Sherlock twirled his glass of dark, red wide from the stem to Johns direction with what Sherlock must've thought graceful, and failing miserably. The man was plastered, that much was obvious, what with his eyelids drooping and his smile askew when he tried to direct a bit of charm to Johns direction.
It had taken hours to find Sherlock, which wasn't a surprise in and of itself. Sherlock was quit the master of hiding, and finding him gave John the distinct impression that Sherlock, ultimately, regardless, wanted to be found
They'd parted in terms that cannot be called amicable even by the most amicable fellow. It wasn't a new argument, not really, but before it had never cascaded to this - How they both knew that from this day on the giant purple elephant in the midst of their living space would only be addressed as 'You know, that thing,' or simply; 'Just shut up and piss off.'
It all sprouted from boredom, as is Sherlock's won't. What had made him think it was al-bloody-right to ask John for morphine was beyond John's comprehension, and was even more flabbergasted when the answer to his inquiries had been met with a flippant shrug and a perfectly level 'My dealer's nowhere to be found.'
And John had thought they'd already settled the business with the recreational drugs.
John really has not got the faintest what he should do now. Running across and back the town had been a thoughtless affair, apart from the 'Find Sherlock,' and now al he can muster is stare agape.
"Bring the man a drink," Sherlock tosses over his shoulder to the bartender, smug, the bastard, instructing that John would love what he's having, seemingly paying no heed to the fact that John hates wine.
If this was how they were going to play the game, John might as well play along, if only so far that he gets the chance to change the rules. "That gentleman there," John says to the barkeep, raising his glass to Sherlock's direction, "is paying for this. Just to make it clear."
The bartender has the gall to smirk and nod, grabbing a washing cloth. "Figures. That's the first of a smile even hinted on his face since he barged through the doors."
"If only you'd see him smile," John murmurs into his glass, despite himself, and steels himself against the horrid liquid flooding his mouth.
The way Sherlock is draped over his chair is something of a sight - the first three buttons of his shirt are open and his jacket hangs almost loosely over his shoulders. All John wants is to take him home and pretend today didn't happen. At all.
But there's the smirk on Sherlock's face declaring the war is not over yet, the way he straightens his sleeves before clambering upright and swaying towards John… Well. War is something John knows about.
Sherlock slumps himself on the counter, holding himself up by a slipping elbow, looking to all the world like the weary man that he is, someone drinking his way into oblivion where nothing matters and tomorrows are something of a myth. He takes a long once-over of John, blinks, and announces; "I rang someone up. An old acquaintance. Thought he might help out an old mate," he sips his wine and smiles a genuine smile up at John. "He was more than happy to oblige."
John bristles, fighting back the urge to grab Sherlock by his lapels and brunt him against the nearest wall, to bang his head against it until some semblance of sanity returns. But there's more Sherlock wants to say, so John sits tight and grits his teeth, clutching at his glass more tightly than is entirely necessary.
"Rang him up, went to meet him, got what I wanted, and proceeded to empty the bag into the nearest gutter."
This time it was clear Sherlock was finished talking, if the way he glared at his half-empty glass as if he tried to melt it with a look alone.
John sat silent for a spell, mulling over what he'd just heard, surfacing with only one fluttering question in his chaos of a mind. "Why?"
"Why, indeed!" Sherlock announced joyfully to the room at arge, reaching his hand to brush over John's knuckles before retreating again. A new expression invaded Sherlock's features, something John had never seen before, and he could swear by his mother's grave that the look Sherlock was giving him was something akin to contrite.
"There was this very distinct bee in my bonnet, if you will, insisting over insistence that I should not be doing what I was doing, and I recall said bee having your voice." Sherlock emptied his glass, launching off to obtain John's, then, without a smidgeon of humour, stared John straight in the eye, holding his gaze, along with his hand, coaxing John's fingers to wrap around his. "It occurred to me that it might be a deal-breaker, doing… You know… That."
Sherlock let go of John's glass and wrought his fingers around John's wrist, holding him in a nigh vice-grip, his eyes suddenly pleading wordlessly, obviously seeking John's forgiveness.
Life, as such, with Sherlock ha taught John many things, some of which he was yet to get accommodated with. His observational skills had never been terrible, to say the least, but had upped a notch or two with Sherlock. About Sherlock. And now, the glint in the man's eyes spoke less of drunkenness and worlds about John himself.
The urge to punch Sherlock had diminished, but not entirely gone, with all the stupidity of the situation, with Sherlock pretending to being drunk before he could confess anything to John, even when it meant that they'd be losing what they'd built during the past months shacking up together.
Extending the silence, John glanced at Sherlock's lips, a small stain like blood marring the corner of his mouth, and John can't help but to think of all the times the blood had been real. The unspeakable worry through which Sherlock had dragged him through, over and over again, all the while having John's love and trust right beside him, and it had al come down to the pin-point of today - "No," John says quietly, hesitantly, almost to himself. "Would I abandon you so easily?"
John lifts his gaze from where it had lowered to watch their joint hands and clears his throat. Sherlock waits.
John's look is weary, tired, and he runs his free hand through his hair in frustration. "Would I leave you to your worst nightmare?"
Sherlock eases his hold on John's wrist slightly. "No, you wouldn't. And the knowledge of that is what probably made me come to my senses. I haven't been fair. I haven't seen you the way you deserve. How can you stand it?"
The massive elephant hadn't stomped them over, and it was beginning to seem like it was packing its bags and whipping its tail for a farewell, so John braves a smile, soft his eyes cast back to their hands again, leaning forth and stage-whispering into Sherlock's ear; "You tend to make it worth my time."
When John withdraws, there are two impulses struggling to push forward simultaneously - the one where John needs to kiss the 'Really?' off Sherlock's face, and the other which directs John to dragging Sherlock out of this joint.
Without bending over for either option, John decides to go for the third and stands up, Sherlock instantly following his cue, and soon they stride out the bar like it's on fire.
Outside, John finally gives in and both drags and kisses Sherlock stupid between hisses claiming that "This is not the end of it, Mister Holmes, not by a long shot, you haven't heard anything yet," and "This is the last time you pull this drunk-stunt on me or we will have deals to discuss," but mostly, it's just them both promising to "Take you home."