.
He watched as John leaned back again and shut his eyes, clearly oblivious. "Can you stand up? Or am I going to have to help you?"
Instead of an answer John just waggled his hand again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and took hold of it and pulled, bracing himself.
It probably would have helped if John had actually tried to move, too.
"Get up…" Sherlock's teeth were gritted. "Or I'll just leave you here."
He had been staring, mesmerised, at the fairy lights around the room, but finally responded and managed to get up, though he seemed unsteady.
Sherlock muttered something under his breath, reaching out to keep him from falling over—but he caught his breath, completely caught off guard as the doctor tipped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a hug.
Surely if there had been anyone else there they could have attested to the fact that Sherlock's immediate expression would have communicated a clear 'help.'
The consulting detective stood completely frozen, unable to get away and totally at a loss.
"Uh… John?" Sherlock looked down at his friend, who didn't seem to be about to let go.
The top of his bent head was just a few inches from Sherlock's face, and he stared at it for a few seconds before his eyes turned to wander around the part of the room he could see from his position, as if he would somehow find a clue for what to do there.
Finally he gave up and lowered his arms awkwardly to rest on John's shoulders. He lowered his head, trying to get a look at his face. "John…? Are you awake…?"
A little murmur escaped the doctor, slurred and only partly recognisable. "M'…best…"
"Hm?"
"—Bes' fr—…"
John's grip was loosening slightly, and Sherlock took the opportunity to slowly begin to direct him toward the hall. "Come on… You're going to be a pain to deal with in the morning if you don't sleep in your own bed."
Another little giggle could be heard, accompanied by a mumble of "Bed…"
"Yes…" Sherlock grinned a bit in spite of himself. "Bed."