John was having the worst morning of his life.
First his head felt like multiple bombs have gone off inside it and turned his brain to mush. He could only just recall his name but other than that was useless. Then his mouth was so dry, his throat so sore, that he thought briefly that he was back on a mission in the middle of a desert in Afghanistan. And then finally his back was aching as it was pressed against something hard, his bum was numb, and he felt like something had eaten him up and then spat him out.
He did consider the possibility that Sherlock managed to bring a dinosaur back to life and it had eaten John. Hey! In this life anything is possible.
It's when Lestrade came in shouting that John finally reaches the conclusion that he is actually hung over, and in fact, in a jail cell.
"Could you whisper?" he croaked pleadingly.
"NOT REALLY!"
If John's brain hadn't exploded before this he was certain it had then. Lestrade's horrible, loud, grating voice made every cell in John's body shudder in horror.
"Why?" John moaned as he clutched his agonised head. "What have we ever done to you?"
"Oh I don't know!" Lestrade huffed childishly. "Maybe it's because you went on your Stag Night without me, perhaps it's because you two caused a lot of shit for my fellow colleagues, and because I'm apparently Sherlock's keeper, I had to clean up after you, or probably because you two twats never invite me on these sort of things."
"We do!" John protested weakly.
He really just wanted a cup of tea, and his bed, and some aspirin. That wasn't much to ask for is it?
"Do not!" Lestrade snapped back. Loudly, John might add whiningly.
"Do too!"
"Do not!"
"Of course we do," John changed tact before he gets drawn into a childish argument more suited to when Sherlock is acting like a toddler. "We all went to that top secret lab to solve the case about the Hound-"
"No," Lestrade interrupted sulkily, "Mycroft invited me because he thought you two morons were going to get yourselves killed."
"We invited you to that case in Paris-"
"That was Molly and Mary."
"Cluedo night-"
"That was Anderson and you only invited him because you wanted to torture him."
"True," John admitted shamelessly, "therefore you should be grateful that we didn't invite you to that event. Mrs Hudson is still trying to wash the bloodstains out of the rug."
"Look," Lestrade said sadly, "I just like to have a bit more of a look in. I'm you're mate too, we spend lots of time just you and me, or Sherlock and me, and yet neither of you bothered to take me out with you for your last night of freedom, and that hurts, that really hurts."
"Stop your whinging," Sherlock snapped from his curled up position on the only bench in the cell. Bloody bastard must have hogged it all night which was why John's done his back in sleeping against the wall. "We invited you," Sherlock said, "I distinctly remember you getting into that bar fight, and then that fight with the landlord, and with the police-"
"That was my brother!"
It is then John realises there is a fourth person in the cell. Curled up against the toilet, a Lestrade look alike, only with dark brown hair, a nicer suit, and something rather youthful in the face about it, snored away blissfully.
How the fuck did he miss that?
You know its times like this that makes John grudgingly admit Sherlock is right….he, Captain John H. Watson, is a fucking moron.
"But I invited you!" Sherlock protested. John was satisfied to see that he winced at his own loud voice and therefore John will not be the only one suffering today. "I remember, invitation, George Lestrade-"
"My brother!" Lestrade interrupted.
"I thought your name was George."
"My brother!"
"Well," Sherlock coughed uncomfortably, "may I say your brother is a very interesting individual and if you were more like him then perhaps I would have sent the invitation to the correct Lestrade."
John stiffened as Lestrade turned a deadly, and very dangerous if you ask him, shade of red. "Sherlock?" he said wryly.
"Yes, John?"
"Run!"
They could not get into a taxi fast enough.