Right, so this is a for the wonderful Johnlock Gift Exchange, especially for pensglow (now acureforbrainwork), but that doesn't mean you can't read it too! I worked hard!

Progress on The Manipulator will continue after this, so keep your eyes peeled…

Boredom Strikes a Fierce Blow

"There's no need to pull that face, Sherlock. You knew I was going out tonight, and you weren't exactly annoyed before, were you?" John stood at the door, hand resting on the handle and looking back over his shoulder to face his flatmate, currently perched on the back of his chair. Sherlock was scowling, kicking his legs with impatience.

"But I'll be out of my mind! I'm not allowed near any new cases – Lestrade thinks the actual police should get some work done for once – not to mention the fact that my brother has set up exactly fifty-seven hidden cameras at the pub you'll be visiting, yet won't tell me a single thing about what's going on… oh, and I fear Molly will be over trying to poison me with her attempt at muffins. How do you screw up muffins, John?" Sherlock muttered some obscenities under his breath. "I doubt you're even listening to me – John!" The door slammed shut, leaving Sherlock snarling quietly, a remnant of the noise echoing around the room, as though he were surrounded by irritated puppies.

"Honestly, if this sort of thing keeps happening, I might have to consider finding a new source of cases… perhaps there's something interesting going on in Switzerland? Or maybe Belgium…" Sherlock slid backwards, landing on his chair with a quiet 'thwump'. Leaning over to the TV remote, he did his best to change the channel without moving, but found himself sliding off the chair, and in a few moments he had gotten to the point where his arms were on the coffee table and his feet were on the chair – the rest of him occupied the gap in between, and he had sunk down. It wasn't doing his back any good, that was for sure.

Sighing, he manoeuvred in a way that allowed him to return to a normal seating posture, and finally managed to turn the television over. A man in a suit was waffling on about some sort of economy issue in France, one Sherlock could easily solve for him given the chance. "Dull." The next channel had a group of ladies throwing assorted edible goods at each other. "Tacky." *click* "Childish." *click* "Deafening." *click* "Inappropriate." Several attempts to find a decent programme later, and Sherlock found his interest piqued by a cooking show, where the posh-looking people were talking about what level of granulation best suits a sugar coated sponge cake, and how long you should blend together your fruits to create the best thickness of smoothie. Sherlock hadn't really catered for his sweet tooth in a while – he didn't want to eat, chances were the police would give up and come to him again in about thirty-nine hours and twenty minutes – and so he found himself repeatedly pausing and rewinding the television in order to note down a list of ingredients he was going to need. "Think I'll be bored, John? Just you wait and see…"

The odd smell of burnt plaster wafted through the flat as Sherlock waved the bowl of smouldering ingredients in a panic, doing his best to put out the fire. He wasn't exactly screaming in terror, but his arms wiggled hurriedly, likely not content with the idea of holding a rapidly increasing fireball for much longer. "Go out, why don't you?! Bloody fire…" Sherlock noticed the sink was empty; he dashed over and dropped the bowl in, turning both taps on and watching keenly as the fire started to dwindle and decline. The hiss of steam rose up into his face, clouding his vision and making him feel lightly disorientated. Coughing, he rushed over to the microwave, under the impression that he shouldn't have left the rest of the ingredients in for so long… and it took a while, but eventually, the explosion was dealt with.

"Well, that certainly didn't go as I would have expected it to." Sherlock shrunk into his chair, the majority of cake batter stains removed from the kitchen (though there were likely a few stragglers that would have to be dealt with later. "I need my blogger… I better see what he's up to." Rifling through his trouser pocket, he pulled out his phone and began to type an unnecessarily long message concerning which forms of flour and exactly which brand of organic, British-made jam he should bring home with him, then promptly held down the delete button. As if John's going to care about cake, thought Sherlock. He'll be too pissed to remember. Actually, perhaps a quick drink myself wouldn't be too bad an idea…

John let a hearty laugh escape as the huddle of men started to applaud. It wasn't every day magic tricks like that popped up in your local pub, but still, John was used to a life that took the rule of everyday occurrences and completely screwed them over. While his friend on the other side of the pub signalled that he'd buy the next round, a buzzing sensation worked through his trousers. Sighing, John slid his phone up so he could see the notification: 1 new message. "This better not be who I think it is…" He hit the 'read' button:

Don't enjoy yourself too much. –SH

"Wh- what is that supposed to mean? Bloody hell, Sherlock, I can't deal with your cryptic crap right now, okay?" John started shout out to himself, then remembered that the detective wasn't actually in the room with him. "Ack… I need a drink…"

Sherlock lay slouched across the sofa, a half-empty bottle of some sort of alcoholic beverage in his hand. Judging by the colour, either it was a bottle of the Midori he'd had imported for a case involving international drug smuggling (shockingly enough, Sherlock's port of call wasn't always serial killers) or the bottle of vodka that had somehow been caught up in a food colouring accident. At this point, whatever it was, it didn't seem as though Sherlock was paying it any attention – he was too off his face for that. Giggling drunkenly, he noticed that John hadn't replied to his text.

"Damn. Why not?" Sherlock lifted the glass bottle to his lips, only managing to partially get the drink into his mouth – about half of the liquid leaving the container simply trickled down the sides of his mouth and chin, dampening his throat and causing small patches of moisture to appear on his shirt. Before he had time to down the rest, a faint chime sound echoed through the air. "John?" Sherlock reached over to his phone. 1 new message.

You honestly have no control over your alcohol consumption, do you? –MH

"Oh, sod off, Mycroft!" Sherlock groaned, hurling his phone across the room. (Fortunately, because of his dulled senses, it wasn't all that strong of a hurl, and simply landed on the floor about half a metre from where he was sitting) Doing his best to sit up, he figured that he'd probably finish this bottle soon, and he should go and get something new from the stash upstairs. Rising clumsily to his feet – clumsily in this case meaning 'just barely' – he hobbled over to the stairs and began to climb them, taking excessive amounts of time for each step and practically hugging the banister to make up for his intoxication issues.

Sometime later, when he had finally made it to the top, he lurched over and landed face down in his bedroom, the cupboard of drinks still wide open from earlier. At least that would make it easier to get to, having likely lost the key somewhere in the mess downstairs. Reaching for a bottle with a purple hue to it, he slid it carefully towards him, tucking it into his dressing down pocket in a way to stop it from sliding out. It hadn't occurred to him until a moment ago that he should have brought the bottle opener with him, but it was a little late now, and surely it would be fine? He turned to make the journey downstairs….

John wheezed at the joke he could hear being told by his friend. Sure, at this point there wasn't even a punchline yet, but it still sounded like it was going to be funny. "To hell with you, Sherlock, I'll have as much fun as I want!" John pushed into the keys of his phone, doing his best to type exactly what he just said, with a great level of accuracy despite his drowsy status – he likely had only missed a word or two. Eventually, he settled with what he had, and shoved his phone back into his pocket, raising his hand into the air and shouting. "I'll get the next lot!" A couple of people laughed, but he felt a hand on his shoulder, and while John did turn around for the sake of punching him, he cut himself short after seeing who it was.

"I've been told to take you home."

Unable to find a way of answering, and simply thinking damn, he was right about the cameras, John felt himself being led away towards the shiny black car parked outside…

Sherlock was sprawled out on the floor of the living room, hiccups faintly making themselves known every few moments. The first bottle was completely empty, the second one barely holding any contents – though that wasn't to say Sherlock was either; a good half of that bottle was probably soaked into the carpet now, for all the times he had missed when trying to take a swig. Breathing raggedly, he heard a buzz from across the room. The phone? "Mycroft, if you dare say you're sp*hic*ying on me, I'll rip your fuckin' *hic* off and…" Sherlock groaned in his drunken stupor, slowly making his way across to the chair where he had thrown his phone beforehand. 1 new message.

With you , Sherlock, I'll have as much fun as I want! –JW

"John? What…" Sherlock dropped his phone back onto the chair, a look of confusion forming on his face. Hiccupping a couple more times before heading back over to the bottles, he grabbed the second one and went to gulp it down, slipping in the process and having most of it run down his shirt, soaking him to the skin and causing the material to thin slightly. Not that he could care less at that point. He was drunk and tired and he had no idea why John had sent what he'd just sent, and so he sat there for a while, thinking about what his reply should be. Then he grinned.

"I suppose John might want to *hic* sleep when he gets back… let's see if I can sort *hic* something out for him…

John felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness in the back of the car. He decided it would be best to let sleep overcome him, but when he went to slouch he felt his head come into contact with a person's shoulder. "Ah!" Startled, he looked up to see the familiar face, her fingers fiddling in standard fashion with her BlackBerry. She gave him a quick glance and a little smile, before continuing with her phone.

"Right… um, hi. And you are…? Today, I mean."

"Alice, if you don't mind." 'Alice' continued texting, or whatever she was doing, without looking up to seek John's reaction.

"Okay. Sorry, how did you…?" John figured it wasn't a coincidence that he'd be found and taken home by someone he knew in such a way. Then he flashed back to something he had been told earlier –

"– not to mention the fact that my brother has set up exactly fifty-seven hidden cameras at the pub you'll be visiting, yet won't tell me a single thing about what's going on…"

" – Ah, I see. So, was this all planned, or what?" John had the unusual ability to still speak quite well even when he could barely see straight. (It was quite useful in many ways, including being able to hide his condition from others and also that fan-fiction writers wouldn't have to accommodate for his status due to their unbelievable amounts of laziness concerning certain details)

"You know that it was. And if I were you, I'd ask a few questions the next time you see my boss." She allowed a little smirk to place itself upon her. "You'd be surprised how much he understands."

These comments prompted John to have a few seconds of deep and meaningful insight into the inner working minds of the Holmes brothers – due to his intoxicated state, however, he forgot anything interesting he had discovered quickly after. He coughed a few times, then smirked to himself.

"I think I understand more."

The car pulled up in front of 221B as 'Alice' nodded to John. "Why don't you go ahead, then? Or are you worried your boyfriend's going to maul you to death?"

"He's not my boyf- ah, forget it." John opened the door, and due to the fact that he got out a little too quickly, had to grab the door to steady himself, and almost ripped it off in the process. "Well, um… see you around." He received a little smile in acknowledgement, but that was all, so he shut the door (again, nearly landing face first in the process) and watched as it slunk away into the night. Coughing, John trudged up the steps to the front door, sifting through his pockets for the key. He spent several minutes checking and rechecking every possible pocket, until eventually a chime from his phone distracted him. 1 new message.

You left them in the car. Just ring the doorbell, save yourself the trouble. –MH

"Oh, shit…" John remembered – he really had left them there, worried someone might steal them off him if (more when, really) he got wasted. With no options left, he wobbled slightly and smacked his hand into the doorbell with all the strength of a wilting flower (and that metaphor was created with all the strength of a tired fanfic writer at two in the morning).

"The doorbell? That must be…" Sherlock rose to his feet, albeit slowly, and kicked the bottles out of his way as he took the steps towards the door. Arriving at the front, he grabbed hold of the handle and flung the door open with drunken intensity, revealing an also wasted John. "You're back *hic* sooner than I expected… did *hic* you get bored without me around or *hic*…" Sherlock let a playful smile linger on his face as John raised his hand to his forehead.

"Yeah, well… someone dragged me out."

"I did tell you about *hic* the cameras, John…"

"Oh, shut up…" Sherlock hobbled aside, letting John past into the flat. "You… you've made a mess in here, haven't you?"

"What? Isn't it *hic* always a mess?" Sherlock giggled at the fact that, yes, he had made a nice little pile of glass bottles on the floor. It was a nice addition to the madness, surely? "Anyway… what about *hic* that text you sent *hic* earlier?"

"Text? What text?" Confused, John stood still as Sherlock waved his phone in front of him, madly swinging it around.

"This text! Look - With you, Sherlock, I'll have as much fun as I want! – you sent that earlier, right?" Sherlock laughed at John's stumped face, smirking and walking up closer to him. "I think I know *hic* what you meant."

"You… do?" John raised an eyebrow in questioning, but before he could react further he felt a pair of cold, alcohol stained lips press against his. Gasping at the sudden chill, he looked up into Sherlock's eyes, their blue hue standing out as the one thing John could still see clearly. Melting into the kiss further, John felt a flicker against his bottom lip, and winked at his – flatmate? Boyfriend? At this point, what? – as he opened his mouth slightly, allowing Sherlock's tongue to enter. Moaning with delight, he shrugged his coat off in the hallway and pulled away, eliciting a confused glance from Sherlock before grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him away, upstairs, to the place where he would have as much fun as he wanted…

Sunlight burst through the curtains as John slid his eyes open, groaning as he rushed his hand to his head, and darting out of the covers to the glass of water next to him. Wait, where had that come from? He didn't even have a bedside cabinet in his roo- he gasped. This wasn't his room. Staring around, this was… oh no. "Oh no. No, no, no." Muttering to himself, he winced in panic as Sherlock walked into the room, wearing nothing but a thin shirt and a pair of boxers.

"John? You're awake, then. Ah, and I see you've taken the painkillers." Sherlock smiled as John gulped down the water, relishing the sensation of relief throughout his body.

"Yes. Um… Sherlock…" John bit his lip, unaware of how to phrase his next question. "What… what did you… what did we… do last night?"

"The answer to that is simple, John." Sherlock grinned in suspicious cheer. "After dragging me up here by my wrist – which was quite painful, considering I fell and smacked my head against the stairs – you came here, to the bedroom, where -"

"Oh, God…"

"… you sung a couple of sea shanties, set into a fit of giggles and promptly passed out."

"What? R-really?" John sat there for a moment, taking in the information before promptly bursting into laughter. "Oh, thank heavens! I thought we'd fu-"

"So you're that happy about it?"

John looked over at Sherlock. His face was impossible to read, and he wasn't sure what to say. "Well… I liked the first bit. With the kiss, and all that. I just didn't want to do anything stupid if I wasn't going to remember it."

"But… what if you had?"

"Then that would be fine." John smiled. "I just didn't want to take that risk, is all."

Sherlock walked over to him, cupping his face with his hands and pressing their lips together softly.

"So… you'd be able to remember it now, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"Then…"

"…"

"You up for it?"