"Sherlock, I swear, if I hear another word about this god damned Newman case, I'll ban you from crime scenes for a month!" Lestrade hissed in an enervated manner.
The man in question knew better than to risk his luck when the Detective Inspector was in one of those moods. So instead he shut his mouth, but not without voicing his complaint with a groan.
Lestrade scowled at him suspiciously, but appeared to be pacified.
Sherlock sighed and let his eyes roam over the crowded room. Laughter, chatter and the dull attempts to persuade the other gender to sexual intercourse was filling the air and he was bored out of his skull. He didn't even know what he was supposed to do by 'having a drink with the involved parties'. Another sigh, even more pitiful than the first, escaped his throat and he slumped a bit deeper in his seat.
"Listen, I know I might have pushed you to come with us for once, and I believe this was a mistake, but you know you're free to go. You don't have to be here!" Lestrade sloshed a bit of his beer when he opened his arms wide to underline his attitude.
Sherlock watched him sceptically. "I just don't see the point in mindless chatter," he muttered, crossing his arms before his chest.
Lestrade watched him, lost in thought. Sherlock let him for a few moments, tapping his fingers against his thigh, before he gave in and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Whatever you're thinking about, just say it, because I can almost hear it anyway!"
Lestrade chuckled lightly. "Well, if you don't like mindless chatter, maybe I could interest you in a... bet? Give the chatter a reason?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, then groaned again. "Alright, go on, what's in it for me?"
The answering smile he got in response couldn't be described as anything but smug. "I offer you: one week unadulterated access to cold case files. Every. Single. One." Lestrade watched with amusement as Sherlock sat up in his chair. "And all you have to do is to get the phone number of that little darling." He pointed vaguely in the direction of the bar, where a mid- to late-thirties man was lounging on his chair. To his left sat a twenty-something woman who was obviously trying to make her boyfriend jealous, by flirting with anyone wearing trousers. The seat to his right was empty, although he almost occupied it by clinging to the counter, nearly falling off of his stool. "If you don't get it, then you will cope. With the entire team. No insults, no complaints. For... a month," he continued.
Sherlock opened his mouth, but Lestrade cut in with a "Yes, even Anderson," so he shut it again and considered this for a moment. Glancing over to the man again, a pint glass in front of him, he noticed a light stain on his shirt, probably whisky. No. He narrowed his eyes at the orange peel next to the napkin. Gold Tequila. Either way mostly drunk. He suppressed a grin. Child's play. "But why would I wanted the phone number, I don't want to call anyone," he said instead.
Lestrade leaned forward "Well, maybe you won't, but maybe I do..." he trailed off, and Sherlock sent him another eyeroll.
"But, why...? I mean, your wife?" So Lestrade was bi-sexual? Sherlock would never admit it, but this perception of the DI surprised him.
"Oh Sherlock, I thought you knew that my wife cheated on me! Thinking about it, you were the one who told me... Well anyway, sometimes one needs a bit … comfort."
Sherlock scoffed at him. "Wouldn't people expect that the person getting the number will also be the one calling?"
"Expecting, yes. Perhaps they'd feel lucky, if someone like me would call rather than someone like... well, you." He weighed his head. "Probably"
Sherlock blinked at him and then glanced over to the man again. "Make it a month free access and I'm in," he grinned and Lestrade snorted.
"Go on then, but don't forget: You need the phone number to win." They shook hands.
Sherlock nodded confidently, target already at aim.
Sally, who had been following the conversation with unease, watched him as he walked over to the bar. "Do you think that's a good idea?" she asked doubtfully.
Lestrade raised his pint in a toast. "I think it's a marvellous idea!"
"If I may?"
He snatched out of his drowsy state into reality to find a dark curled man actually talking to him. A slight smile on his lips and a graceful hand resting on the barstool next to him.
"Oh, hi, sorry," John said numbly. He was nearly asleep on his chair at the bar, due to the amount of alcohol running through his veins. He sat up straight-ish to give the man more room to sit down, which he promptly did.
John rubbed his hands over his face and glanced at his watch, then sighed pitifully. He patted his jacket, until he found his mobile-phone in his jeans. It came to gleaming life when he scrolled through his contacts until his thumb hovered over Harry's number. He blinked a few times, before snorting disdainfully. Did he really consider calling Harry to take him home?
"I'm Sherlock," the man beside him said, extending a hand to him.
John looked up into pale grey eyes, which were now fixed on him. "John," he replied, gaining the strength to actually exchange a handshake.
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the phone with which John was twiddling unknowingly in his other hand. "So... bad day at the surgery?" he asked eventually.
John startled. "Sorry?"
"You're a doctor. Probably came straight to this bar when you left surgery about I'd say 3 hours ago. You dove right in with a double tequila. The gold one, I suppose. You don't drink on a regular basis, probably because your brother appears to be an alcoholic and you get a bad conscience whenever you have more than two drinks, which is rather ludicrous since you're perfectly in control of your desire for alcohol. Today, however, you drank more than you usually allow yourself to."
Sherlock examined the half-empty pint on the bar desk. "So much even, that you don't feel able to go home on your own. But you also don't want to call your brother for help because you think it would be worse to have him at a bar at night than to take a taxi and leave alone. So you came here most likely because something happened at your job today which you wanted to ease away a bit by consuming alcohol," he ended with a calculated smile, taking a sip of the drink the bartender had set in front of him.
John blinked at him in wild confusion. "Sorry, how did you...?" he enquired eventually, but was interrupted by someone behind them clearing his throat pointedly. They both looked up to the tall, grey haired man standing there.
"Sherlock. I think -"
"Ah, Lestrade! John, may I introduce Detective Inspector Lestrade, old friend." They nodded at each other, confusion still lurking in John's eyes.
"Sherlock, I need to talk to you. You -"
"No no, Lestrade. It's all right. I can and I will do this. Now go back to Sergeant Donovan and the others, who seem to have lots of fun." With this he waved him away, choking every other word, until the DI sighed in an exasperated manner and left them alone.
John watched him as he made his way back through the maze of tables and people.
Sherlock sighed. "Okay, you've got questions..."
"Yeah. Who are you? What do you do?"
"What do you think?"
John pursed his lips. "I don't know. Fortune cookie?"
This statement gained him an amused smile. "I'm a consulting detective. Meaning when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"But," John began with a frown, "the police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow at him. "When I said you were a doctor, you looked surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I noticed. Your hunched sitting position; the way you unconsciously keep rubbing your hands over your face or pinch your eyes closed, as well as the bags under them are clear indicators of an unhealthy sleeping habit. You've been suffering from insomnia for quite a while now, so you decided to take on night shifts to disburden your colleagues. But I suspect you don't just do it because you're insufferably generous -one could always do with the money. I'm not quite certain about the reason yet, to be honest, but who's not in the need of money nowadays. Although your clothes don't look like you waste a lot of money on them, they're quite worn. Also your phone, though it's a relatively new model you didn't buy it yourself. It's merely your brother's abandoned mobile he gave to you to keep in touch. And your haircut: short, practical, cheap -"
"Yes, yes all right," John interrupted him fiercely. "I got it. But how did you jump from... that to the conclusion that I'm a doctor? Those vague little facts could apply to..." he searched his blank mind for an appropriate number and finally settled on "70 per cent of the population!"
Sherlock's lips curled into yet another amused half-smile; he'd probably aimed a bit too high. "Well, your hands smell of antiseptic and I have to admit, the medical bag at your feet was a bit of a giveaway."
John blinked gobsmacked, then tilted his head back to let out a blithe laugh. "You cheated!" he exclaimed eventually.
Sherlock shook his head, still grinning. "I never said I notice out of thin air!"
They both giggled and John wanted to blame the alcohol for most of it. Finally he took a few calming breaths and turned to look at Sherlock. "But seriously... how did you know about the drinking?"
The detective grinned smugly. "Oh, merely a shot in the dark really, good one though. Give me your phone." He held out a hand and John placed it in his palm. "I saw tiny little scratches flashing up when you were twiddling with it before. Those marks," he said, indicating small scuff marks around the power connection. "You'll never find those on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them, every night he plugs it in to charge but his hands are shaking. Apart from that and considering the engraving; the act of giving his mobile to you in the first place tells us much about the state of his marriage, which could've been another factor as to why you don't approve, and don't want to rely on him in your actual state."
Again John stared speechlessly at Sherlock, watching as he took another sip of his drink. He inhaled deeply "That... was amazing."
Sherlock froze briefly but turned to let his gaze sweep over John's face, raising an interrogative eyebrow. "You're drunk," he stated dryly.
"Oi, I'm not that drunk! I'm totally able to recognise a brilliant performance whenever I see one!"
The amused snort he caused with this statement made both burst into another fit of giggles.
"Oh yeah, you're not drunk, I see." Sherlock said smirking. "Did I get anything wrong, though?"
John knitted his lips together in a pleased grimace and nodded slowly. "Oh yeah. 'Harry' is short for Harriet."
"Harry's your sister. Sister! Ah, there's always something..." he shook his head unbelievingly, probably at himself.
John smiled lazily at him and suppressed a yawn. Suddenly he felt endlessly tired and exhausted. He glanced at his watch again and groaned when he realised that another 30 minutes had passed and he still was sitting on this barstool. "I'm really sorry, but I need to get going or I'd have to lie down under the large table over there," he waved his arm to indicate a vague direction.
"Oh." Sherlock's smile faltered a bit. "Yes, certainly. Sorry, I didn't want to keep you."
"No, no. It was quite interesting." John smiled, rising to his feet clumsily. He stood there for a few moments, knees wobbling underneath him. His hand settled on the barstool for support. He searched for his wallet, held up a few banknotes to the bartender and dropped them on the counter when he nodded a thank you.
Sherlock examined John with a frown. "Well we've already established that you don't come here often, and me neither. But I was wondering if you would like to meet again some time?" he asked tentatively.
John paused briefly, "Sorry mate, but I'm not gay"
"No- no, I didn't mean it that way. I meant just to... talk," Sherlock said vaguely and looked down at his drink.
John regarded him for a moment, considering. He then reached out for the napkin he was given before and scratched down his phone number. Slowly he slid the napkin into Sherlock's vision. "Maybe next time you can tell me more about being a consulting detective."
Sherlock looked up in surprise then cracked a smile. "You know, I'm the only one in the world. I invented the job"
"Oh, well then I'm really curious," John said, grinning. "So... Till the next time I guess."
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully as the other man went for the door, shrugging into his jacket.
"Maybe next time," Sherlock called behind him, "I can impress you with my knowledge of your military background," his eyes were roaming over John's body, "and perhaps you could tell me the story of the bullet wound in your shoulder."
John had stopped in his pace and looked back at him. Just when he'd thought it couldn't get any more confusing. He exhaled with a little laugh and his lips curled into another smile. "I'm looking forward to it." Then he raised his hand in farewell and trod out of the pub with unstable steps.
Deeply lost in thought Sherlock was left behind, staring at the empty pint glass next to his. He got the number at last. Luckily. He didn't plan on giving it to Lestrade though. Oddly enough, he really thought about calling the man, this ex-army doctor. Or sending a text. But was he really willing to sacrifice such a big opportunity as getting one month of access to cold case files for a second meeting with an almost stranger?
He bit his lip to keep himself from breaking into another smile. He wasn't like this usually. Not this tempted to grin, not even as optimistic. Or maybe he should blame the alcohol for this. Sherlock eyed the drink in front of him suspiciously.
He did a little start when Lestrade appeared at his elbow. His brain did one last consideration and in an instant he came to a decision. He surprised himself by what he said in the end. "I didn't get it." He sighed as if in disappointment. "I know I needed the number to win, but -"
"No. No no, Sherlock, listen to me. I didn't mean him, I meant her!" he tilted his head to the left, indicating the woman still sitting at the bar, flirting with the bartender.
"Oh." Sherlock stared at her blinked once, twice. Well, this at least explained Lestrade's sudden bi-sexuality. There was always something. But what did he care? He got the number at last, didn't he? The number of someone who might actually like him. If that wasn't worth a try, then what might? The bet had to be called off; after all he'd asked the wrong person for their phone number. And he could get access to those files anyway. Although presumably not legal, but that had never been a problem before.
He clasped his hand around the napkin in his coat pocket and when Lestrade walked away, shaking his head, Sherlock reached for his phone.