A/N: Someone asked me to do some of these ficlets for season 3 scenes and offered the stag night as a suggestion, so... I did it! Here it is, yaaay. And oh dear lord drunk Sherlock I will never stop loving you. Poor confused bastard.
Light-headed, good. Just a little on the tipsy side. Excellent.
He's verging on buzzed, nowhere near drunk, all going according to plan. And well on schedule, too, moving along at a decent clip... he's still not entirely sure what the whole point of traipsing from pub to pub like this is, of course, but apparently that's what one does on a stag night (according to the internet, in any case) so he's planned that out as well. Direct route, carefully chosen streets (every one where they've found a corpse, personal touch), each with a convenient bar. This is going to go perfectly. It has to.
Because he is a genius, after all, and he's John's... best friend. Somehow. Best friends make sure their friends have a good time, that's what real proper ones are meant to do, so even if it requires toting around a pair of graduated cylinders in his pockets all night he'll manage. Optimal volume, though, very important. He's determined to do this right. John deserves that much of him.
This pub they're at now isn't so much of a pub, more of a... dance club, or something. John's gone off to have the bartender refill their cylinders (four hundred and forty-three millilitres, on the dot, hopefully John remembers to check the meniscus this time) leaving Sherlock to stand and blink around at all the bright lights. Strobes, too-loud music, a floor full of pissed patrons all in various stages of dwindling muscle coordination. Why, again, is this considered an entertaining way to spend an evening?
John shows up at his elbow, hands him his glass (cylinder), and Sherlock blinks out of his observation of the surrounding venue to thank the man. Ugh, good lord, the beer here tastes disgusting. What is that supposed to even be? An... amber, or...? Wait, hell, he doesn't actually know the first thing about beer. Probably just meant to have a strong burn to it, then, like a signature flavour or something.
The stuff tastes bloody awful but he knocks it back anyways, because he's supposed to. Because John expects it. Because drinking is normal and proper and while he's never been particularly keen on alcoholic inebriation he'll still do it for John. Even if the stuff burns his throat to hell and back and good lord honestly what is this? It almost tastes like someone poured a straight shot into a pint.
He glares at the empty cylinder in disgusted confusion for a moment, but John quickly plucks it out of his hand again, goes off to fetch another round. Sherlock blinks after him. A burst of swirling dizziness pulses through his brain and he glances back around to the pub, the coloured lights, strobe effect... mystifying. Everything seems to have somehow set itself spinning.
What's going on...? Is he...? No, no, shouldn't be this pissed after one drink. Maybe he should check his- oh, but here John's back with the beers again. Drink up. Fine, yes. For John.
On to the next street over, then, and they're halfway there before Sherlock realises he's quite forgotten to log the last round in his mobile app. But for some reason it's too much work to get the phone out of his pocket so he quickly gives up on the whole endeavour. Doesn't seem so important now anyways; certainly not enough to fight with the coat over it. Snickers to himself at the thought that he's a bloody supergenius who apparently can't work out how to operate a simple coat pocket, then giggles louder because John did too, he has no idea why either of them are laughing now and bloody hell why is everything so funny all of a sudden?
There's a niggling thought in his head telling him this isn't how things are meant to be going - something's wrong. He's not supposed to be this... this dizzy, or... pulsating? What? Swirls of brain matter dance around his skull, morphing shapes like a kaleidoscope, fuzzing out the world. Oh god he's drunk. Why is he drunk? Hates it, always has. Give him a line of coke or a hit of speed any day, marijuana even, anything at all besides the awful hazy swimming bewilderment of sodding alcohol. Because at least on hard drugs he still stands a chance of being able to think - altered consciousness, fine, he can work around that, enjoy it even. But he can't do a single damned thing with his head completely scrambled.
And oh, hell, is it scrambled now. Obliterated. Shouldn't drink any more, not until he sobers up a bit, and how did this even...? Must have mucked up the schedule somehow. (Of course you did, bloody idiot.) Seriously though he's well and truly plastered, just skip this round and...
But then John shows up again with two full graduated cylinders and a happy twinkle to his eye, so Sherlock accepts his glass with a nod and a smile and cheers even if he doesn't really want to. Thinks of the look on John's face if he were to decline, the disappointment of having to cut their outing short thanks to Sherlock's inability to handle a few sodding pints, relating to everyone how the stag night had... no, no, god. Sherlock can deal with a few more drinks. He's fine. He'll be fine. Room's spinning but that's not a problem.
This ale burns too, though, and what on earth is wrong with all these pubs' beer selections? He glares at the cylinder again but forgets almost immediately why he's doing so. Glances around in befuddlement instead. Things have started to go very hazy.
A fight may or may not be happening, he's not sure. What's he shouting about? Ash? What? He knows ash, all the different types, what's this tosser's bloody-
Fist swinging for his face, he dodges on instinct. (And hah! High as a kite and still... no, no, wait, he's not high - why isn't he high? Did he run out of coke again?) Tries to retaliate but something's dragging him away and oh hello what's John doing here? He knows ash, John, he knows he's... right. About whatever it is he's, erm... arguing about...? Oh time to leave, apparently, next pub. Yes... sure. 'Course.
Their next few rounds zip past in a blur of colours and sounds, more accidental fights, giggling for no real reason and then suddenly they're on the stairs back home and he has no idea why but then he has a reputation, you know, to... uphold. (Or tarnish, maybe?) John hasn't got one, no. Sherlock's name is far more impressive and he's sure he could explain precisely how if he had any clue whatsoever as to why he's famous.
Wait, he's famous...? What for? Who'd ever care what he does? No, no, wait, he knows... he knows this. It's for... crime, or something. Is he a criminal? Must be, yes, been in jail. Remembers the white bricks and metal bars. Pickpocketing, too, lots of that, and the lockpicks, drugs... oh, maybe he's a renowned thief? That would be brilliant. Like a pirate but without a ship to sail around in. He always wanted to be a pirate.
Mrs Hudson shoos them out of the foyer before he can think much further on the subject and John suggests a game so then they're back in the flat. Ridiculous nonsense, this. Choose a famous person, write it on a bit of paper, stick it to John's forehead. Sherlock doesn't know any famous people so he just chooses a name at random out of a newspaper on the coffee table. Good enough.
Apparently that's not quite how you're meant to play - who the hell is 'Madonna'? But the cock-up's well worth it for the ensuing hilarity. Am I a woman? Yes, yes John you are. You're a... hah... a lovely, stout little woman. Belle of the ball, all the nice blokes fancy you. He's fairly sure he's not saying any of this out loud, just snickering like a moron, but whatever. Talking's ridiculous anyways. Just... hand signals. Flapping about, John'll get the message. Hardly matters. What are they doing in the flat, anyway? Hadn't they been... pubs, or something?
There's a glass of amber liquid in his hand and the sharp burn of liquor when he takes a sip, so evidently they've come round to an alternative. Good, really, because he'd been getting a bit sick of the too-dim lights and noisy clamour of crowded bars.
Out of nowhere Mrs Hudson shows up with some girl. Bit late for a client, isn't it...? He's not really capable of caring, though. Too woozy, tired. Only her story's a bit sad. Oh, no, she's crying? No, no don't cry. You're lovely, strange little dumpy woman. I'm sure your suitor was enchanted. You are dead boring, though. So, so boring. And he's so bloody tired. Perhaps she won't mind if he just takes a bit of a nap...
A ghost! What!? Oh, no, boring boring... no, wait. Ghost? What? That's... fascinating? Maybe? What are they talking about? Oh, investigate, yes. Off to some bloke's flat, the game's... something.
On. On! Yeah, that! Game's on. Time to find a ghost. Or a dog, maybe? Whatever.
Being mostly sloshed and half hung over, however, turns out not to be an excellent combination for deductive work. He blinks owlishly at some big, green... egg-shaped... sitty thing... and begins to wonder if perhaps he'd have been better off staying home. Getting progressively more nauseous as the minutes drag by, still can't figure out the great bloody coat (christ why are there so many pockets and argh the sleeves get off me you stupid wool monstrosity stop fighting back) and there's nothing in the carpet that could even charitably be described as anything remotely relevant but lord it's so comfortable to just lie right here. A nap, please, sleep.
Get up. No, god why, don't... up, up, okay. Tries to stand, but he only gets to his knees before the nausea's too much to keep at bay aaaand nope, no. Too sick for this nonsense. Terrible carpet anyway. Deserved it.
Flashes of the police showing up, being carted off in a squadcar (oh and there brilliant, see, he is a criminal - a famous... famous land-pirate? do those exist?) and then the very next sensation he's aware of is someone shouting nearby. A burst of startled adrenaline shoots through him at the unexpected noise, making him bolt upright with a panicked gasp. Immediatley he regrets that action with every single fibre of his being - excruciating headache, cold hard metal slat under his back the taste of stale vomit in his mouth and oh god why does everything have to be so bright in here.
Walking's an ordeal, as his balance seems to be completely shot. Brain's flat-out exhausted, whole body aflame in bitter agony... christ, he hasn't had a hangover this bad since uni. What in the hell happened to his plan? Hadn't he worked out precisely how to avoid all this? Charts? Graphs? Molly and the... the medical files? Had their calculations been...? No, Sherlock must have... or... no, god, how? How did he cock everything up this badly?
John quirks a tired smile and gamely tries to offer up some canned sentiment of thanks, but no, it was awful. Everything went horribly awry. Sherlock made a complete mess of the whole business and hasn't even got the faintest clue as to why, bugger it, shouldn't have even tried. Knew it would end in misery.
The vague mention of clues, though... jumbled memories, falling out his ears. Strange dumpy woman with the ghost. Oh, the sodding ghost! There was a damned ghost case and he'd just got sick all over it, what a waste. Ruined the first interesting problem he's had in ages - as if he didn't feel horrid enough. Now he's just going to be thinking over that nonsense like a neurotic terrier with a bone until he finds some way to solve the trick. Wonderful.
Oh, but hadn't there had been a website...? She'd mentioned one, definitely. Ghost-dating, a support group of sorts. Look it up, then, track down the client. Try again. Because damned if he's going to let this stupid attempt to do something halfway normal for John destroy the one bright thing he knows he'll always be able to rely on. The work. Far more important than... than stupid best friends. Christ.
His work won't ever run off to marry someone else, now will it? Won't expect him to go on a sodding stag night, either, nor attend a stupid wedding, won't choose to spend time with its fiancé instead of him. No, work won't do anything at all but exist and wait to be solved. Perfect loyalty. All the companionship he needs. Bloody John can just go and get st-.
As if responding to his petulant thoughts a white-hot pulse of splitting pain shoots through his head. He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose as he walks down the hall, John at his side. The two of them together as always... and, perhaps, as never again.
End of an era, his brain supplies out of nowhere, tone dark and snidely mocking.
He grits his teeth against the dull ache spreading through his chest.
It's just a hangover, that's all... he'll be fine.