Lisbeth pushed open the door to the Irish pub Sherlock had pointed out and frowned. John was sitting by Lestrade and his face was beet red as he laughed at a story Lestrade was telling. She looked at Sherlock, a single eyebrow raised.
Sherlock shook his head and walked over to where they were sitting, Lisbeth trailing behind.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade roared; he reeked of alcohol. "How are you, man?" He beamed, noticing Lisbeth. "And Salander? How are you doing?"
Lisbeth smiled crookedly. "Still sore."
Lestrade choked on his drink. "Oh! Um. Well, interesting."
Lisbeth frowned. "From Moriarty... and that idiot Donovan hitting me in the ribs."
John snorted. "Chill, Lestrade. Let's not jump to conclusions, yeah?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Idiots," he muttered. He turned toward the bartender and asked "What kind of scotch do you have?"
The bartender shook his head. "Dunno, friend. 'M brand new!"
Lisbeth grinned at Sherlock, obviously amused by the response. "I'll take Jack Daniels and Coke."
Sherlock nodded at Lisbeth's voice. "Yes. I'll have that too."
John and Lestrade snickered. "Have you ever had Jack Daniels, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock shook his head. Lisbeth smirked. "You'll love it," she promised.
When handed his drink, Sherlock made a face and sipped at it. Lisbeth roared with laughter and took a large swallow and he mimicked her actions, not one to be outdone.
Two hours and many drinks later, Lisbeth and John were supporting a very drunk Sherlock on the way out while Lestrade roared with laughter.
"Promise me you'll send me a photograph of him tomorrow," he pleaded, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.
"Shuddup Lestrade," Sherlock mumbled. "I'll be spiffy tomorrow!"
Lisbeth snickered. She turned to John and mouthed "Spiffy?"
John's face was red from alcohol and laughing. He shook his head, bewildered by Sherlock's strange vocabulary.
John and Lisbeth half-dragged, half pulled Sherlock down the street; Sherlock mumbling nonsense the whole way, especially as they neared Baker Street.
"Anderson would make an amusing elephant seal, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock snorted, laughter escaping him in bubbles. "If he sat on the floor and clapped his hands together and - oops!" He giggled as he tripped over his own shoe and fell. Lisbeth snorted and grabbed his arm, turning to John in amusement. "Is he like this every time he drinks?"
"Nah," John said with a grin. "He just doesn't drink much."
"Not much?" She mutter, pulling a still giggling Sherlock forward. "More like never."
The inebriated trio finally reached 221B. John handed Lisbeth his key and said "Here. I'll hold Boy Genius over here while you unlock the door."
"Geni pojke," Lisbeth smiled, remembering that she had called Sherlock the same thing the first time she met him. She unlocked the door with mostly steady hands (she was much better at holding her alcohol than Sherlock) and pushed the door open before grabbing Sherlock's arm and pulling him up the stairs while John pushed from behind, Sherlock laughing the whole time.
"Where... do we take... this idiot?" Lisbeth asked, breathing heavily as they finally got Sherlock into the flat.
John looked around. "Well, we could dump him on the couch and you could take his room, if you wanted."
Lisbeth raised a single eyebrow. "His room is safe, ja?"
John smirked. "Probably not. You can kip on the couch then. We should probably make this one sleep in his room," he said, repositioning Sherlocks arm around his neck. Sherlock snored lightly as Lisbeth grabbed his other arm and he was dragged to his bedroom.
Once inside, they found a room mostly occupied by books and lab equipment; texbooks and papers seemed to have taken over his bed.
"You okej to hold him while I push this skit on the floor?" Lisbeth asked, unaware that she was swapping some words into Swedish.
John nodded and braced himself against the wall. "Go."
Lisbeth grabbed as many books as she could and dropped them on the floor, finding every available surface and pushing papers and books wherever she could. Once she finished, she grabbed Sherlock's arm and her and John rolled Sherlock into bed. John tried to push him on his back, but Lisbeth stopped him. "If he vomits in the middle of the night, he'll choke. Leave him on his side."
They pulled the sheet up over Sherlock and Lisbeth shook her head. "He never drinks, yeah? Why the hell did he drink tonight?"
John shrugged. "Trying to impress you, I suppose. He tried to keep up with you, didn't he?"
Lisbeth snorted. "God natt, John," she said, walking out of Sherlock's bedroom and back into the living area of the flat.
John sighed and looked at Sherlock. "Of all things to make you drink and be normal... a girl, Sherlock? Irene just made you more crazy. So what is it about her, huh?"
Sherlock stirred and mumbled something.
"Hmm?" John asked, not particularly paying attention.
"Mmph. Go 'way," Sherlock mumbled, waving a hand.
John sighed. "You got it, mate," he said and left the room to get Lisbeth a blanket and pillow.
In the other room, Lisbeth had changed into sweatpants and a shirt advertising Jim Beam Whiskey. She sat on the couch and laid back, closing her eyes and placing her index fingers on her temples. She didn't notice John walk in.
"I brought you a blanket," John said quietly, holding it out with the pillow.
"Mitt tack," Lisbeth said, taking the blanket. She smiled when she looked at the pattern; it matched the jumper John was wearing - grey with stripes of black and the same raised bumps.
John opened his mouth and then closed it. "I think," he started slowly. "I think Sherlock thinks very highly of you."
Lisbeth sat patiently waiting for him to continue. "Ja?"
"Yeah," John paused. "You need to know he doesn't take to people. You saw how Donovan reacted to him, and Anderson isn't much better. Lestrade cares for him and so does his brother, and he's my best mate. He likes Mrs. Hudson." John stopped, a strange look on his face. "And then there's you."
Lisbeth frowned. "What about me?" She asked, confused. She wracked her brain for something - anything, really, that would set her apart. Sure, she was a freak, that much was obvious. But why would Sherlock care?
John chose his next words carefully. "He calls himself a high-functioning sociopath. I, however, don't think that is true. He's demonstrated time and time again that he can use his conscience. He does care for people, no matter how much he may try to deny it. And, well, I think he cares for you, too," John smiled. "I don't know what made him take to you so quickly, but he cares."
Lisbeth's mind was whirling. She focused on the yellow face on the wall as she tried to comprehend what John had said. "You say he's not a sociopath," she started slowly. "Then what is he?"
"If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say mild autism or Asperger's syndrome coupled with a very intelligent mind."
Lisbeth frowned. She had overheard Blomkvist say the same thing about her to his sister once. "Okej," she said. "I like him as well. He's not full of shit like a lot of people these days." She paused and considered John. "You aren't either."
John smiled at her. "Good night, Lisbeth."
"God natt, John," Lisbeth replied, settling back on the couch and pulling the blanket around herself, considering the night's events quietly to herself.
Moriarty danced around the warehouse, avoiding bits of metal and things that could trip him up. He paused, looking around until he spotted what he was looking for. Picking up an umbrella of Mycroft's that he had borrowed - no, stolen - no, borrowed with the intention of giving back to a Holmes, he opened it up and got out his set of paints. He lifted the lid of a red jar and crouched down on the dirty floor and painted 'GET LISBETH' in large letters on it. He proceeded to snap a picture of it and send it to Sherlock's phone from his restricted number and waited.
He blew a bubble with his gum and went off to find that idiot Blomkvist. With any luck, he'd have figured out he was being taped and would try to get a message to Lisbeth.
'Come out and play, Salander,' he thought with a smirk. 'Time for round two!'
Sherlock awoke to a pounding head and a queasy stomach. Forcing his eyes open and staring at the smooth ceiling of his bedroom - his bedroom? He never slept in here if he could help it...
Refocusing his mind, he tried to remember what happened the previous night. If anything was to be gathered from the taste in his mouth and the migraine he currently had, he would deduce he had gotten drunk last night. But why? The last time he drank so much he woke up with a hangover was back in his drug days.
He thought hard. The last thing he could remember was being in his mind palace and thinking about onions and Lisbeth and - oh.
Lisbeth.
Sherlock's memories came rushing out of his mind palace in a rush; he saw himself and Lisbeth on the couch. Cheeks tinting pink, he pushed that aside for later... analysis.
"Okay. What else happened?" He asked himself quietly. He remembered walking to the bar with Lisbeth and meeting up with John and Lestrade. He remembered ordering the same thing that she ordered, and after that, everything was blurry.
Sighing, he rolled out of bed and promptly tripped over the numerous stacks of books piled on the floor. He fell onto his knees and cursed. Pushing himself up once again, he stumbled to the door and threw it open, yawning widely as he shuffled into the living room. Plucking his mobile off of the kitchen table, he opened his texts and froze when he saw his most recent message.
Mycroft's favourite black umbrella with a silver handle had been opened and painted on. Large red letters spelling the words 'GET LISBETH' had been painted on it.
Sherlock immediately called his brother while searching the flat for signs of life. Lisbeth and John were nowhere to be found, but wasn't John working today? No, no, no, he worked yesterday! But doesn't he work multiple days in a row sometimes?
"What is it Sherlock? Please tell me you're not in jail again," Mycroft's voice sounded from the other side of the phone.
"Mycroft? What happened? Where are you? Is Moriarty there?" Sherlock asked quickly, his free hand running through his messy hair.
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked slowly, wracking his brain for signs that Sherlock knew about his collaboration with Moriarty.
Sherlock stilled his hand and inhaled sharply. "You haven't been taken by Moriarty?"
Mycroft laughed, relieved. "Of course not. Don't be ridicu-"
Sherlock hung up before Mycroft could finish his sentence. Now that he knew his brother wasn't in immediate danger, he could focus on the pressing problem of Lisbeth and John being missing.
He called John, hoping he would pick up.
"Sherlock? You alright, mate?" John asked carefully, aware that Sherlock was probably not feeling well at the moment.
"Yes. No. Where are you and Lisbeth?" Sherlock asked, observing the way Lisbeth had left her things in a perfect pile next to the couch. Borderline obsessive. OCD, perhaps? He was jolted back into reality when John's voice sounded.
"Uh, I'm at work, and I believe Lisbeth said she was going to get food and more clothes. You okay?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Goodbye," Sherlock replied disjointedly, hanging up. He paced back and forth, waiting for Lisbeth to come home.
Lisbeth rang the bell at 221B, shifting the bags in her arm and leaning against the door. She stared at the people who walked by and tried to analyze them, but her analysis was cut short when the door was wrenched open behind her. Sherlock grabbed the bags from her arms and dropped them on the floor before checking her for injury.
"You're okay? Not hurt? He didn't get to you again?" Sherlock asked, finishing his once over of her health and looking into her confused, pale eyes.
"Ja. I'm fine," she said, a worried smile stretching across her face. "Are you?"
Sherlock sighed, relieved. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay." He picked up the bags he had taken from her and pulled her across the threshold, shutting the door and walking up the stairs.
Lisbeth grinned to herself and followed him upstairs. Her ribs were feeling much better and she intended to make good use of her improved health...
Once upstairs, Sherlock set everything down on the empty space of the kitchen table and turned around, only to find Lisbeth standing VERY close to him. Mere inches separated them; Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to remember to breathe.
Lisbeth extended her hands and wound her fingers through Sherlock's curls, pulling him down and kissing him gently. He sighed and leaned into the kiss, placing a single hand on her lower back and pressing closer to her. Lisbeth smiled into his lips and bit down gently.
The next thing she knew she was pressed against the wall that, until very recently, was five feet behind her. Sherlock pressed hard against her and kissed her urgently. In order to make up for the height difference, Sherlock decided to lift Lisbeth off the ground. She responded happily, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing right against his growing erection.
He groaned and pulled at Lisbeth's sweatshirt, managing to get it off of her without much difficulty. Lisbeth hissed and attacked his shirt, loosening her grip on his waist momentarily so she could pull it over his head. Running her hands over his chest, she leaned down and bit his neck, grinning when she heard him groan.
Sherlock pulled away slightly and asked"Bedroom?" in a breathless voice.
Lisbeth nodded, her pupils dilated and her face pink. "Ja. Skynda dig."
So Sherlock walked to his bedroom, Lisbeth still wrapped around his waist, a smile crossing his face as he let go for the first time in a long time.
