"I don't drink, John," Sherlock muttered stubbornly.
It was Christmas Eve in 221 B Baker Street and John had, much to Sherlock's great displeasure, thrown a party. It was only a small gathering, attended by the few police officers John had gotten to know, Lestrade, Molly, and Sarah.
"Oh, go on!" John chimed merrily up at Sherlock.
Too loud.
Giddy with happiness.
Even more friendly than usual.
"You're getting a bit drunk, John," Sherlock said as a reply, smirking slightly and dodging his body around two police officers as they made their way towards the table of snacks.
"Good observation," John said sarcastically. Then he turned away to mingle, leaving Sherlock in the corner of the room on his own.
Dull, dull, dull, dull, Sherlock repeated over and over again in his head as he listened in on other people's conversations. He couldn't understand how anyone could spend more than 5 minutes talking about celebrities, or how good the food was, or whether or not it would snow. How in the world could this hold anyone's interest?
"Don't sulk, okay? This is my chance to make some new friends." John's earlier words ran through Sherlock's mind and he composed his expression from one of distaste to one he hoped appeared pleasant. Even so, he couldn't help but wonder why John needed other friends. They had each other, correct?
Molly flitted her way over to him, two glasses of champagne in her hands.
"I don't drink," Sherlock automatically said, forcing a small smile upon his face.
"I know, John told me there was no point trying to get you to drink this-"
"He was quite right."
"-but I thought I'd just leave it here and, um, say hello!" She smiled up at him a bit too cheerfully, eyes slightly manic.
"Hello, then." Sherlock silently wished everyone would just leave; social interaction was never his favourite activity.
Molly continued to just stand there, grinning up at Sherlock until he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Then, finally, she placed the glass of champagne down on the table beside Sherlock and walked off, glancing over her shoulder at him frequently as she made her way back into the crowd.
After about an hour of spending time with the untouched glass of alcohol, Sherlock took a sip. An experiment, he told himself; just an experiment.
It was very surprising for people to find out that Sherlock had never drunk in his life, what with his past with drugs. However, he had never felt the need to have any drink other than tea and coffee, and therefore there had been no appeal.
However, Sherlock was surrounded by people ranging from moderately to incredibly drunk who were dancing or chatting or laughing – or a mixture of the three – he felt compelled to see if the drink would have the same effect on him.
The champagne sent a horrible feeling down Sherlock's throat as he swallowed and his immediate urge was to cough it back up. Disgusting, he thought. However, Sherlock was a stubborn character and he never left an experiment unfinished. So, with a look of disgust on his face, he forced the drink down in a few gulps, then drunk another glass. He sat down and waited for the chemicals to penetrate his brain.
Half an hour passed before Sherlock began to feel any different. First, he started to feel slightly light headed and unfocused. Then, he found himself wanting to make his way into the crowd, not to talk but to just be around the people. So he gave into the urge and made his way over.
The music that was playing was quite slow and the bodies surrounding him were swaying and intertwined. The only person not partaking in this activity was John, who was stood watching Sherlock with a curious expression.
"Have you been drinking, Sherlock?" John's voice was slightly slurred, or perhaps it was just the way the alcohol was making everything sound to Sherlock. He didn't know.
"I have been. It's just an experiment."
John frowned, and asked "How much have you had?"
"Two glasses."
"Wow, you are a lightweight!" John began to laugh. "Well, now I really do believe you've never drunk before. It would take most people a few more glasses to get to the stage you're at."
Sherlock was confused. How was he meant to know what stage he was at if he'd never experienced any other stages before? He sat down on the chair behind John, a strange feeling brewing inside him.
"You're getting a bit drunk, Sherlock." John smiled and sat beside him.
"Good observation," Sherlock chuckled. They stayed there for a while and as time went on, Sherlock began to wonder why John wasn't talking to Sarah or one of the other women he'd invited. It was the sort of thing he always did while at social gatherings. Yet here he was, beside the man who'd begged for weeks to cancel the party, silent but seemingly content. This made Sherlock happy, yet he could not fathom why.
"More champagne?" John asked lightly. They'd been sat on the chair for four love songs now and, while things weren't the slightest bit uncomfortable for them, they were beginning to receive odd looks.
"I may as well. I do not feel nearly enough intoxicated."Sherlock said dryly. John chuckled and walked off, Sherlock taking to observing the affects the alcohol was having on him.
When John came back with the drinks, Sherlock looked up at him and stated "I am feeling mildly to moderately light headed, and my movements feel slightly uncoordinated. However, I do not feel the urge to get up and dance wildly, or shove my tongue down someone else's throat. I am enjoying myself a bit more though."
John rolled his eyes. "If that's you enjoying yourself then I don't see the point in you having alcohol at all." In spite of this, he handed Sherlock the glass of champagne, who once again forced it down his throat with a shudder.
"You're meant to drink it slowly, Sherlock," John muttered, sipping his own.
"Really? People prolong the experience of this drink? Why?" Sherlock looked around the room and noticed the amount of people there was slowly receding. There was now only Sarah, Molly, Lestrade and two other police officers. They were sat together, talking and drinking the retched champagne.
This annoyed Sherlock. Why were they there, invading his flat to talk to one another when they could just as easily talk somewhere else? Couldn't they leave him and John alone to-?
"To what, Sherlock?" John asked, sounding confused. It was then that Sherlock realized he'd been muttering to himself.
Alcohol really did dampen his observational skills.
"I – uh..." Sherlock couldn't remember what he'd been about to think/say. How could people stand to go through this so frequently?
John looked at Sherlock in a peculiar way, eyes wide and excited. Sherlock told himself that it was just the chemicals changing John's emotions. But there was something about the expression, the curiosity in John's eyes, which told Sherlock otherwise.
Without warning, John leapt to his feet – somewhat unsteadily – and called, "I'm feeling a bit unwell, guys! Do you mind if we call it a night?" His words were beginning to slur slightly, having drunk considerably more than Sherlock had. The others in the room all nodded and within 10 minutes, after Season's Greetings were made, the place was cleared.
Seconds after the door shut, John wound his arms around Sherlock. It wasn't the gesture that caught Sherlock off guard; it was that he didn't feel the need to shake John off. In fact, Sherlock enjoyed it.
"Is this the drink talking?" Sherlock tried to ask conversationally, but with little success.
"Perhaps," John mused, tightening his hold slightly. Time passed in a way that was both slow and fast as they stayed unmoving. Thoughts became incoherent to Sherlock, other than the thoughts of how pleasant it was to be like this, and why hadn't he and John done this before?
Sherlock found himself responding to John's embrace without even thinking about his actions. His head lolled onto John's shoulder, then his own arms wrapped around the shorter man's waist, then his nose nuzzled into John's scarred shoulder. Sherlock's mind was fuzzy and he couldn't recall how he and his best friend had ended up like this.
Sherlock didn't mind.
"Is this the drink talking?" John murmured into Sherlock's unruly curls.
"Perhaps."
John smiled and carefully lifted up Sherlock's chin, gazing into the bright green eyes. John, too, wasn't really in full control of his actions. He didn't blame the alcohol, though. He didn't know what he blamed. He just knew that at that moment in time, he wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes.
So he did.
This action definitely took Sherlock by surprise. Warm lips pressed against his and at first he had no idea how to respond. His eyes automatically closed but other than that he was at a loss.
Then instinct – or drunkenness – took over and Sherlock's hand rose to John's face. His fingers stroked over the smooth skin of John's cheeks just as John's fingers did upon Sherlock's. Their lips moved in perfect synchronisation, as if they knew exactly what the other was thinking.
They both slowly pulled away. John smiled sheepishly and Sherlock frowned, both trying to control the butterflies in their stomachs.
"Is this the drink talking?" they whispered together.
"No," Sherlock stated. Then they fell back into the kiss without a second thought.