Co-written by Alice & Laura
John knew that going to this bar wasn't a good idea.
He knew that if he let Sherlock drink then it would have dire consequences.
But he didn't listen.
Sherlock started off that evening with a glass of vintage red. It was John who'd suggested they'd go to a bar owned by Mickey, his friend from school. Sherlock didn't even want to go; he was tired from the case and wanted a night in.
"Sherlock! Don't be so bloody boring. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"It disappeared along with your common sense."
"Come on. It'll be fun."
"Hmmm. Fun. Going to a bar where I'll be undoubtedly mocked by at least two thirds of the customers."
"Yeah, you will if you call punters 'customers'. Please. I'll have to go by myself."
"Ugh. If it will stop your incessant whining then I shall go. Do not expect me to enjoy it though."
Ten minutes later and Sherlock was complaining.
"John, why can't I wear MY shirts? We are going out after all. I have going out clothes.""Because your clothes are poncey. It looks nice!"
He made a disapproving grunt.
"It looks horrible. Checkered shirts just don't look good on me. Neither do jeans."
John silenced him with a quick kiss, and they left Baker Street.
The "bar" they had gone into wasn't much Sherlock's scene. It was noisy, there were people openly kissing others, and women in skirts far too short. And despite the smoking ban, and the several patches stuck to his forarm, Sherlock really could have used a cigarette. Right there and then.
"Can we just go?" He asked, having sat down near the door, as though ready to escape. "I don't feel as though...John?" But to Sherlock's disbelief, John had already managed to slip off to the bar, and was busy ordering drinks.
Several minutes and five pounds later, John was sat back opposite Sherlock, handing him what looks suspiciously like some sort of beer.
Since when had John started thinking Sherlock drank beer?
"I don't..." He began, looking at the glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"
In all honesty, John was. He envisaged that a drunk Sherlock was a bit less like having a child and more like having a man. "No." He said, sipping his own pint. "Never occurred to me. Just drink it, Sherlock. It can't do you any harm. Look at me."
Yes, Sherlock thought. Look at you. "Okay. If it makes you...happy." And he tried it.
In half an hour, both men had already consumed two pints.
Sherlock was getting tipsy, and the beer and the wine he had consumed earlier made him feel, fuzzy. Nice even. He began to see John in a different light. John set yet another beer in front of Sherlock, and Sherlock smiled at him.
"John, about when I said that I was married to my work?"
"..Yes?"
"I think it's time for a divorce," and took a large gulp of his pint.
John raised his eyebrows and sighed. Drunk Sherlock was actually quite charming, in an odd way.
A few more pints and Sherlock was slobbering on John's shoulder.
"John…has anyone ever told you how, hic, beautiful you are?"
"Um, Sherlock, you might want to, stop that now…"
Sherlock drunkenly stroked John's face. "I love you John.." and began kissing his neck.
"Sherlock, stop it!" John exclaimed, and shrugged him off.
Sherlock made a disappointed noise and turned his attention back to his beer.
The two blonde women at the bar who had been eyeing Sherlock up all evening looked disappointed and turned away. A man opposite them snickered and took a sip of his larger, silently judging them.
"Oh, no, we're not together," John felt himself explain, for no particular reason. He knew they were together, and he also knew that he loved Sherlock too.
It was rather late now. They had left the bar little under ten minutes ago, and on a normal night - a normal night being John on his own, little more than tipsy, and walking at a steady pace - the walk back to Baker Street would have taken perhaps ten minutes. Fifteen at the most.
But tonight was different.
John had bargained for taking Sherlock out and getting him to loosen up, but this was too loose. John was doing his utmost to keep Sherlock standing upright, but trying to get him to walk straight was a different story.
"Bloody hell!" John moaned for the fourth time, as Sherlock landing on the pavement, with a resounding thud. "You're supposed to pick your bloody feet up, you know?" He rolled his eyes, and looked down the street. "TAXI!" He shouted, as a black cab came speeding up the street. "That was lucky..." he said, under his breath. "Oi!" He said, dragging at Sherlock's arm, trying to get him to his feet. "Get in."
"I love you!" Sherlock laughed , drunkenly. "I bloody do."
The two men were in the cab, and it was moving.
"221B Baker Street," John said, trying to move Sherlock's head from his shoulder. "Thanks."
The cabbie spoke with a strong London accent when he asked; "has he had a bit too much, mate?"
"Yes, he doesn't usually, erm, drink…" Sherlock was rubbing his thighs gently, with a dangerous expression on his face. John batted his hands away, knowing that in any other situation this would be perfectly acceptable. He wasn't going to take advantage of Sherlock in his inebriated state. He did, however, give Sherlock a kiss on his silly mop of hair.
This was when the disastrous happened. John knew he'd got Sherlock drunk to a point, but not to the point of actually being sick.
Sherlock retched violently into the back of the cab.
The cab driver looked sharply at John, who in turn apologised. "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, John said, while holding Sherlock. I'll pay for it to be cleaned, oh dear god, Sherlock.."
They ended up at 221B and John threw a handful of notes at the cabbie.
"That should, erm, cover it. Come on, let's get inside," and he pulled the drunken Sherlock out onto the street, where he promptly fell over and vomited again.
"Oh, bloody hell" John whispered, and manoeuvred Sherlock into the flat.
Moments later, having sat down in his armchair, John glanced over to the kitchen, where Sherlock "stood" leaning over the kitchen sink, retching and occasionally being violently sick into it.
"Oh good Lord," John said, rolling his eyes, and standing up. "You're getting a shower."
But all he got in reply was violent retching.
Having managed to get Sherlock as far as the bathroom, John wasn't entirely certain how he was supposed to get him into the bath and have him stand up straight for long enough.
Yes, John had decided, after much thought, a very wet shirt, and some drunken verbal abuse, getting Sherlock drunk was definitely not a good idea. He only wished he'd realised it earlier.
Both men lay, fully clothed, in the bed that John usually occupied to himself. As a precaution, on Sherlock's side of the bed, there was an empty washing up bowl, a box of tissues and a pint glass of water, because Sherlock occasionally kept on waking and retching and vomiting. But it was only in small amounts, and John was glad that the worst seemed to be over, and that there'd most likely be no emergency trips to the hospital from alcohol poisoning.
John yawned and looked at the back of Sherlock's head. "Are you sleeping?"
"..no." Sherlock drowsily replied, and snuggled up to John, who didn't have the heart, or the energy to complain.
"John, I'm sorry. I've been a fool."
"Don't be silly."
"I have been. You don't understand. I love you. There's nowhere in the world I'd rather be than here. With you. Cuddling you."
John smiled, despite his original annoyance, and brought Sherlock closer to him.
"I love you, John."
"Mmm. I love you too."
"No, I really love you. You're the only one I can ever, truly feel any love for."
John kissed the top of Sherlock's head and softly stroked his cheek.
"You should be more like this. I like this."
"I like this. I like us. I like feeling like this. I feel, content."
"Maybe you should be like this more often. Your sociopathic tendencies do get a bit out of control."
"What, and risk everyone at Scotland Yard laughing at me? No."
Silence fell upon the two, and John heard snuffling noises coming from Sherlock.
"Are you sleeping?"
And from his lack of reply and subsequent sleeping twitches, John presumed yes.