"Where am I?" John asked groggily to a seemingly empty room. Looking around, he noticed it was a bedroom with a wardrobe, a dresser, a bed and a small desk cluttered with books and papers. A laptop sat open on the desk. There was a picture of the kitchen of 221B on the screen.
John gets up, momentarily blinded by the pounding in his skull, but crosses the room to get a better look at the laptop despite the pain. It was definitely a view of the kitchen in 221B. The chemistry equipment strewn on the table was a dead giveaway. John scratched his face and yawned, wondering why he was in an unfamiliar bedroom with a splitting headache. Suddenly, a face popped up on the screen. It was Sherlock. John jumped back in surprise, realizing now that it wasn't picture of 221B but a live Skype feed. He winced as the sudden movement caused discomfort to pulse through his brain.
"Good morning," Sherlock said with a smile. "Coffee and muffins are on the table. Come on."
John squinted at the screen, clearly confused. "What?" He heard a clatter both over the Skype call and outside the door to the room. The call ended with an exasperated grunt from Sherlock and John heard footsteps outside the door. Sherlock walks in with his loungewear on, a cup of coffee in one hand and a small plate with a blueberry muffin, freshly baked, in the other.
John gawks at the sight of Sherlock as the situation dawned on him: he woke up in Sherlock's bed and he doesn't remember what happened last night. He looks down at himself in just a t-shirt, boxers, and one sock. John sits down hard on the bed, breathing heavily as he tries to process this, the pounding headache not helping.
Sherlock set down the breakfast items on the bedside table and goes to touch John's shoulder but John held up his finger. "No. No. Don't," he said.
Sherlock stepped back, settling his hands behind his back. "John, I-," he started but John interrupted by holding his hand out at Sherlock. They stayed like this for a few minutes, John glancing at the patient detective every few seconds, only to shake his head and look away again.
Sherlock stood by, never looking away from John. He wanted nothing more but to explain but he would wait until John was ready to talk to him. Apparently, this ordeal appeared troubling for him. Sherlock didn't understand why.
Finally, John got up from the bed, shoved past Sherlock, and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock stayed standing at the side of the bed, many emotions and thoughts running through his mind. The door opened again and John rushed out.
"Trousers," he said.
"Excuse me?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.
John gave him a 'don't be an idiot' look and said, "My trousers. Where are they? Where did you put them?"
Sherlock gestured to the folded pair of blue jeans on the desk chair, belt curled on top with John's cellular and wallet in the middle. John brushed past, set his items on the desk and slipped on his jeans. Sherlock held John's other sock up as John zipped his fly. Hopping on one foot, John put his missing sock back on, stuffed his wallet and cellular in his back pockets, and stormed out of the room.
"John," Sherlock started, following John out of the bedroom. "John, listen." He grabbed John's hand and spun him around to face him. "John, let me assure to you that nothing happened."
John snorted. "Oh yeah. Okay. I wake up in your bed, no clue what happened last night, half of my clothes stripped off and you're going to tell me NOTHING BLOODY HAPPENED?!" John's face was bright red, his ears almost purple. He took a deep breath and pointed at Sherlock's face. "Don't you DARE lie to me," he hissed. "I bloody trusted you."
Sherlock stepped back, shock on his face. He looked down at the floor. "John, I…" He looked back up, regret and sadness on his face. "I wouldn't lie to you, not about that…"
John ignored the hurt in Sherlock's voice. He went and plopped down in his chair. Sherlock followed suit. "Explain it then," John sneered.
Sherlock took a breath. "Last night we were on that case, remember? The woman and her dog go missing, vanished into thin air. Remember?" John squinted at him but nodded. "Well," Sherlock continued, "after we solved it –she and her dog fell into a sewer pipe full of waste water but survived and were found treading water in the Thames- we went for a couple beers. Do you remember up to then?"
John nodded again. "I remember going to the pub down the street but nothing much after," he said. Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap. "Well, you drank quite a few and went to go to the loo. While you were in there, I sat outside the pub, waiting for you to finish up. After 20 minutes, and you still hadn't come out, I went back in, looking for you. I checked our table and the bar, but you weren't at either place. So, naturally, I went to the restroom. And there you were out cold on the floor, covered in beer and vomit. Quite a disgusting sight, might I add."
John looked as confused as ever. Sherlock sighed. "You had drunk too much. You got drunk, fell and passed out in someone else's voided stomach contents. It wasn't yours. Your breath smelt like just alcohol and you didn't show the signs of sickness. No sweat, no shaking. I suspected that you had slipped in the vomit and just stayed down. It's a wonder nobody else found you."
"Okay, that explains the loss of my memory of last night," said John, "but not how I ended up half naked in your bed." John was starting to get red again "I swear to Christ, Sherlock, if you took advantage of me…"
Sherlock balked at the accusation. "Oh my God, John! I wouldn't!" The fact that John thought that he had appalled Sherlock. He held up his hand. "Let me finish," he said, locking eyes with his best friend. "Please."
John stared at Sherlock from under his brow then made a hand motion, signaling for him to continue.
"After I got you sitting up against the wall, you started to regain consciousness. You were incoherent and blabbering about fish fingers and chips or something, I don't remember. I helped you to your feet and we were able to get outside before you collapsed again. I was able to hail a cab and we made it back here. I drug you up the stairs and into the bathroom, where I took your vomit-covered pants and jumper off and threw them in the bath tub until I could get Mrs. Hudson to wash them for you."
Sherlock stopped talking and glanced at John. He had an almost heartbreakingly sad look on his face as he realized what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock went on. "After I got you cleaned up, I carried you into my room, tucked you in and went to sleep on the couch."
John looked at the ceiling, choking up. He looked back at Sherlock who was cautiously smiling at him. "Nothing happened, John," he said, taking John's hand in his own. "I promise that I wouldn't ever betray your trust." Sherlock leaned in and kissed John on the tip of his nose. "I mean it."
John smiled widely and pulled Sherlock in for a hug. "I'm sorry for doubting you, Sherlock."