Okay, I know next to nothing about alcoholic beverages. Or drinking in general. That being said... After whatching "the Sign of Three" yet again, I really wanted to write something where Lestrade got to join the Baker Street Boys out for drinks. And, seeing as it's Saint Patrick's Day... It felt appropriate. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anyone. They're property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Oh, and the hobbit belongs to JRR Tolkien.

Also, I haven't had this Britpicked/Beta'd, so any mistakes in terminology are entirely my own. Cheers! - Hanna

"No, John. I refuse." The tall, lanky detective turned, ending the discussion. He was still miffed that the doctor had pinched him - rather hard - on the arm for not wearing green.

"But Mary's gone out with some of her friends, and won't be back until tomorrow night. Besides, it's a tradition!" The short blonde man pointed out, biting his lip to contain his grin. He took a celery stick from his lunch sack and ate it.

"An Irish tradition, yes. However, since neither of us are Irish, it doesn't really matter if we partake in the ritual-"

"Lightweight." The detective looked down his nose at his best friend.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Sherlock. Admit it, you're a lightweight." The doctor began eating his sandwich, smiling as his friend sputtered in indignation.

"John Watson, need I remind you that I drank just as much as you did on your Stag Night?"

"Well, then there's no reason for you not to join us at the bar tonight, then, is there, Sherlock?"

"...I'll join you for an hour. But once that hour is over-" Watson waved his hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah, an hour's fine. You know where it'll be?"

"I imagine it's the same dingy establishment where you, Stamford and Lestrade frequent from time to time."

"Don't be a poncey git, Sherlock."

"Mm." With that, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, swished out of the clinic's break room and stalked to the exit.

"Well, I never expected to see you here!" Crowed DI Lestrade, a high-ball glass in his hand.

"Yes... Believe me when I say this is not a place I ever expected to be seen in." He replied with a grimace. Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder with a loud laugh and led him to the bar counter, where John and Stamford sat. The both of them waved, their expressions looking suspiciously like those of 5 year old boys with an 'evil plan'. Mike caught the bartender's attention and nodded towards Sherlock.

"Consider it your way of making up for the Stag Night that you blokes 'forgot' to invite me to, then." The older man smirked as the bartender placed a drink in front of the detective. "Drink up, man!" Sherlock studied to shot glass in front of him.

"Will you at least tell me what I'm about to imbibe?" He asked, only to sigh at his friends' puckish expressions. "Of course you won't." He sighed again and took the shot, gagging as it hit his throat. "Oh, Hell! What-" Raucous laughter assaulted his ears as he coughed. "Oh, is that how the game is played, Gentlemen? Well then... You're on." He challenged, waving the bartender over.

"Let's start with Black Russians."

After several more rounds, Mike decided he had better leave.

"Nish - Er, Nice seeing you again, Sheerlock." He slurred, trying to grab his coat from the back of his barstool. Once he had finally wrestled it on he shuffled to the door and left.

"Yes, I'm sure it was." Sherlock smirked, waving his long fingers jauntily before turning back to the two remaining men. "So... having fun?"

"Yesh, acshually. I'll say thish for you, Sherlock - you're a very deshent bloke. When you want to be, that ish." Lestrade slurred, throwing his arm over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes... Quite." Sherlock twitched out of his tipsy friend's embrace. "And you, John?"

"...Wha?" The doctor looked up at the sound of his name. "S'not me. I dinnit doit." His brows wrinkled as he looked at his friends. "I dinnit know you had a brother, Greg. Looks juss' like you, too..." He frowned, the act of trying to suss out as to how and why there were suddenly two Sherlocks in the room as well was just too much for his mind to handle. He slumped against the bar, muttering to himself.

"What?" Lestrade blinked. "I don't have a brother. Holy shit, is that -? I think I jus' saw a... a lepre... A lepree... a hobbit!" He pointed. "Look - holy shit, is' real...! I'm touching a real hobbit!" Sherlock sighed.

"Inspector, that's neither a leprechaun nor a hobbit; that's John. And I think it's definitely time for the both of you to be cut off. I'll call a cab, shall I?"

"...Whaaa?" John muttered again, looking up at his friend.

"A cab, John. I'm calling you a cab." Sherlock explained, to which both of the thoroughly inebriated men giggled.

"'M not a cab - 'M a... A... Oh! I'm a doctor!" John grinned, lifting his hand for a high-five.

"No, you're a hobbit!" Lestrade countered.

"No, 'm a doctoooor." John insisted, his hand still swaying about in midair.

"Nope! You're a hoooobbiiiiiit!" Lestrade sang, looking for all the world like a smug child.

"DOCTOR!" John's hand slapped Lestrade's face. Sherlock slapped his own hand across his forehead. What on Earth had he been thinking..? He sighed and helped John off of his barstool.

"Come along, John - time to go."

"Yeah, bye, Bilbo... Say hullo the dragon for meee!"

Sherlock wasn't sure who was more surprised when John flew threw the air, knocking Lestrade to the floor, and began shouting at him - Lestrade, for finding himself suddenly on the floor, or John, for actually succeeding in getting the taller man to the floor.

"Tell me again why I'm no longer allowed in my favourite bar?" John Watson asked, his eyes shut tight. He was now feeling the affects of the previous night's activities... For the most part. Although he was fuzzy on a few of the details. Chief among them being why his socks and shoes were missing...

"You and Lestrade are rather childishly violent drunks, it seems." Sherlock Holmes replied, shoving a mug of hot coffee into his friend's hand. "Careful, it's hot." He warned. John made a non-committal sort of grumble as he took a sip. "So... Did you enjoy your 'Saint Patrick's Day' drinking party?"

"I am not talking to you. You cheated. I don't know how you did it, but you did. I'm cross with you, Sherlock Holmes. I'm very, very cross."

"Are you indeed, Mister Baggins? And here I was, under the impression that hobbits enjoyed drinking."

The detective's deep baritone laugh echoed through the flat as he dodged the pillow John threw at him.