A/N: This takes place during His last vow; sometime after Sherlock is released from hospital and before Christmas.

English is not my native tongue, and I'm way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! No Beta, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue.

I wanna be drunk when I wake up, on the right side of the wrong bed. – Drunk by Ed Sheeran

The moment Mary had called, Sherlock had known what had happened. It hadn't been that astonishing, really, given the circumstances. Therefore the consulting detective had been surprised how hard it had hit his former flat mate. John had broken off any contact with his sister. Maybe that was one of the reasons why her death hurt him so? Sherlock thought it was better that way. Harry had been a constant nuisance in John's life; the army doctor always believing he could help her, while it had been obvious to Sherlock that that had been an illusion. Hence Sherlock Holmes thought John Watson was better off without her. Of course he hadn't told that his best friend. He might not know much about human nature, but he wasn't that insensitive.

So a few hours after Mary's call, John had turned up at 221B, announcing he was going to have a drink with his best friend. Sherlock couldn't resist to point out that the irony of having a drink after Harry had died more or less of alcoholism, wasn't lost on him. (Yes, he was that insensitive.) John had only glared at him, stating that this was not up to debate, and he and Sherlock would get drunk properly – without any beakers. "Just like normal, boring people would do. And if you're my friend, then you will do this for me." Not even the world's only consulting detective could argue with that.

That's how they had started their pub crawl – not themed this time, but almost as excessive. John told some sentimental stories about Harry and Sherlock tried his best to play best friend and appear to be attentive. But after Pub number 5, John had been too drunk to remember any stories and Sherlock too drunk to fake attention. So they had decided to call it a night.

Now the consulting detective and his blogger were standing on the sidewalk hailing a cap. Sherlock was drunk, but neither as drunk as at the ominous stag night, nor as drunk as John Watson was right now. So he sat his best friend in the first taxi and waited for another one. The two men weren't going in the same direction anymore.
So the light headed detective mumbled the address to the cabbie, closed his eyes and hoped he could control his nausea until the end of the taxi ride.

Sherlock stood in front of the black wooden door and fumbled with the key. His vision was a bit blurry, but that still didn't explain why the key wouldn't fit. He shook his head in frustration, the dark curls dancing on his forehead. He glanced up. It was the right door: black painted wood, golden letters telling him 221 and a knocker. Could it be that Mrs Hudson had changed the lock? But why? And why the hell didn't she tell him about it?! Well, there wasn't really another option than ringing the bell, was there? Yes, he could pick the lock, but that wouldn't wake up his landlady. And he wanted to punish her, for changing the lock without telling him. Sherlock Holmes may be a grown up, but he was still very childish at times.

As a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him, he leaned heavy against the door. But to his surprise the door didn't steady him, instead he tumbled sideways into the hallway. The door had been unlocked! He really needed to have a word with Mrs Hudson.
He tried his best to steady himself. He took a deep breath and started ascending the stairs. The interior seemed to be a strange mixture of alien and vaguely familiar. The hand rail felt odd to touch and the colour of the wall was peculiar. He concluded that he was obviously more drunk than he had originally thought.

Coming to a halt in front of his door, he was surprised to find this one locked. If he wouldn't have been intoxicated, he would have gone down to Mrs Hudson right now and demanded an explanation. But since this was not the case, he groaned inwardly and fumbled with his key again. And again he couldn't open the damn door.

At times like these it was beneficial to be the world's only consulting detective, because even in inebriation he could pick a lock in less than a minute. So he leaned closer to examine the lock. Move slowly, otherwise the nausea will return!

Just as he was about to stand up, the door flew open and there stood, hands on her hips and an annoyed expression on her face, Molly Hooper.
What is she doing here? Not that I mind, but… Wait, I don't mind?!

TBC