Blue Eyes

It was not John's habit to go out drinking. After all, he was long past the days of university binging and wearing a hangover like a medal of honour. Not to mention his aversion to the stuff that came with growing up with an alcoholic father and sister. No, as a general rule he stayed away. That was not to say that he didn't drink, but that when he did it tended to be rather spectacular.

Today, or tonight rather, John had agreed to meet Lestrade for a pint. Sherlock had received his complimentary invitation, which was swiftly rejected, and so he was left alone and sulking when John went "off gallivanting with louts". John had said that was a little harsh. Sherlock had muttered something which sounded suspiciously like "football hoodlums" before rolling off the sofa to mumble disparaging comments at the carpet. John shrugged and left.

It was some time later when Sherlock began to receive the voicemails. The first one arrived just as he was admiring the growth rate of the mould on the old loaf he'd been keeping under the sink. He had thought it best not to pick up the phone. He didn't want to hear drunken ramblings when there were experiments to be conducted. Anyway, it would be nonsense; it was always nonsense, John just tended to be that kind of drunk. Sherlock made a point to pay no attention whatsoever to the buzzing mobile on the kitchen table.

After he was satisfied that the mould was coming along nicely, and there was no more remotely explosive chemicals left to play with, he turned his attention back to the phone calls. He was entirely unsurprised to find that all 5 voicemails where from one John Watson, who was undoubtedly plastered by now. Sherlock swept himself up to his full height, though there was no one there to impress, and took the phone to sit with him by the fire. If nothing else they would give him a little entertainment...

"Hey Sherlock," John began, "I was thinking. You know that place that sells...er, what was it?" He trailed off, seeming to then take this question up with his company. After a muffled conversation he returned. "Hi. Yeah, Greg says its sushi, but I reckon he's wrong. I hate sushi."

End of message.

Sherlock looked at where John's voice had been with amusement. This really was a new level of lunacy. Oh, he was going to enjoy tomorrow...

Next message:

A stream of tinny laughter blurted out. It was the sort of laughter that you hear in a pub, where no one really knows what was said or why it was funny but insist on inflicting their raucous noise on everyone in the vicinity anyway. "Christ. Hello mate. Greg said you must be the worst flatmate imaginable. You're not though, because in uni I had a roommate who adopted cats."

Sherlock checked the times. So far they were from fairly early on. This was only going to get better...

Message number three:

"Sherlock," John's voice was a hushed whisper and he sounded anxious. "Sherlock, there's a bloke here with a tattoo on his nose. That's not normal, is it? Greg, is that normal? On his nose? God, that's weird." There was a sudden intake of breath, and then, "Ah. No. Sorry mate, nice...yeah, nice tattoo –"

It ended suddenly, leaving Sherlock to ponder the possibility that those had been John's last words and that his death-defying friend had met his match in an angry man with a nose tattoo. He decided that he had better find out.

Message Four:

"It was a piercing. I meant piercing. Nose piercing..."

Well he sounded alive, if his voice was anything to go by. He reflected for a moment on the last time he'd heard John this drunk...it had been a few days after christmas and he was back from a visit to his sister in Manchester. He had offered no explanation, but produced several bottles of cheap spirits and proceeded to drink them all. He finished this display by making a massive bowl of cereal and attempting to eat them with a knife and fork, becoming thoroughly disgruntled when this proved more difficult than he thought it should have been. Anyway...

Message five:

"Hey. Your eyes are blue aren't they? I thought so. Anyway we're in a street now. Greg says to tell you you're a massive twat. See you, Shrlck."

Really, what was he doing with his vowels? It was absurd.

One more...

"Ha! You will NOT believe this, Sherlock. But we're lost. In London! Isn't that funny? Oh, and I saw a dog that kind of looks like Anderson. I don't even know. We're somewhere in London, probably. I mean, I think I can get away with it, but Greg has no excuse. Shall I tell him you said he was a useless fucker? I will do. Tada."

Sherlock heaved up from his comfortable seat and faced the door. He was going to have to get them back somehow; preferably not in a match box.

As he left the flat he dialled John's number. It took a while, but eventually a disoriented sounding John answered.

"Yes...?"

"John. Where are you at?"

John giggled.

"John! Put Lestrade on the line, now."

"Fine, fine."

It turned out that Lestrade was no saner than John.

"Hello you!" Lestrade sounded like he'd been drinking helium.

"Oh God."

"How are you, you tall...tall 'un." Well, at least his voice sounded normal again.

"Excuse me, no. Put John back on."

"Old blue eyes! Hey, Sherlock, you have nice eyes. And that's not me confessing my undying love for you, that's a fact. Even John says so."

"Tell me where you are? Give me a land mark or something!"

"We've discussed it, and it turns out that you have blue eyes. Not green. And definitely not the colour of Boris Johnson's hair." It was John, and he slurred out his sentence with an air of great achievement.

Sherlock shuddered, hurrying to hail a taxi. This wasn't funny anymore. He was going to kill John...


20 minutes later, and minus a singing Lestrade, Sherlock was heaving John up the stairs to their flat. This was no mean feat; the doctor was heavy for a man of 5"7 tops. John seemed to be having the time of his life, though; mainly at Sherlock's expense, which made a change. He laughed and clapped Sherlock on the back as he gladly put all of his weight against the spindly legged detective.

"Hey, Sherlock, you're a pal. I mean, you are a real pal."

Sherlock concentrated on getting John through the doors of their flat, offering some form of reassurance that, yes he had blue eyes, and no he didn't like sushi either, and yes we're friends (and please stop slapping my face now or I'll leave you to sleep on the floor...).That sort of thing.

After much persistence from Sherlock, and a fair amount of resistance from John, he was successful in getting the older man down on the sofa, throwing a blanket down in an attempt to prevent him from falling off in the night. It would have to do. There was no way he could get him up to his room tonight, not when they were both so tired.

Before leaving for his own room Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, steadying his breathing and thinking wistfully about the ways in which he was going to extract his revenge.

"Shrlck." John gave Sherlock a little push on the head for good measure; prompting a tiny succession of complaints, which he ignored.

"Sherlock," John said in a sing-song voice, patting him on the shoulder.

"What is it?"

John smiled. "Just checking you're alive. Ths'all."

Sherlock scowled at the drunk man, who appeared half gone, despite his cheer.

"You'd be an unbearable alcoholic, John. Goodnight."

"Thanks dear. Bluey blue eyes!"

There's only so much Sherlock can put up with, even from John. Now he realised that he drew the line at pet names. Going to voice this, he looked down as John, who wriggled happily under the fraying blanket, and gave up. It was time to leave him to his devices. Sherlock would get his revenge come the morning...

A/N:

This prompt was requested by quotegilikay, who I'd like to thank for being the most lovely and supportive reader EVER.

Thanks for reading!