John raised one blond brow as a beer was slid his way. He was drunk, but not so much so that he couldn't tell what the gesture meant. He was being cut off.

"This–" His blue eyes met the bartender's and focused in. "–is not what I asked for." He pointed at the bottle of liquid, poking and almost accidentally knocking it over. He scrambled to catch it, but the bartender righted it for him, probably out of concern that John would just knock it over fully. Again, their eyes met. This time, it was the bartender who spoke.

"Two fifty," the bartender said simply, letting go of the bottle and holding his hand out expectantly.

John snorted at the man. "I didn't order this," he said emphatically. "Why should I pay for it?"

The bartender withdrew his hand then and smiled tightly, as if at his limit with how much more drunken retaliation he could handle from tonight's patrons. "Alright, buddy," he said, briefly putting his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "Last one's on the house then."

"Last–?" The bartender was already turning his attention to another, equally intoxicated man, but John hollered after him anyway. "Last one? Hey!"

"Hey," a soft voice parroted, and it came paired with a gentle touch on his left shoulder.

Having been halfway out of his seat, John sank back down and looked to his side. Red lips smiled at him, and that was all he could see for a long, long moment. His eyes did eventually budge though, and they took in the beautiful face of a petite brunette. He was stupefied by the woman. She giggled at his reply and leaned closer, close enough to rest her chin on his shoulder as she grabbed his beer with her other hand and pulled it closer. She pushed it into one of John's hands and murmured, "I'd just accept it. It's a nice enough offer, isn't it? Besides…" She sat up straight again and crossed her legs as she turned her seat toward him, letting one hand linger on his wrist. "–you don't wanna get in a fight here, do you?"

Before John could rediscover his senses, she was leaning in to whisper in his ear. "I'm Darla."

Another tap on his other shoulder and John met Darla's boyfriend, or at least his fist.

~ (^.^) ~ (^.^) ~

"You didn't see him," John defended. "He was huge! I mean, who's that big?! Not even soldiers are that big! It's just unnecessary I tell ya!"

Sherlock quietly righted John's path, which had once again begun straggling toward the road, with a gentle nudge. He hummed in soft acknowledgement, watching John in veiled amusement.

"And that woman!" John paused and then softly exclaimed, "Oh my god, that woman."

Sherlock's interest was piqued. "What about her?" he asked.

John just went on shaking his head and saying, "That damned woman is the work of the devil."

Sherlock considered all the possibilities of what that statement could mean, and then considered them again. It seemed most logical that John was referring to the way she'd, essentially, set him up. But, then, Sherlock had never been entirely clear on John's position in the romantic department, so he honestly could not deduce the true meaning behind John's word… because he could have been expressing how gorgeous she was. Sherlock frowned as he pondered his deductions, or lack thereof.

"John, what about that woman?" Sherlock repeated.

John acknowledged Sherlock's question with a shrug. "I dunno. What about her?"

"No, you tell me," Sherlock replied. "What kind of devil was she?"

John paused and looked at Sherlock curiously. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

Sherlock shrugged, not wanting to make the subject seem too serious. "I'm curious what you thought of her," he said nonchalantly.

"That she's a devil," John reaffirmed as he started walking again. "An evil devil."

"Ah," Sherlock exclaimed softly. "So you're not sexually attracted to her?"

"What?!" John exclaimed loudly, paling and then turning pink. "Sherlock, what–" He couldn't even finish his sentence, but thankfully they arrived home and he scrambled to escape through their front door. Unfortunately, it was locked at it didn't occur to his drunken mind that he could possibly solve that issue.

"We're locked out!" he said in slight panic, partly because he truly thought they were but mostly as a subject change.

Sherlock smirked, pulling out his keys and jingling them.

"Well, unlock it then," John directed.

Sherlock just continued to smirk, even as John grabbed for the damned keys. Sherlock evaded, smirking even more annoyingly. John made the next connection on his own.

"M'not talking about this," he said firmly. "We'll sleep on the streets if we have to."

"It's a simple question, John," Sherlock countered.

"You're so much trouble!" John growled. "I despise you at times."

"Oh, you need me," Sherlock said pompously.

"I'd've made it home just fine without you! You didn't have to come get me. I could've caught a cab on my own," John assured.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. "You called me."

"A damn mistake," John grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.

Bored with the game already, Sherlock sighed and unlocked the door. "Don't answer me then," he grumbled. "I can deduce the answer on my own."

As Sherlock opened the door, John slid past him to enter first and murmured, "S'why you stooped so low as to ask me, right?"

Sherlock paused. "I have you figured out, John Watson," he promised, stepping in and closing the door behind himself.

"Uh-huh," John snickered. "You haven't got a clue about what I want."

Sherlock glared lightly but helped John up the stairs nonetheless. He dropped John in his chair and turned his back, staring at the wall and thinking deeply.

After a long moment of pause, Sherlock felt John grab his hand. He looked over his shoulder at a sleepy-eyed John, who squeezed lightly. There was an askance in his eyes, something Sherlock had seen before. He understood what John was getting at before John outwardly got at it, but he wasn't sure he was willing to oblige this time. Was he, Sherlock Holmes, being emotionally affected? He studied the way his body reacted to John on the inside. For the most part, it was normal and totally predictable. But there were other parts that made no sense, like how it all made him feel in the end. It was an emotion Sherlock was not used to being in close quarters with.

"Gimme a minute," Sherlock said.

John's eyes came to life as he sat up straight in the chair and nodded, his eagerness almost overwhelming. Sherlock nodded back and retreated to his room. John paced the floor for a few long minutes before he decided that such was too much action for his state of being. He took off his jacket and tossed it to the floor, kicking off his shoes next. He looked down at his clothes in silent scrutiny. And then, yet again, there was a hand at his shoulder. Except, this time, there were two on either side and there was no ill intent in this touch. No, in fact, it was quite the opposite. John swallowed thickly as his own name caressed his ear in the wave of a hot breath.

John slowly turned to meet Sherlock's eyes, and then he frowned. "Are you… high?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm very high." He helped John turn to face him and added, "Just how we oughta be."

"Wait, what? What's that mean?" John asked.

Sherlock paused, not expecting to elaborate, and shrugged. "Euphoria, I mean," he answered, already leaning in for a kiss to squash the debate. "Makes it so much easier on me."

John evaded the kiss at the last moment though. "That's the problem though, isn't it?" He gently shrugged out of Sherlock's grip. "It's always about what's easiest for you, the great Sherlock Holmes." When Sherlock's expression turned baffled, John chuckled sardonically. "But you'll never actually be pleased because you haven't actually got a clue about where your priorities really lay."

"Well, neither do you!" Sherlock argued.

"Wrong!" John refuted. "I know where my priorities lay, Sherlock. You just don't understand them."

Sherlock was silenced as he realized that John was right. He truly had no clue where John's wants and desires fell in line, but John never seemed to be confused about his feelings or what he was doing. Sherlock, on the other hand, was always just along for the ride, not understanding anyone or anything, or at least not when it came to things between him and John. Anyone else was easy enough to crack, but there was this enigmatic part of John that would not be unraveled, and it lay inside Sherlock himself too. Uncrackable codes.

"But you think you do," John added quietly, his eyes having dimmed to a much sadder quality. "You think you're in order, when you're not." He turned away then, shaking his head lightly. "I'm not in the mood. I'm going to bed."

~ (^.^) ~ (^.^) ~

"What's the problem, John?" Sherlock asked, his tone dry. It irked John that Sherlock could be so endlessly pragmatic, even when John thought he should be wrought with emotion.

John's eyes landed on Sherlock's, and they were fierce. "Last night, when we…" He trailed off, but Sherlock ended the sentence shamelessly for him.

"–were about to have sex," Sherlock supplied matter-of-factly. "Yes, go on." His hand rolled into a gesture that spoke of impatience and John's teeth ground together in a moment of irritation.

"Yes, well, you said to me that it was easier for you to do it while high," John finished.

Sherlock paused for a short moment, his expression expectant. "Oh, is that all of it then?" he asked. John's eyes rolled. "That's more of an observation than an explanation for your attitude this morning," Sherlock pointed out.

John's face crumpled into an expression of frustration. "Look, if you think that I enjoy being a charity case, then you're an absolute–"

"I said didn't say 'for me'," Sherlock interrupted suddenly.

John looked at him confusedly. "What?"

"I…" Sherlock's eyes fluttered down. "–said 'easier on me'," he explained, cautiously looking back up at John. "Me being high, you being drunk or traumatized in some way… it's easier on me, not for me." He glanced away again. "You were almost right about my priorities." His eyes flickered back momentarily to stress, "Almost." They flickered away again. "I understand them. As they relate to you, they're not… simple, but I understand them. I just… never realized I had to lay them out so simply."

John laughed. He had to. Even during what was, surely, a heartfelt confession by Sherlock's standards, Sherlock had managed to insult John's intelligence and intuition in some way.

"Right," was all John could say.

"I wonder…"

"–what goes on in my ordinary head?" John finished. Sherlock looked up and smiled guiltily, but John smiled back. "You already know though, don't you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well… no," he admitted. "I don't. But I know enough."

John's eyes fluttered away and he picked up his coffee. "I reckon so."

A/N: The credit for the artwork on the thumbnail for this story goes to "shuploc", and you can find them and their amazing work on DeviantArt!