Prompt: The line is blurred.
A/N: Because I always write fics when I don't have time to.
I was inspired to tackle the 10_hurt_comfort challenge on livejournal. My chosen prompt table consists of 10 prompts, all about lines. Hence the fic title (thanks, vickitata14!).
"I am not drunk. My BAC is precisely 0.06."
"You failed Lestrade's sobriety test, Sherlock."
"Only because of its inherent flaws in design, including, but not limited to, the presumption that the nystagmus in my eyes was because of intoxication. When, in fact, it was because I was looking around gathering information about the crime scene."
John raised an eyebrow before leaning back in his lumpy armchair and taking a sip of his hot tea. Sherlock plucked the strings of his violin with low twangs while his gaze shifted from John to the kitchen and then back to John.
It was the breath test that Sherlock had failed, in fact, not the nystagmus test. But John knew better than to pester his friend about the specifics of why exactly he'd gotten a lecture from Lestrade about drinking before cases and then been sent home until the next morning. The most important thing was Sherlock's little BAC experiment—something he most certainly would have stopped, had he heard even a whisper about it in advance—hadn't gotten them in trouble. The worried over-the-shoulder glances Lestrade had given Sherlock as they left to catch a cab had more than convinced John of his concern. Which was far more important than any frustration he may have harbored toward the detective.
"You could've just done the urine sample and gotten it over with, you know."
"No."
John sighed. He wondered when and if he could get a glass of water in his friend. It would really help his grumpiness and his inebriation. And John needed the relief right now perhaps a little bit more than Sherlock did.
"Well, you could've at least held off on telling Greg his wife wasn't in love with him."
Sherlock squinted at John, his mouth slightly open.
"I don't, I don't know what you're talking about. Who's Greg?"
"Oh, never mind, you clot." John finished his tea and padded off on soft slippered feet to the kitchen. He rinsed out the mug in the sink, ignoring the blood stains on the edges of the drain. Even when the traces of red liquid swirled into the water and oozed down the sink, their thin crimson outlines remained. He was going to have to do something about them before Mrs. Hudson noticed. Heaven knew Sherlock wasn't going to scrub them out. "Never mind."
Sherlock blinked. He looked like a confused, adorable little boy when he did that, not that John ever planned to mention his friend's cuteness. He'd prefer to avoid all possible instances of humiliation.
"Not good?"
John turned off the faucet with a flick of his wrist. He glanced over his shoulder.
"Not good what?"
"About—about that Gavin guy and his cheating wife?" Sherlock rubbed his eyes.
John padded back to the living room, glad for the soft if itchy wool between his feet and the cold, creaky floor. He smiled at the thought of Mrs. Hudson snoring through the groaning of the boards a few meters above her head. The image in his mind and a yawn moments later reminded John that he ought to be getting to bed sometime soon, too.
He was just about to sink back into the inviting warmth of his chair when Sherlock patted the seat beside him on the couch (or tried to; he seemed to John to be slapping the cushions).
"Hm?"
"C'm over here."
"You're going to have to speak up, I'm afraid. I don't understand drunken mutters."
"You know what I mean, John, now come over here."
John obliged, though not without chuckling and making Sherlock roll his eyes. His friend smelled of alcohol, unwashed hair, and cologne all at once up close. The first two should have worried him, but he mostly frowned and tilted his head a little—even raised an eyebrow—at the third. He decided he'd better not ask. Didn't want to find out what experiment that warm musky smell came from.
"Before you make any drunken confessions of deep dark secrets, just let me remind you: you won't remember any of this, but I will, and—"
"Any minute now—ah, yes." Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and nodded. "Three, two…"
"Wait, wha—"
"One."
A moment later, Sherlock was flopped over in John's lap, fast asleep. Even snoring a little, his mouth open just the slightest bit. Even mumbling a little to himself and keeping himself close to John, as if trying to suck up all his warmth.
John just stared down at Sherlock. He couldn't even think of what to think now that he had this big bony lump of sleepy detective on top of him. Except, of course: well, there went his chances of getting to bed soon.
He set his elbow on the arm of the couch and leaned his cheek against his fist with a sigh. At that moment, the heater kicked on with a soft hum, like that of the dryers at the laundromat he went to with his mother as a child. The soothing sound, along with the deep, rhythmic breaths of his friend, made his eyelids heavier and heavier. He pulled the small blanket draped over the back of the couch over them both, although Sherlock quickly pulled all of the scratchy fabric off John and over himself.
Oh, well. He hadn't been all that cold, anyway. John did grumble a little, but then he settled against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.
And when Sherlock's hand fumbled around for his just before John dropped off to dreamland with him, he took it and pressed his thumb against Sherlock's palm.
He fell asleep in the middle of rubbing a small circle on the detective's hand.
A/N: Next one should be fun: it's, "I walk the line." Ideas or requests? Just let me know. :)