Author's note 1: I've decided to publish this today instead of my usual chapter, because it does follow on from the last chapter of Journey chronologically. I know a couple caring people at least will take the time to read and review it. It would certainly be nice to hear from people who usually remain silent, but I won't hold my breath. I'm sure you have a good excuse for wanting to remain anonymous. If you happen to be a fellow author, remember how much you yourself crave feedback from your readers. Now, onto the story - enjoy! Rating this a 'hard' T by my conservative standards.

It was the night before Sherlock's stag night and Molly's hen night. He had been thinking about the erotic dream she had had a week earlier about meeting him during their uni days and having a one-night-stand because she was a little drunk and he was high. He definitely did not intend to drink too much at his own stag night. He and Molly had come too far in their resolve to wait for their wedding night to make love for the first time.

As usual though, he was spooning her from behind as had become their custom in the bed they shared. Just a little over a week and he would be able to do more than spoon with her at night. He was very much looking forward to it.

He finally drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face, and sometime later began to dream.

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John arrived at the flat just before seven o'clock. Sherlock went downstairs to let him in, locking the flat door behind him as he did so.

"So where are we off to?" he inquired of his friend.

John grinned. "Just a few pubs, like you planned for my own stag night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was bound to be a boring night. Drinking definitely was not one of his vices and he knew he did not have a very high alcohol tolerance limit.

John was smiling as they drove towards the first pub. "I hope you're not getting any ideas, John," Sherlock gave his friend a suspicious look.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," smirked his friend, idly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

"If you plan on getting me drunk so that I throw away my efforts of all these weeks of waiting to be with Molly, just so you can win your bloody bet, I will consider the bet invalidated." He spoke sternly, but John continued to smirk.

"You can't do that, Sherlock. We never put any conditions on the bet. As I recall the only stipulation for you was to keep your virtue intact. If you fail, you'll owe me fifty quid. Wouldn't it be nice to put all these weeks of sexual frustration behind you?"

Sherlock huffed and folded his arms in front of himself, staring straight ahead out of the car window. "That is not the point, John, and you know it. I do not wish all this denying of my urges to go to waste with only a week to go before the wedding."

John turned his car into a parking spot. "Well, I suppose that's up to you, then," he said flippantly, sliding a glance at Sherlock after he turned off the engine. He then led the way to the first pub, as Sherlock trailed behind, frowning and looking disgruntled.

For Sherlock's stag night, John had decided to complete the pub crawl they had not finished at his own stag night. So unoriginal, thought Sherlock rather dismissively. The only difference was that John decided they should have two beers at each venue, rather than the special amount Molly had calculated for them last time.

John immediately bought four beers at the first pub, and handed two to Sherlock, before they found and sat at an empty table. He lifted one of the beers and said brightly, "Cheers."

Sherlock raised his beer reluctantly and drank. I'm already bored, he thought, stifling a yawn.

By the fourth pub, two hours later, Sherlock was in desperate need of the loo, so he left his friend, who had visited the toilet at the previous pub, at the bar, ordering their drinks, and headed off to relieve his bladder.

He found John on his return, sitting at a table waiting for him with the drinks. Two more beers. He was beginning to distinctly dislike the taste.

Once again, John lifted his glass and proclaimed, "Cheers, mate."

Sherlock sighed and lifted the seventh glass of beer to his lips. He immediately thought it tasted funny, it burned a little as it went down. He made a face and narrowed his eyes at John. "Why does this beer taste funny?" he asked his friend suspiciously.

John merely shrugged. "Thought we'd try a different brand for a change. Change is as good is a holiday, don't they say?" He gave Sherlock an innocent smile.

Sherlock grunted and took another sip of the beer, wrinkled his nose, then took yet another one. By the time he had finished it, he realized he quite liked the burning sensation it created going down his throat. He polished off the second beer rather quickly. "I've decided I quite like this beer," he declared to John, approvingly. "You should definitely buy this kind again at the next pub."

John grinned at him and said heartily, "Right, mate, I'll do that."

At the next pub, John told Sherlock to find a table while he got their beers. When John came to the table and set the drinks down, Sherlock took a long swig. He was pleased to find that his friend had done as he asked, and bought the same type of beer. He smiled his appreciation. "Thank you, John, I'm glad you listened to my request." He took another swig, enjoying once again the way the beer warmed his insides as it went down his throat.

"What are friends for?" John smirked in a way that alerted Sherlock to the fact that something funny was going on, but by this time, he was feeling a distinct buzz, and couldn't be bothered with making any deductions about the man's strange behaviour.

Two pubs later and Sherlock looked blearily at his watch. He blinked, trying to focus on it. He knew Molly's hen night was due to finish at some point. What time had she said it would be over? He realized he couldn't remember.

He pointed at his beer and proclaimed to John, "This…this is really good." He wagged his finger up and down as he said the words. "Just…Just going to go to the loo." He stood, somewhat unsteadily, and made his way to the toilet, almost finding himself in the wrong one. Fortunately a woman came out just as he was about to enter and gave him a scandalized glare. He gave a bashful smile, said "Oopsy," and found the correct toilet.

When he returned to the table, he saw his beer was full. He scratched his head. Hadn't he already drunk them? Or was that at the last pub?

He shrugged, and sat back down, picking up the beer. "Bottoms up," he announced to nobody in particular, and chugged the whole thing down in front of John, who was leaning back in his chair and looking highly amused.

"Did you want to just stay here instead of moving on to the next pub, Sherlock?" questioned his friend, his buddy, his best mate, and his best man.

Sherlock looked at him, slightly confused. What was John asking about?

He tilted his head to the side, contemplating. Then his mind cleared enough to remember what John had asked. He decided it might be a good idea to remain here, now that he knew the location of the men's toilet. It would not do to almost walk into the wrong one again. His tongue seemed thick as he tried to formulate a response. "That would be juss fine, John." Even to his own ears, his voice had an odd sound, almost as if he was having trouble pronouncing the words correctly.

He looked at his watch again trying to remember why he was even doing so. Molly, he thought fuzzily. Something about Molly.

"Are we meeting Molly here?" Sherlock asked, putting his finger under his chin and trying to force himself to think clearly. It would be just lovely to see Molly. He did love to kiss her. He sat there with half closed eyes, thinking about the object of his affection and smiling dreamily.

He was rudely interrupted out of his silent reverie by John's response. "No, Sherlock. Molly is having her hen night tonight, and you were supposed to stay out until past eleven."

Ah, so that's when her party was supposed to be over.

"Wassa...wassa time then?" he asked, slurring his words. Why wouldn't his brain connect to his voice? Things seemed very foggy.

John looked down at his own watch, then back up at Sherlock. "It's just gone eleven."

"Oh goody," said Sherlock, beaming at the welcome news. "One more for the road then? Then I wanna go home and see my girlfriend."

"You mean your fiancée?" John raised an eyebrow at him.

"That too," he said amiably, nodding his head vigorously before putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands as he began to daydream once more about the woman he loved.

"Well I suppose you've had enough to drink," responded John, standing up to return to the bar. Sherlock vaguely noticed that John had not been drinking very much himself.

John plopped the last beer down in front of him. "High five," Sherlock said happily, lifting his chin off his hands, holding up his palm and waiting for John to slap it. The beer was gone quickly and Sherlock stood. He was definitely ready to go and see his Molly. "Less go," he slurred, waiting impatiently for John to stand as well. He swayed slightly and realized he needed to go to the loo again. "Juss a second," he told John and made his way more successfully this time to the correct men's toilets.

John was standing, waiting for him when he returned. "You okay, mate?"

"Course I am," responded Sherlock, making a grab for his Belstaff, missing and then succeeding with his second attempt. He did not understand why John looked so bloody amused. "Less go,"he repeated, and the men made their way out of the pub.

Twenty minutes later, John dropped him off in front of his building. Sherlock climbed out of the car and walked a little unsteadily to the door, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

"Aha!" he proclaimed triumphantly, producing them at last and jingling them in John's direction. It took two attempts, but finally he got the door unlocked and waved goodbye to John, whose car was still idling in front of the building. John gave an answering wave and drove off.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to 221B, wondering why they seemed to be moving. Had Mrs. Hudson put in an escalator while he'd been gone? he wondered hazily.

At the top, he was unsurprised to find his own flat unlocked as it usually was. No sound came from within, so he assumed Molly's party was over.

Still walking unsteadily, he went inside and closed the door behind him. No sign of Molly. He hung up his coat and walked through the kitchen, towards his bedroom. He heard the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, as well as the unmistakable sound of teeth being brushed. Ah, there she was, getting ready for bed.

He walked into the bedroom and took off his shoes and socks, placing his shoes in the washing basket and his socks under the bed in their usual spot. Something seemed rather off about that, but he just couldn't figure out what it was, and quite frankly, he was too tired to care. He then unbuttoned his suit jacket and took it off as well, hanging it in the wardrobe.

He was just about to do the same with his shirt, when he heard the communicating door of the bathroom slide open. He turned around to great Molly and his mouth ran dry, okay, more dry than it already was from the alcohol he had consumed.

"You're home!" she chirped excitedly, throwing herself into his arms so eagerly that he staggered back and almost fell onto the bed. He managed to balance himself as she lifted her face for his kiss, and he obligingly captured her lips with his own, placing a hand behind her head to steady himself as well as her. He could tell by her blown out pupils and the taste of her, a rather intoxicating combination of mint toothpaste and strawberry margaritas, that she too had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol. After a very sensual, passionate kiss, Sherlock put both his hands on Molly's shoulders and moved her slightly from himself to look at what she wore.

He swallowed thickly. "Where did…where did you find that?" he managed, unable to stop himself from drinking in the sight of her body. The red babydoll she was wearing covered next to nothing of her curves. He had purchased it several weeks earlier for their honeymoon, along with two other babydolls, and they had been hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe ever since.

My God, she is lovely, he thought silently, finding it impossible to stop the huge wave of desire that swept over him at the sight of her wearing such provocative lingerie.

"As if you didn't know," she purred, putting her hands around his waist. "I was hanging up my cardigan, and it fell, down, down, down, right to the bottom of the wardrobe," she explained in a rather exaggerated manner. "Then I saw this bag and I opened it."

Sherlock swallowed again, trying to control his emotions. This was no easy feat, seeing as his own brain was definitely not operating at peak efficiency. "Those were s'posed to be for...for our…" Sex holiday? he wondered to himself. No that wasn't the right term. Ah that was it, "…moneyhoon," he finished rather triumphantly, pleased that he had remembered the correct word. Wait a minute, that didn't sound right either. At last he corrected himself, "I mean honeymoon." A tiny corner of his brain asked, Why is it called that anyway? Sex holiday is definitely more appropriate.

She pouted prettily at him, removing her arms from around his waist and putting her hands on her hips. "I had to make sure it fit," she told him, in a rather combative tone.

He took in a deep breath. Where was his modest little fiancée?

"Yes…well, it looks like it fits, so you should probably take it off now." He closed his eyes, willing himself to not think about what he wanted to do to her right then. Not after all this time when the wedding was so close.

Unfortunately for him, Molly seemed to have other ideas. He felt her hands a moment later reaching for the buttons of his shirt, even as she said in a seductive voice, "Why don't you take it off me, then?"

He tried once more to exert control over his emotions, but the fire raging within him, and the feel of her hands as they unbuttoned his shirt, and the look of the flimsy material of her lingerie close to his body, was too much for him.

He groaned and crushed her to himself, dipping his head down to seek her sweet lips. He kissed her, hungrily, desperately, feeling desire overwhelm him. This beautiful woman would soon be his wife. Her tempting him beyond all reason and the alcohol he had consumed, combined with her inviting body was an irresistible combination.

He slid his arms underneath the fabric of the babydoll, reaching up to cup her breasts, to feel those soft curves, and she made a little sound of pleasure as he touched her. He had never wanted anything more than he wanted her at that moment.

She was fumbling at the fastening of his trousers, and he felt them give, sliding to the floor, where he kicked them off.

He shifted back slightly, took hold of the bottom of the babydoll and tugged it upwards, as she obligingly raised her arms. As soon as it was off, he dropped it onto the floor and pulled her close to him once more, kissing her again and again, feeling the softness of her chest against his.

She was pressing into his body in invitation and he was pulsing with need for her, a need that could only be satisfied in one way. He lifted her and carried her to the bed, setting her gently down atop it, continuing to kiss her, moving his mouth to feather kisses down her throat, even as his hands reached for the elastic of the skimpy G-string she wore. Having dispensed with that scrap of fabric, he removed his own boxers.

He kept one hand behind her head as he kissed her, even as the other hand blazed a trail of exploration down her body, eliciting whimpers from her that spurred him on.

When finally she dragged her mouth away from his to beg him, "Please, Sherlock. I need you now. Make love to me," he allowed himself to claim her fully for his own, loving her, feeling her body's response to his attentions, and he was lost in her, as passion overwhelmeed them both. She was perfect, in every way.

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Sherlock's eyes blinked open in the darkness. His body was raging with the same fire and desire from the erotic dream he had been having.

Thank God, Molly is still sleeping, he thought to himself with relief, disengaging himself from her. He was in an utter torment of wanting her, desperately wanting to pull her against him and do exactly what he had done in the dream, but it had only been a dream and he was not going to allow his body to rule his mind in that way. They had come too far, honouring what God wanted for them, which was to wait for the wedding night to be intimate.

He turned away and faced the edge of the bed, taking several deep breaths, forcing himself into some semblance of control. This was definitely a dream he had to keep a secret from Molly, at least until their honeymoon. Even talking about it would make it tempting to revisit the dream and act upon the surging emotions it had evoked within himself.

Finally, sleep claimed him once again, a sleep thankfully untroubled by any more erotic dreams.

Author's note 2: Poor Sherlock. He certainly got to experience a little of what Molly went through with her elaborate dream a week earlier. It was fun to re-imagine his stag night a little.

Do you think the real John will try to put spirits into Sherlock's beer at his real stag night? (Yeah, in case you didn't know that is what was happening, that's why Sherlock could feel a burning sensation in his throat). What lies in store on the real night in question? Is Molly going to drink too much at her hen night? Stay tuned - It's gonna be a rather wild ride!

I hope you got a little giggle at the idea of Sherlock putting his shoes in the washing basket and his socks under the bed. I actually had it written out the correct way, but thought it would be funny to reverse it. Drunk Sherlock is rather amusing to write.

Please review with your thoughts on this one-shot. I think it is safe to rate it a "hard" T, I've certainly seen much more graphic details in T-rated stories, but I'm always worried about where to draw the line between T and M. Do you think I should upgrade it to M or leave it as T?

If you do not read my Journey story, you might miss some of the nuances from the dream, (like the bet John made with Sherlock in that story,) but hopefully you enjoyed it anyway.