Drunk in Charge of a Punt (allegedly)

In which something that is definitely not champagne is found at the bottom of a Fortnum and Masons hamper, and the Master of Brasenose gets the blame.

(Please excuse gratuitous indulgence in location, but Oxford is one of the most Romantic cities in the world. Unfortunately the location of Folly Bridge meant our boys don't get to walk through the most romantic bits, but maybe they;ll get a chance later, if you darling readers demand a sequel...)

'Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine!' A considerable explosion called Sherlock burst through the bedroom door.

John groaned. 'God, its 8am! It's my day off!'

'Up you get, Doctor! We have a train to catch!' Sherlock whipped the duvet off the bed, then instantly did a double take and dropped it back over him. Obviously he hadn't bargained for the fact that John might sleep naked, or that he might be prone to certain intimate morning phenomena. 'Come on, chop chop!' He bounced around the room, hardly missing a beat, flinging open the curtains.

John sat up, clutching the duvet around his middle to hide his modesty and rubbing his eyes. 'I was planning a lie in.'

'No time for that! We've got to be at Paddington by 9.20,' Sherlock said brightly. John groaned and flopped backwards.

'Come on, John! We can't keep the Master of Brasenose waiting!'

'Can I at least have a shower and some breakfast?'

'Only if you eat your breakfast in the shower.'

'Tell me why I put up with you again?' John groaned, hauling himself to the edge of the bed and dangling his naked legs over.

'Because I am brilliant?'

'Get out so I can get dressed.'

Half past ten, and Sherlock was striding up Oxford's George Street. John scrambled along behind, still bleary eyed and grumpy from his ignominious waking. When the tall, chiselled figure reached the junction at the top of the road, he stood in the midst of the traffic, stretched out his arms and took a big, deep breath.

'Beautiful, isn't it?'

John looked up the Cornmarket. 'Could be any other high street in Britain,' he grumbled. 'Look, there's even a Boots.'

Sherlock waived his hand about. 'Yes, but look around you, John. Use your eyes, for once. This city is so beautiful, even Hitler didn't want it destroyed.'

'Have you ever thought that perhaps Hitler was not the finest judge of architectural finesse? Anyway, don't we have a meeting with the Master of Brasenose?'

'So you have been paying attention?' Sherlock said, giving John a shrewd glance, and struck out through the crowds. The walk up from the station had not been exactly awe-inspiring, apart from the sparkling new façade of the Said Business School. There had been traffic lights and exhaust fumes and hot pavements and one way systems and, to be quite frank, John couldn't believe he had spent forty minutes on a train and wasn't still in London. This was little better, John thought, trudging past branches of WH Smith and Gap, and getting hotter by the minute.

'Impossible man,' he growled under his breath.

That was when he nearly got run over by a bus.

He had to admit that he was not expecting such a barrage of traffic at the foot of what was obviously a pedestrian precinct. Suddenly he in the midst of another main thoroughfare. The shock caused him to jump back and catch his breath, trying to adjust. He could see the black clad, blade-thin figure of his friend further up the road, striding along in the sun, in that distinctive way he had, with a slight swagger of his sloping shoulders. He had passed Christ Church Cathedral by the time John caught up, puffing and sweating in the mid-morning heat.

'Where are we going?' he gasped.

'Head of the River,' Sherlock said crisply.

'What, the Thames?'

'It's a pub.'

They diced with death crossing the road outside the gate of Christchurch fields.

'Is that where we are meeting him?'

'Who?'

'The Master of Brasenose. I mean, couldn't we just have got to Brasenose College itself?'

Sherlock gave him a withering look. 'Keep up, John.'

John stopped, gripped with outrage and suddenly deciding to go on strike. 'You brought me all this way to take me to a pub? On my day off?'

'Not just any pub,' Sherlock trilled and kept walking. 'Oh, and by the way, we are passing a police station on your right which was the original offices of Inspector Morse. Thought you'd like to know that.'

'How do you know that?' John was getting seriously annoyed now. 'How do you even know who Inspector Morse is?'

'Was. I hear he's dead now. I can tell you where Lewis Carroll and JRR Tolkien lived too, if you have a fancy to know. I'm not a complete Philistine.'

The Head of the River turned out to be a very plush pub set down on the banks of the river below Folly Bridge. Tourists crowded the wharf on which it stood, enjoying a beer in the sunshine amongst a blaze of potted geraniums, or queuing up around the corner to hire boats. Sherlock pushed along the bank, receiving several snarled insults for his trouble, leaving John to shuffle through the crowd, apologising, in his wake. By the time he reached the boathouse, Sherlock was already climbing into a punt.

'Hey, there's a queue you know, mate!' Someone shouted. 'Wait your turn!'

'Sherlock, don't you think we'd-' John hesitated.

The boatman patted him on the back. He was a short, muscular man in a thin vest, with the stub of a cigarette fastened immovably to his lower lip.

'Compliments of the Master of Brasenose, Doctor,' he said. 'It's all kosher. Been booked days. In you get.'

John Hamish Watson generally did not do boats. He certainly didn't do punts, that much was certain. The boatman helped him in, and he stood uncertainly, jiggling, before Sherlock grabbed his jacket tails and jerked him roughly down into his seat.

'Got all you need, Sherlock?' the boatman grinned, untying the painter and giving the punt a shove off the landing stage.

'All present and correct, by the looks of it, Jimmy!' Sherlock wielded the punt pole like he meant business. 'You're a star!'

Jimmy the boatman gave them a stiff salute and went back to his queue of grumbling punters.

'Er, Sherlock?'

'Mmm?'

'What the hell are you doing?'

The detective was standing on the platform behind the seat, the end of the punt pole in one hand, its tip trailing in the water, and rolling up his sleeve with the other. He had already shed his habitual black jacket , which lay on the seat opposite John like a reproach. Enjoy yourself, it glared at him. The boat drifted in the stream.

'Actually, I'll rephrase that,' John said, feeling distinctly out of his depth. 'Do you know what you are doing?'

'Have faith,' Sherlock told him brightly, and dropped the pole into the water. And pushed.

Any minute now, John thought as he unsteadily exchanged seats so he could face Sherlock and see what was happening. Any minute now he's going to drop the pole in and push and we're going to part company, and he's going in the drink.

However, this did not appear to be happening.

He had this wonderful picture of Sherlock slithering down the pole into the river like a cartoon coyote, but it was clear as soon as he got himself settled and gathered his wits that Sherlock did actually know what he was doing. And was doing it with panache. There were plenty of other punts on the water, and there was plenty of flapping about as beginners got the hang of the method, or fell in, accompanied by mirthful shrieks. Sherlock navigated his way expertly through the tussle, much as he would on land. John had to admit he was impressed. Plus he looked the part, tall and slender and lithe, his long, capable hands gripping the pole with skill and dexterity. After a while John stopped worrying about being left adrift while Sherlock flopped about in the water, and started looking around himself.

Tree lined banks were dotted with couples, women with young children in push chairs, old people walking dogs in the sunshine. A girl lay on the bank in a revealing sun top and a floppy hat, reading a book through huge sunglasses. John admired the view.

The river was wide here, and a family of swans skulled up lazily to see what they were doing. John trailed his fingers in the water. The sun shone. Actually, it was rather nice. Down here, it was peaceful. As they shifted away from Folly Bridge, and the pub, the traffic noise receded, replaced by the lapping on the water on the banks as a leisure boat passed, leaving a broad wake, its motor humming. The punt bobbed, but Sherlock's knees must have had an incarnation as shock absorbers because he stayed uncannily steady on his platform, his features serene.

'You've done this before, haven't you?'

'Oh, plenty of times,' Sherlock smiled lazily. 'Misspent youth.'

'I thought you misspent your youth taking drugs.'

Sherlock frowned, but obviously decided not to rise to the bait. 'This was before the drugs.'

'So you came to Oxford.'

Sherlock didn't answer. Oh well, thought John, now I get it. 'They threw you out, didn't they?'

The detective snorted in derision and hauled on the pole. 'I had a lively discussion with the Master of my college about the inadequacy of the lab facilities.'

'Which presumably you blew up.'

'Another entirely sweeping generalisation,' Sherlock scowled. 'I found that UCL could offer me better opportunities.'

'Never mind. I mean, it's not as if you finished your degree anyway,' John needled.

'Paper qualifications are unnecessary,' Sherlock told him archly, and plunged the pole into the riverbed afresh. John admired the way the sinews in his forearms stood out as he pushed. From a purely medical perspective, of course, he reassured himself.

John lay back, closed his eyes and let the sun sink into his cheeks. 'Is that how you know the Master of Brasenose?'

'Don't know him at all.'

John opened his eyes. 'What?'

'He went to Eton with Mycroft,' Sherlock said blithely. The punt was definitely turning now. They were approaching a fork in the river, where a wooded glade surrounded a smaller tributary. It looked like Sherlock would be punting against the current, but he seemed determined to push on into quieter waters.

'I should have known Mycroft was at the back of all this. And I suppose they went to Oxford together?'

'Oh no.' Sherlock looked appalled. 'Mycroft went to Cambridge like all good spies.'

'Have you ever heard of Burgess and MacLean?'

'Don't be an idiot, Watson.'

They drifted under the trees. The sunlight was dappled here, soft and balmy.

'Where are we going?' John was starting to feel dreamy.

'A little place I know, near Parsons Pleasure.'

'What's that?' It sounded extremely suspicious to him, but he couldn't seem to summon up the energy to care. A coot plopped into the water and scooted into some reeds as they passed.

'Old bathing spot. You'll like it.'

'I'd better. You hauled me out of bed for this, remember?'

'And wasn't it worth all the trouble in the end?'

John sighed and let his eyelids flutter closed.

Sherlock was sitting beside him, but it was the crackle of wrapping that had woken him. John sat up with a sigh. The punt was tied up to the bank under a weeping willow, the trailing branches of which formed a soft green curtain around them, shielding them from the river. The sunlight shimmered on the water, tracing oscillating fish-scale lights around them. The air was full of the rich, damp scent of loam and river weed. It was cool. Probably the only cool place on the river on this hot July day.

Sherlock had pulled an old-fashioned wicker hamper from under the seat and was rooting through it.

'Nice nap?' he said, not looking up.

'Mmm. Picnic?'

Sherlock pulled out a bottle and examined it.

'Damn and blast it!' His explosion made John jump.

'What's wrong now?'

'Trust bloody academics! Ask him to order a decent champagne and you end up with a poxy – what is this – English sparkling wine!' He spat the words out in disgust.

'It's probably perfectly fine,' John sighed, feeling weary.

Sherlock huffed, produced two champagne flutes from the hamper and proceeded to ease out the cork with as much skill as he had done the other night on the roof. The wine had a scent of ozone and pears when John lifted it to his mouth. The bubbles stung his nose as he sipped. Sherlock was swilling a mouthful around, sucking it between his neat teeth and making obscene slushing noises.

'Well, I suppose it will have to do,' he relented.

'I like it,' John said brightly. 'What else does the Master approve as suitable picnic fare?'

There was a hand raised pork pie with a thickly rumpled crust. There were thin slices of cold ham and cold beef, a mixed salad in a plastic box, tubs of hand cut waldorf salad and coleslaw, a selection of cheeses, pickle, two types of pate, and a crusty French baton that shed little flakes of buttery wonder when John put it in his mouth. John piled his (porcelain) plate, while Sherlock assembled a rather ascetic version of a ploughmans, which he picked at elegantly.

'Mmmm, pfgood,' John told him.

Once they had eaten, they packed the plates and glasses away, and Sherlock pulled blankets and cushions from under the front seat.

'May as well have a doze,' he said.

'Sleep it off,' John agreed, his belly pleasantly full. They slumped down together into the bottom of the hull, but it was shaped such that they had to lie very slightly on their sides, facing one another. Unexpectedly, Sherlock extended his lower arm, and slipped it under John's neck, so that he lay with his head resting in the crook of the detective's elbow. It was surprisingly comfortable. He found himself gazing up once again into those changeful eyes.

'Tired,' he breathed.

Sherlock traced lazy circles on John's forehead with his middle fingertip.

'Sleep,' he whispered.

The gentle lapping of water against the side of the boat. In the distance, a child laughing. Somewhere nearby, a coot burbling. A soft sigh, the whisper of breath against his cheek. He opened his eyes. Sherlock was watchful, his mercury eyes sharp, framed by long fringes of lashes. His body was long and warm against John's, sweetly scented and firm.

'Nice?'

John nodded. Sherlock's fingers stroked through his hair.

'Champagne's gone to my head,' John breathed.

'S'not Champagne,' the finicky detective smiled. ''S'only champagne if it's made in the Champagne region of France. Otherwise, it's something else.'

'What?'

'God knows.'

He did feel a little dizzy, but he was not sure if it was the booze, the heat, or the growing realisation that he was lying in the arms of an extraordinary man, and more importantly, he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be. He realised he'd been deluding himself for months. All that dating, all that robust denial – not to Sherlock of course, except the other night, but to himself. Within himself. He had been ignoring the obvious truth.

'It's like you always say, if you consider the data, and exclude the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' It was a bit of a non-sequitur, but he knew Sherlock would follow his train of thought and understand. Sure enough, he was rewarded with that angelic smile.

'So what do you think is happening here,' John whispered, shifting closer to the sinuous torso.

'Well,' Sherlock sighed, 'obviously I'm not exactly an expert in this field. I suspect your opinion might be a more accurate one.' He lolled back a little, flopping his free arm above his head and staring up at the curtain of silvery-green leaves over their heads.

John nuzzled into his shoulder. 'Hazard a guess, then.' He wanted to hear it from Sherlock even though he knew what the answer was.

'I never guess.' Sherlock sounded too sleepy to be affronted.

'Liar. Of course you do.'

'Well, if I must. Based on the data available, which I would say is somewhat scanty and requires further elicitation, I would say-' He turned his head and looked down into John's eyes, his lips only a centimetre or two away, so that his words ghosted over John's skin.

'I would say that we are falling in love.'

'Yes,' John whispered. 'That's what I thought.' And closed the gap between them.

Special thanks to everyone who has reviewed so constructively, and gave me so much fun, especially to XMillieX who made my day. I'm off on a writers retreat this weekend, so I may end up writing a slashy sequel to this, which will involve a doorway in Catte Street, a room at the Randolph, and a thunderstorm... But only if you want me to.