10.

The Bloody Guardsman.

Sherlock Holmes was officially the most ridiculous man ever. Elspeth watched incredulously as he marched behind the Guards with a regulation bearskin hat on and his highly non-regulation coat, trudging after him while her eyes darted about, waiting to be called out. Miraculously, no one seemed to notice the young woman following the Guards.

Taking the bearskin off, Sherlock perched it on a nearby ledge and took a few seconds to ruffle his hair, using the window as a mirror.

"You are so vain," Elspeth scoffed, rolling her eyes. Sherlock ignored her. "This is ridiculous. Why couldn't we have just gone in with John?"

"John's talking, we need a proper look around," Sherlock said, striding past her and into the barracks. Elspeth followed him quickly, almost bumping into him when he stopped abruptly; two Guards in standard khaki attire walked down the stairs, and seemed to take no notice of Sherlock or Elspeth. He trotted up the stairs and Elspeth huffed, running after him.

When they reached the landing, Sherlock opened a nearby door and peeked inside the rec room. Two of the soldiers were playing table tennis and several others were watching. Elspeth continued to peer inside the room even when Sherlock walked away, finding all the men in uniform strangely attractive. It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes as he strode back down the corridor, shut the door to the rec room and grabbed Elspeth by the sleeve, physically dragging her away.

"What?" she complained, annoyed. "I was only looking."

"Look down there," Sherlock ordered, pointing down the other end of the corridor. Letting go of her sleeve, he strode in the opposite direction he had pointed. Elspeth scowled, stuck her tongue out at his retreating back and then turned around.

"Look down there," she muttered under her breath. She stopped at the first door, tried to open it, and found that it was locked. "Do this, do that, I'm Sherlock Holmes and I can do whatever I want," she continued, crouching down and taking a hairpin out of her hair. "Bloody git."

"What do you think you're doing?"

Slowly, Elspeth looked over her shoulder, grinning sheepishly when she saw one of the guards looming over her with an expectant expression on his face. She stood up.

"Er –" she hid the hairpin, putting it in her pocket and groping for something. She held up a leaflet she'd been given earlier that day; it had a picture of golden gates on a fluffy cloud, along with a large print of the Church slogan. "Have you got time to talk about Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour?" Elspeth asked.

The guard was not amused. Grabbing Elspeth by the arm and twisting it behind her back so she made an indignant noise, he pushed her down the corridor.

"Found another one," he told his companion, who was holding Sherlock in a similar grip.

"Could've warned me," Elspeth grumbled, glowering at him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The two guards forced them down the corridor, pushing them into a room. It took Elspeth a second to realise that they were in the shower room, broken glass littering the floor. John sighed when he saw Sherlock and Elspeth, rolling his eyes.

"Sir, caught these two snooping around."

Major Reed, the man John had been speaking to while Sherlock and Elspeth looked around the barracks, turned to John with an accusing glare. "Is that what this was all about? Distracting me so that these two could get in here and kill Bainbridge?" he demanded.

"Kill," Elspeth repeated quietly, her eyes moving across the room. She felt her stomach twist when she saw the body of a man lying on the ground, surrounded by blood that was pooling from his lower back. "Oh God," she whispered, shutting her eyes. Sherlock pulled away from the guard holding him.

"Take her outside," he said to the guard behind Elspeth, who stared back at him. "Take her outside now."

"She's having a mild anxiety attack," John said quickly, using a calmer tone than Sherlock in hope that it would appease to Reed. "Just take her outside the room and let her calm down, she won't run, I swear."

"Do as they say," Reed told the guard. "Don't let her out of your sight."

With Elspeth out of the room, Sherlock could turn his attention to the body on the ground – Bainbridge, Reed had said. The client.

"What would I have killed him with?" Sherlock asked. "Where's the weapon?" Reed stared at him. "Where's the weapon? Go on, search me. No weapon."

"Bainbridge was on parade. He came off duty five minutes ago. When's this supposed to have happened?" John asked.

"You obviously stabbed him before he got into the shower," Reed said to Sherlock, who shook his head.

"No."

"No?"

"He's soaking wet and there's still shampoo in his hair. He got into the shower and then someone stabbed him."

"The cubicle was locked from the inside, sir. I had to break it open," one of the guards confirmed.

"You must have climbed over the top," Reed accused, convinced it was Sherlock.

"Well then I'd be soaking wet too, wouldn't I?" Sherlock pointed out, resisting the strong urge to roll his eyes. It was obvious, so obvious.

"Major, please," John said loudly. I'm John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's bloody Hospital. Let me examine this body." After a few seconds of deliberation, Reed nodded sharply at the guard, who released John. "Thank you," he said shortly, putting his jacket down and crouching beside Bainbridge.

"Suicide?" one of the guards asked Sherlock quietly.

"No. The weapon again – no knife."

After a quick sweep of the shower stall, Sherlock squatted by Bainbridge's head while John examined his lower back.

"There is a wound to the abdomen – incredibly fine," he said.

"Man stabbed to death. No murder weapon. Door locked from the inside. Only one way in or out of here," Sherlock said thoughtfully, watching John peel open one of Bainbridge's eyes.

"Sherlock," he said. "He's still breathing."

"What do we do?" Sherlock asked him.

"Give me your scarf – quickly, now." Sherlock unwrapped his scarf from his neck and handed it to John, who looked up at Reed. "Call an ambulance. Call an ambulance now." He pointed towards the door, glaring at Reed when he hesitated. "Do it!" John yelled.

Reed and the guards hurried from the room. John pressed the scarf against the wound on Bainbridge's back and then grabbed Sherlock's hand, putting it on top of the scarf, holding his hand in position.

"Nurse, press here – hard," he ordered.

Sherlock scrunched his nose up in distaste. "Nurse?" he repeated.

"Yeah, I'm making do. Keep pressure on that wound."

Reception.

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon. Where did it go? Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish – but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?" Sherlock asked, looking around the reception hall.

No one answered, the guests fidgeting as they glanced at each other.

"Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this," Sherlock said impatiently. Elspeth leaned back in her seat, rolling her eyes. "Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?"

Lestrade lifted his head, his mouth open slightly as he stared back at Sherlock with a blank expression.

"Yeah, you," Sherlock said, like he was talking to a child. "You're a detective – broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

"Er – um – if the, uh, if the . . . blade was, er, propelled through the . . . um –" Lestrade paused, thinking for a moment. "–grating in the air vent . . . maybe a ballista or a – or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could crawl in there." Lestrade stopped again, taking in a deep breath. "So yeah, we're looking for a dwarf," he concluded. Molly pressed her lips together, trying hard not to laugh, and Elspeth's shoulders shook as she giggled. Sherlock stared at Lestrade blankly.

"Brilliant," he said

"Really?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, and Lestrade sighed as he lowered his head again. He much preferred looking at his drink anyway. Molly gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Next!"

Tom leaned over to Molly. "He stabbed himself," he whispered. Sherlock heard him.

"Hello? Who was that?" he asked, looking around. His eyes rested on Tom, who stared back at him with wide eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights. "Tom," Sherlock said. "Got a theory?"

Grimacing, Tom rose to his feet. He swayed nervously from one foot to the other for a moment. "Um . . . attempted suicide," he said tentatively. "With a blade made of compacted blood and bone – broke after piercing his abdomen. Like . . . a meat . . . dagger."

Several guests sniggered and Molly's face was a picture of disbelief, seriously reconsidering their engagement. Sherlock stared at Tom, wondering how he ever convinced Molly Hooper to want to marry him. She was an intelligent woman. Tom was a bit of an idiot, it seemed.

"A meat dagger," Sherlock repeated, speaking very precisely. Tom nodded awkwardly.

"Sit. Down," Molly said through gritted teeth.

"No," Sherlock told Tom, who sat down. "There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson – who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life." Mary laughed in quiet delight. "There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know – and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff, except wedding planning and serviettes – he's rubbish at those."

"True!" John agreed, laughing. Several other people laughed as well,

"The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder – or attempted murder – I've ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I'm not just here to praise John – I'm also here to embarrass him, so let's move on to some –"

"No-no, wait, so how was it . . . how was it done?" Lestrade interrupted.

"How was what done?"

"The stabbing."

Sherlock looked down awkwardly and Elspeth gave her father a sympathetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't solve that one," Sherlock finally admitted. "It can happen sometimes. It's very . . . disappointing." Sherlock looked reflective for a moment, then took in a deep breath and looked at the guests. "Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

St Bart's Hospital; a few hours before the Stag Night.

"Murder scenes?" Molly asked. She looked at Sherlock. "Locations of . . . murders?"

"Pub crawl," he explained. "Themed."

"Yeah, but why – why can't you just do Underground stations?"

Sherlock screwed his nose up, shaking his head. "Lacks a personal touch. We're going to go for a drink in every street where we –"

"–every street where you found a corpse," Molly finished for him. Sherlock nodded. Elspeth had helped him think of it. "Delightful. Where do I come in?"

"Don't want to get ill. That would ruin it – spoil the mood."

"You're a graduate chemist. Can't you just work it out?"

"I lack the practical experience," Sherlock said, giving Molly what he imagined was a pleasant smile. He was surprised when she gave him a dark look in return.

"Meaning you think I like a drink," she said. Her voice had dropped half an octave.

"Occasionally."

"That I'm a drunk."

"No. No!" Sherlock said quickly, realising his mistake. Molly sternly held his gaze and he looked away, blinking for a couple of seconds as he tried to find something to say. "You look . . . well."

"I am."

"How's . . ." Sherlock looked away again, frowning as he searched for the right name. ". . . Tom?" he asked tentatively, looking at Molly for confirmation.

"Not a sociopath," she said instantly.

"Still? Good."

Molly smiled. "And we're having quite a lot of sex," she told him suddenly. Sherlock's eyes flickered between her and mid-air for a moment as he struggled to find an appropriate response.

"Ok," he said. Taking a large folder of papers from his coat, he dropped it onto the table. "I want you to calculate John's ideal intake, and mine, to remain in the sweet spot the whole evening. Light headed, good –"

"Urinating in wardrobes, bad," Molly finished.

Stag Night

"Two, er . . . beers, please," Sherlock ordered uncertainly, glancing over his shoulder at John, who was waiting by a bench.

"Pints?" the bartender asked.

Sherlock took two tall, slender glass graduated cylinders from his coat pockets and put them onto the bar. "Four hundred and forty-three point seven millilitres," he said with a smile. The bartender gave him a strange look, but did as Sherlock requested. John stared at the cylinders when Sherlock returned to the bench, sighing.

"Are we on a schedule?" he asked when Sherlock took his phone out and selected an app.

"You'll thank me."

For the next four pubs, Sherlock and John managed to stay out of trouble. They drank the beers Sherlock bought for them, and Sherlock kept track of their alcohol intake. By the fifth bar, they were both beginning to feel the effects of the beer they were drinking.

"Over there," Sherlock shouted when John looked around the room.

John leaned closer, unable to hear him over the loud music. "What?"

"Toilets. Any second now, you're going to –"

"Hang on," John yelled, patting Sherlock's arm. "Tell me after – I need the loo."

"On schedule," Sherlock said to himself, checking his phone.

"What?"

"Nothing – go!"

John stumbled away and Sherlock updated the charts on his phone while he waited. When John returned to the table, Sherlock tried to ask him how long he took urinating. For some reason, John refused to talk about it.

At the next pub, John took a couple of sneaky shots when Sherlock wasn't looking and then poured one into his beer. He was so drunk, however, that he immediately forgot which cylinder he had mixed the shot with, looking at them both for a few seconds before handing one to Sherlock. They were both plastered by the time they reached the next pub, and in the smoking area outside the pub, Sherlock somehow managed to get into a drunken fight with a stranger.

"I know ash!" Sherlock yelled, gesticulating wildly. "Don't – tell – me – I – don't!" with each word, he poked the man in the chest, then put his hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him away. John, who had been sitting at a nearby table, drunk and oblivious, looked up as the man swung a punch at Sherlock. Luckily, Sherlock swayed backwards and avoided it.

"Alright, alright, enough!" John shouted, his words slurring together slightly as he grabbed Sherlock from behind, Sherlock flailing wildly in his arms. Lifting Sherlock to his feet, he pushed him towards the exit.

"Ashtrays," Sherlock said, pointing towards the stranger. "I know ashtrays."

Later That Night.

"I have an international reputation," Sherlock slurred, lying on his side on the stairs of 221B. John was lying on his back next to him, briefly opening his eyes and then shutting them again as he shifted his head into a more comfortable position. Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. "Do you have an international reputation?"

"No, I don't have an international reputation."

"No." Sherlock paused, then turned his head towards John again. "And I can't even remember what for." He thought for a second. "Crime . . . something or other." Grunting quietly, Sherlock rested his head on the stair again. The door to 221A opened, and Mrs Hudson walked out with a bag of rubbish in her hand. She stopped in surprise when she saw John and Sherlock.

"Ooh! What are you doing back?" she asked them. "I thought you were going to be out late."

"Ah Hudders," Sherlock said, his words slurring together. Mrs Hudson smiled fondly at him. "What time is it?"

"You've only been out two hours."

John and Sherlock sat up, trying to stand, but found they were wedged too tightly together. After a moments struggle, Sherlock fell off his step and landed heavily on his backside on the next one down.

"Hey!" Sherlock said suddenly, grabbing hold of the banister and hauling himself up. John tried to focus on him. "We should . . . we should tell Ellie that we're here."

John nodded drunkenly, using the step behind him to stand up. He turned around, took a step upwards, and promptly fell down on his front, which set them both into hysterical laughter for no apparent reason. It took them far longer to climb up the steps that they normally would've been able to, laughing the whole way.

"Ellie!" Sherlock said loudly, bursting into her room and stumbling forwards. He crashed into her wardrobe, mumbling an apology. "We're home!"

Elspeth was sitting in her bed, reading her book, and looked up when Sherlock staggered forwards. "I can see that," she said with a wry grin. She put her book down. "Why are you back so early?"

"Pubs are boring," Sherlock said with a vague wave of his hand. He collapsed onto the bed next to her, gazing up at her, and John leaned against the doorframe, half asleep. "They're . . . so boring. I was bored."

"Sounds like it. What are you going to do now?"

"Er . . ." Sherlock flopped onto his back, turning his head towards John, who stumbled forwards when he fell asleep against the doorframe. He jolted away. "John," Sherlock called drunkenly. "What are we going to do now?"

John frowned and looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Dunno," he said.

"Why don't you play a game?" Elspeth suggested, patting Sherlock on the arm. He gasped, staring at her in shock.

"That is such a good idea!" he said. Pushing himself up, he pinched her cheeks and pressed a sloppy kiss on her forehead. "You are a genius. John! Let's play a game!" Sherlock threw his legs over the side of the bed, stumbled slightly, and then strode across the room, pulling John along with him. There was a brief silence before a sudden thud, followed by Sherlock and John's hysterical laughter.

Elspeth groaned, lowering her head onto her knees. It was going to be a long night.

Thank you GeorgyannWayson, EICochrane, xxxMadameMysteryxxx, Bookworm45669, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Ms Moonshoes Potter, youngblood killjoy, Tayla, Adrillian1497, bellechat, ElizabethCullen08, SJBHasADayPass, Aimee and tardislover1 for reviewing!

Ahh, drunk Sherlock and John are exceedingly fun to write. Poor Ellie. She's going to have a hard time looking after them.