Poor John...

(Ridiculous Sheriarty, John POV)

John was tired. No, not tired, exhausted. The bruise-coloured bags drooping under your eyes, yawning every five seconds, dead on your feet kind of exhausted. All he wanted was coffee. No, not coffee. Just a lovely, luxurious rest undisturbed, with a hot calming mug of chamomile, maybe some milk chocolate, and afterwards he'd watch the latest Doctor Who...

Bliss, thought John, smiling as he trudged up the stairs, mumbling a quick greeting to Mrs Hudson, then letting himself into the flat he shared with his antisocial, self-proclaimed sociopathic genius, kind of best friend, Sherlock Holmes. Said genius was not in the house, thank goodness, so John was finally able to drop his bag and coat on the sofa, and drag his weary bones to the kitchen...

One deliciously brewed Earl Grey later (they were out of chamomile, and Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell him), John was settled in his armchair, finally able to rest after the hellish day at work that had left him completely drained of energy. As the theme music began, John sighed, and finally let himself relax...

SLAM! John's head snapped up from where it had fallen onto the arm of his chair. Damn, he must have fallen asleep... He rubbed his sleepy eyes and stretched out, grabbing his tea mug from where he'd left it. THUD. He glanced around suspiciously.

Shrugging it off, he headed to the sink. As he rinses his cup, he began to wonder. What if Sherlock had got himself into trouble again? He was uncannily good at that... Oh, well. If he had, John knew he could defend himself. Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he glanced at the time. One fifty in the morning... And Sherlock still wasn't back... A message was still glowing on the screen. Don't wait for me. SH. It was from five hours ago. John rolled his eyes. "Wasn't planning to..." He muttered to himself. THUD. There was yet another noise from outside...

"Mrs Hudson?" John called. He stowed his phone back in his pocket as he reached for the light switch. Light flooded the room, and John heard another loud crashing noise, like someone dropping something down the stairs again and again... He walked towards the door, and was just about to open it when it swung open wildly, revealing a very drunk looking James Moriarty, blinking slowly in the light.

"Hello...?" John said suspiciously. He was used to the master criminal visiting Sherlock now, and though he didn't exactly approve, he had to thank the guy for putting up with Sherlock being... Well, Sherlock.

Moriarty smiled drunkenly. "Ah thenk ya need teh help meh with Sherley... He's a bit *hic* drunk..." He slurred. "Er, yes. I think you've had a bit too much, too." Moriarty beamed like Christmas had come early. "Thank yeh, Jern..." He gestured behind him, or rather tried to. He ended up just looking rather bewilderedly at his arm as if he had only just noticed it was there...

Staggering backwards, he turned and almost fell down the stairs when he bent over to retrieve something. The something turned out to be none other than Sherlock.

The world's only consulting detective swayed drunkenly, one arm slung about Moriarty's waist, the other waving about wildly. John grinned despite himself at the ridiculousness of the situation. Sherlock Holmes, drunk after a date with his arch nemesis, Moriarty? He'd never have thought it, let alone believed it if someone told him it would happen!

Sherlock put his finger to his lips slowly. He had to try a few times to manage it, but he got there in the end. "Shhhhhhh..." He stage whispered. "John's ashhleep!"

John felt a his grin getting wider, spreading over his face. He realised that he must look like an idiot, beaming away like that, but really, as the only witnesses were completely drunk, he thought it was safe to assume that his sanity would not be questioned anytime soon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Sherlock? I'm filming, alright?"

His genius flatmate grinned, and attempted to place his shushing finger over Moriarty's lips. It didn't really work, ending up with Sherlock just grabbing Moriarty's face to keep him still, and as the two masterminds staggered and swayed (Sherlock still madly "shushing" away, Moriarty giggling about being ticklish, or "ticklywish" as he deemed it). As they tried to get past the terrifying obstacle of a couple of stairs, the final step proved to be too much for the intoxicated pair as they swayed tipsily for a few seconds, John stepping back (still filming), before they collapsed onto the floor.

Sherlock flailed like a fish on the landing, and as his arms were around Moriarty, the shorter man was carried along with him down the stairs with a CRASH. John hurriedly ran forwards, phone forgotten. He could hear Moriarty giggling and a weird slurping sucking noise, so he supposed they were okay...

"Mrs Hudson!" He yelled. "Mrs Hudson!" After a minute of quiet apart from that odd slurping, and their landlady grumbling about not being their housekeeper, she finally emerged. There was a pause.

Then... "Oh, John... Did you push them down the stairs in a jealous rage?" Well, he hadn't been expecting that. "Er... No, what do you mean?" As John hurried down the stairs, he saw what she must have to come to that conclusion.

Sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs were Sherlock and Moriarty, a jumble of limbs, kissing passionately. John awkwardly met Mrs Hudson's worried gaze. There was a long slurp from the ground. John tried not to think about the two drunk men snogging behind him.

"Er..." Sluuuuuuuuuuuurp. "Don't worry, dear, I'm sure you'll get over him soon." John's eyebrows reached his hairline. "I'm not gay. Why does everyone...? Oh, never mind... Mrs Hudson, could you please help me get Sherlock and his... Er... Boyfriend...? Upstairs? Please?" She gave him a knowing look. "Okay, as long as you aren't all jealous..."

John sighed, and began to pull Sherlock away from his old nemesis.

They finally broke apart, with a sound like someone yanking out a sink plunger, and a long strand of saliva still hanging between them that probably contained about half a glass of wine...

John tried not to think too hard about this as he dragged a giggling Sherlock (now holding Moriarty's hand, as if he were trying to make John's life as difficult as possible...) up the stairs that the two drunks had been defeated by earlier. This proved to be ridiculously hard, as they kept falling over and wobbling about.

Apparently Sherlock still hadn't realised John was there because he kept "whispering", "Shhhhh... Don't wake up John", every five seconds...

By the time John had got them up the stairs (god, he hated stairs), into their night clothes (they insisted on undressing each other, which resulted in a lot more giggling and John covering his ears because of the slurping) and tucked in (yes, he actually had to tuck them in together) John was even more tired than he had been to start off with...

It was three in the morning before John finally got to sleep. He had had to check on the two men twice, feeling like a dad at his teenage daughter's birthday sleepover as he told them to stop giggling and sleep and that they would be tired in the morning...

John sighed. Then he smiled weakly as he remembered that he now had some brilliant blackmail material, if Sherlock ever got too irritating. Or just whenever, really. He shook his head, exasperated and exhausted.

Sherlock had an awful lot of explaining to do tomorrow...

(A.N. Wow, that got weird fast... Yay! John is a whovian! Please review [or I'll send a drunk pair of geniuses to your house at two in the morning... Ehehehe...])