It took John three straight hours to convince Sherlock to come out to the pub with him and Lestrade. After every statement John could think of Sherlock would respond with a dull boring groan of 'What for?'. But, finally, right after John had given up, Sherlock agreed.
The pub was as any other, full of drunks do to the time of night and a few girls here and there. Lestrade and a few people from the station sat around a table happily drinking from tall pints. When their eyes caught the consulting detective and his partner a few mumbled in annoyance. Lestrade smiled, offering up a seat to the two handing them each a pint.
"Nice of you two to come out," Sherlock looked down at the drink before him.
"I don't drink," he stated, pushing the glass away.
"Come on," Lestrade whined. "Just this once, we just solved a huge case! Celebrate!" He slapped Sherlocks back and proceeded to talk amongst the others. Sherlock looked hard and long at the glass, for one to block out the pitiful conversations and small talk going on about him, two he was calculating the rate in which the condensation formed up on the cold walls, and three he was trying to ignore John chatting up a tipsy woman at the bar. She was leaning into him, stroking his arm, licking her lips that were stained well enough to show the recent oral sex she had given to the man in the corner who was adorned with the same shade of lipstick as she. The glass stared back at him. Sherlock knew he wasn't a drinker, a light weight as they would say. His past has shown that well enough.
"What the hell," he mumbled. The cold wet glass pressed against his lips once, draining it of its contents in one smooth drink. He went up to get another.
Pint. Shot. Pint. Shot. Shot. Pint. Black.
John watched Sherlock in amazement, this was the first time he had seen him drink. He didn't know what to expect. His sister was more of an angry drunk, his father too. He was rather emotional when intoxicated. What Sherlock could end up being was a mystery to him, strange to think of, and intimidating. The results, to his amazement, was nothing he ever thought they would have been. After the first two pints he talked more than usual. Rambling on and on about scientific fact and experiments, his words slurring a bit. Then the shot. He started telling jokes. Bad ones. He laughed nonetheless. Next pint. He started to sway a bit when he stood. He took off his coat. Two more shots with Anderson. When they were both poured down his throat he let out a loud laugh and put his arm around Anderson's shoulders and told him how much he hated him. He stumbled over to John, who was at the moment exchanging numbers with a girl, took the pint from his hands with a smile and chugged it with one graceful swig.
"Jawwwwn, I am soooooooo glad you convinced me to come out tonight," He sat on the stool next to him, eyeing the girl and even in his drunken state deducing. "She's a crack addicted, five cats, married, and just blew that man over there," His words were fast, mumbled, and filled with jealousy. "Jawwwwwwwwn, come on, let's, let's dance. You like dancing, right?" He stood, wobbling and laughing. "Dancing, I like dancing! Do I? Jawwwwwwwwwwwwwn, come!" Not waiting for John, he staggered off into the dance floor only occupied by a few drunken kids who looked too young to be there. "Jawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww n, watch! Watch me! Look! I can dance, too! You've never seen me dance!" John smiled. It was almost nice to see Sherlock this way. Carefree. Amusing. With a laugh he stood and perched at the edge of the dance floor where Sherlock stood, now fumbling with the buttons of his shirt exposing the top of his smooth chest. The music changed to Thriller. Sherlock's eyes went wide. "Jawn, Jawn, come, come dance," he reached his hands out gripping Johns wrists pulling him closer. "Jawn, I love this song," Sherlock, the consulting detective, started to dance. The other workers from the station crowded around him as he began to whip his head from side to side raising his hands as if he were in the video. John, quickly, brought out his phone and began to record. This would never happen again, he quickly figured out. Sherlock danced, smiling, laughing, falling around the floor like a complete and utter fool and John loved every second of it. He saw a side of Sherlock he had yet to encounter before, a side that actually, for once, had fun. Something Sherlock seemed to only find in double homicide. He growled and sang along with a slur and spun on his heels falling to the ground until the pub closed. John all but carried him into a cab at the end of the night. The whole ride Sherlock leaned against John laughing telling him how much he meant to him, stroking John's cheek and pulling at his jumper.

"I love you, Jawn, I reaaaaaaaaaallly, reaaaaaaaally do,"

"Love you to Sherlock," The blogger laughed and nodded until he had to actually carry him up the steps of 221B.

The morning was dreadful. Sherlock felt as if a war was fighting inside his head. Nothing mattered to him. He couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't remember. He sat on his arm chair staining at the ceiling moaning in pain. He wanted to melt away into a pile of nothing. Shoot himself. Sleep. Drowned in a pool of icy water. be knocked out into a coma.
"John," he whispered, unable to handle the sound of his own voice. "I can't remember last night" John walked in with aspirin and a cold bottle of water. Sherlock refused to take them.
"Well, ah," he couldn't help but smiling.
"What? Why are you smiling?" He sat up, his head pounding from the sudden movement. He wanted to stab someone. John laughed and tossed his phone into Sherlock's lap, the video playing. Sherlock watched, a stone face lacking of emotion. He watched the video six time before he rest his head back down on the back of the chair and shut his eyes. "John,"
"Yea, Sherlock?" John laughed.
"I hate you,"
"Hate you, too, Sherlock,"


Written because of this gif set on tumblr

post/39457258645/sherlock-youre-drunk-go-home

Figured I would post it here. :D