a/u: i hope you guys like it because i'm unsure where i'm going with this. in season 3 i realllllllly want a drunk Sherlock. so. bad. anyway, happy reading. reviews are always welcome.

Pub on the corner of Twelfth and Harrison. Drink?

-SH

For a moment Irene stared blankly at her phone. After the countless texts and calls going ignored, Sherlock had finally decided to reach out to her. She smiled to herself and opened her closet doors, humming Christmas tunes.

By the time she got there, Sherlock was dimmed from the drinks. His tongue was heavy and his thoughts slow; but that was a nice change from hardly having room for breathings. His head was like an overstuffed closet– sooner or later, something was bound to snap from the weight of it all.

It took Irene a moment to spot Sherlock, and when she did, she didn't approach him right away. She stood back, darkness falling around her in the half-assed lighting, and got a good look at him. Long fingers curled around a short cup– his hair was damp and somewhat ruffled.

He looked so ordinary– if only he knew.

"You know," she said, sliding in next to him, "I took you for more of a wine drinker."

"Why?"

"It's how you look."

Sherlock shot her a wavering glance and drained the rest of his glass before responding. "Looks can be deceiving," he muttered.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked, singling for the bartender to get her something to drink.

He shrugged and sighed, glancing out the window. His gaze was soft but distant, but Irene could see the gears shifting in his head. Maybe he couldn't turn it off, after all.

"The snow hasn't stopped," he said, his eyes dropping to her semi-damp overcoat.

"Oh, Sherlock, Dear, you're not really going to talk weather on our first date?"

He chuckled. "Date?"

"Isn't that what this is?" Irene said, bringing her drink to her lips.

"Of course not."

"Then why did you call?"

Sherlock turned to her, his eyes lazy and somewhat warm. "Who wants to drink alone?"

"I don't really drink," she admitted.

"Neither do I."

She kicked the foot of his chair. "Liar."

"What gave it away?" he said, putting money on the table for his drinks. His vision was swimming, now, but it was getting to be a little too much.

"Oh, you know, the way your fingers nails are trimmed," she mumbled, and was somewhat surprised to hear Sherlock's deep rumble of laughter from beside her.

For a while they sat and chatted– the little things, even though Irene's curiosity was growing inside of her. When Sherlock planted his elbow on the table and gave her a long, deep gaze, she nearly broke in half because she had no idea what he was up to. She became restless. Sherlock nearly jumped when his phone buzzed.

Where are you?

JW

Out.

-SH

He was startled by Irene's hand on his own; she was warm, like fire, but didn't move.

"Let's go for a walk," she said quietly.

"Sure."

The snow had stopped for now, but left a fragile blanket on the street. It took until Sherlock was out of the pub to notice how all the faces blur together; though it was freezing outside, he felt utterly warm inside. Irene slipped her arm through his (still curious) and they walked down the street.

Sherlock stumbled on an unleveled piece of sidewalk, loosing his footing and tumbling onto the side of the walkway; effectively taking Irene down with him. She landed with a thump on her knees beside him. The snow went straight through her thin stockings and she nearly hissed in pain– but the noise beside her stopped her.

His laugh was deep and unbalanced, as if it were underused. Irene started at Sherlock, one arm thrown over his eyes and snow melting into his dark curls. His chest shook, shoulders bouncing up and down as he chuckled; she swore it rumbled the sidewalks.

"You're drunk," she said when she helped him up.

"You're short," he muttered into her ear.

She could smell him now, all mixes of hard liquor and something else– something deeper and spicier.

"Come home with me." She didn't bother to make it a question– so, so curious.

"If you insist."

"I do."

"Well," Sherlock muttered, words falling like autumn leaves (so very out of his control), "I guess I'll have to come."