"Jooooooooooooohn! I'm hooooooooooooooooooome!" Sherlock slurs loudly, stumbling up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. He earns himself a swat and a shush from a tired Mrs. Hudson, but is far too drunk to care. He stumbles over his over the threshold and ends up in a crumpled, sweaty, and giggling mess on the floor.
"Oh…. Jesus Christ- Sherlock what the hell have you been doing?" John says trying to bite back a laugh. He bends down to help Sherlock up. He tries to ignore the fact that Sherlock appears to have gelled his hair a bit and- nope that is definitely not eyeliner. John is not even going there.
"I wenta dance club witha Yaaaaard." He laughs drunkly. "They dared me John! Said- said I wouldn't even know whadda do!" John just had to marvel at how utterly different Sherlock was with all his gaurds down. It seemed that alcohol turned the pinnacle of mental control and intelligence into a slurring young man that spent his Friday nights at the clubs.
"Molly, really now, are you so desperate to, as John puts it, get off with someone, you would come to work dressed like you are paid to sexual satisfy desperate men?" Sherlock is well aware he's being very rude to Molly, but in his defence the Yard is being rude to him. They've put him on probation for a few weeks after he destroyed a bit of crucial evidence to prove his point, leaving them nothing to prove it to the judges.
"Sherlock Holmes!" DI Lestrade came around the corner suddenly, dressed in unusually fitting pants and an old band t-shirt. "Appologize to Ms. Hooper!" his entire presence reflects the scowl on his face, even his tone. "A couple of close friends are going clubbing tonight, just blow off some steam. She's not looking for a mindless shag and I'm disappointed you would think so low of your friend." Sherlock rolls his eyes. The detectives at the Yard have picked up on the little things John does to try and make him behave. It doesn't work.
"Can I tag along?" Sherlock asks on a whim. John's still in surgery, and Mrs. Hudson took his skull, gun, AND cigarettes by the second day of being banned from crime scenes. There's nothing better to do. Even if it turns out to be a lame club, there's bound to be an interesting bunch of people to deduce. Lestrade and Molly just laugh.
"You? Sherlock Holmes. At a club? Are you joking?" Lestrade chuckles again. "What would you do- interrogate people?" The idea is just too ridiculous to them to even consider. Sherlock snorts derisively.
"I'd dance, drink, and have fun." Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm starting to question what you would do, Greg." Lestrade swallows his laughter and scowls.
"Alright, come along-"
"But only if you let me get you ready- you can't go out like that." Molly grins mischeviously, sensing her chance at payback for his earlier comment. "Come on, I have my bag in the back." She grabs Sherlock's arm and whirls him away before he can protest.
Sherlock grumbles constantly as Molly fixes his coat and scarf and undoes some of his buttons. He squirms away from the light hair gel and she has to wrestle him back into the chair when she first brings out the the end, though, Molly for once got her way on everything. When he steps back out, the entire group has assembled.
"Wow, Sherlock, it almost looks like you AREN'T a forty year-old virgin." Anderson smirks rudely.
"Wow, Anderson. It's amazing you passed your exams with a keen detecting mind like that. Forty years? Really? Is that as accurate as you could get?" He returns Anderson's smirk as he swaggers out the door. Molly really couldn't deny that when it wasn't covered by his coat, he had a very nice arse.
Fifteen minutes, they'd entered a crowded club with pulsing lights and music, the bass pounding into their body and seeminly forcing their hearts into a new rhythm. Greg reclined into a seat at the bar, where a beer was quickly placed into his hands as Molly and her work friends went slinking off into the bodies. The rest of the Yard conspiciously watched the Consulting detective to see what he'd do.
Sherlock smiled to himself, knowing exactly what they were doing and walked rhythmically toward Greg where he proceeded to order… tequila shots. Anderson roars with laughter, awaiting his chance to humiliate the prick.
The detectives laugh easily, sharing stories of crimes as they become more and more drunk. Lestrade shares more and more details that really shouldn't be for the public ear, and Sherlock chuckles easily. But nothing so shocks the Scotland Yard so much as when a thoroughly trashed Sherlock stands up and starts dancing. Filthily.
He ends up in the center of a writhing group of dancers, twisting sensually around the scantily clad women and men. Anderson's eyes just about bug out of his head as Sherlock grabs a short and stockily built man, not unlike Dr. Watson and kisses him hard. Lestrade laughs heartily and Molly whistles. But before long, the heat becomes uncomfortable and the group splits away.
Sherlock and his mystery man end up pressed in the dark disgusting corners of the club, doing what can no longer be called dancing by anyone's standards. Anderson had be silently stalking him and snapping pictures of everything Sherlock was doing, but even he had the decency to slip away as Sherlock's head hit the wall with a crack, his moan muted by the roaring music.
It was quiet a while before anyone saw the Consulting Detective again. Eventually he surfaced again, dancing politely with a pink-cheeked and tipsy Molly. He laughed easily, and had the entire Scotland Yard wishing that he showed up to work drunk everyday.
It was quite late before he finally yawned largely and kissed Molly gently on the cheek and stumbled out to find a cab. He was barely understandable as he told the cabbie the address and wasn't sure whether he should vomit or sleep in the back. He still hadn't yet decided when the cab pulled up in front of Baker Street.
"Really, Sherlock? A night club? And you should know, Anderson sent me some veeeeery interesting photographs." The Doctor pulls out his phone and stumbles over the buttons before turning to show the Detective an exceedingly provacotive photograph.
"Is he a friend of yours?" Sherlock laughed obnoxiously loud.
"Not a friend, but he did have an AMAZING tongue-" John cut him off with an awkward cough.
"How about we get you to bed." John pulls the slight man to his feet and forcing him to his room filled with many half finished experiments and clothing everywhere. He pushes him down on the bed, choosing to ignore the slurred inuendoes and hastily turns out the lights. "Sleep." He commands as he leaves.
Back in the living area, he glances down at the text from Anderson one last time.
"Wow, with such an uncanny resemblance, I'd begun to think you had joined us, Dr. Watson."
A/N: It's rough and not really edited. Review if you'd like. I know it's not all that good.