- Sometimes…
John and Sherlock are sitting on their couch, watching telly and eating Chinese takeaway; the doctor sighs, looking inside his noodle box.
- Sometimes what?
- Sometimes…I'm afraid of turning into someone like my sister.
- What? A woman?
- Ha! Very, very funny Sherlock. I meant…you know. An alcoholic.
- Ah, I see.
Sherlock stops for a minute, staring in front of him, his whole body frozen; then, as if a hypnotist snapped his finger in front of his face, he suddenly moves and resumes eating. John knows better than to ask for his opinion: if he doesn't answer right away, if he doesn't shove random knowledge down your throat with the intention of making you feel stupid, then he simply doesn't care enough.
The room is lit by the glow coming from the tv and the sound of random voices is interrupted only by their chewing.
- You won't.
- I'm sorry, what?
- You won't become like your sister.
John turns his head to look at his friend, who is faking interest in the tv series the doctor likes so much.
- Who's this guy again?
- …Gregory House. But how can you be sure?
- I like him. He's sharp and straightforward.
- Yeah, wonder why you like him. But seriously Sherlock, how?
- I like him because he solves the puzzles.
- Yes, okay, you like him because he's like you. Stop pretending you're not listening to me!
Sherlock snorts and finally looks at John.
- You won't become like her. A popular misbelief makes you worry about alcoholism being genetic when in fact it's not entirely true. In many cases it's environmental. If you grow up in house where alcoholism is the normalcy then of course there will be higher percentage of you becoming one. It's part of the learning process, monkey see monkey do, or in this case monkey see, monkey thinks is normal and monkey will repeat it when he grows up. Harry isn't your mother, when she started with the heavy drinking you were already training to become an army doctor and it obviously didn't affect your learning process. So no, you won't turn into an alcoholic.
The detective turns his head back to the tv.
- Also, it's clearly not lupus. I don't know why they're still wasting their time on that.
John smiles and feels strangely relieved.####
It's three o'clock in the morning when Sherlock comes back to the hotel room: he didn't follow John, he didn't ask him where he was going, he didn't yell at him insults or snarky comebacks. For once, he chose silence, and then he walked for three hours straight.
As he strides down the dim-lit corridor of the hotel, his muffled footsteps on the thick carpet is the only sound that can be heard; once outside the room, the key card slides into the slot and the door clicks.
The dark room is invaded by the blue light coming from the tv: John is sitting at the desk with an empty glass in his hand and a half emptied bottle of Jack Daniel's in his other.
- Having fun, are we?
- I'm not drunk. – John slurs.
- Of course not. You're just…dizzy and warm inside.
- I'm not. Or at least…"not enough to drive me into oblivion, just the right amount to let my idiocy run free".
- There's no need for sarcasm. Or air quotes, for that matter.
- There's always time for sarcasm. You can sod off now.
John slams the glass on the desk and drinks straight from the bottle while Sherlock takes another glass and offers it to John.
- What?
- Pour me some. If we're going to fight at least grant me the same starting grid.
John lifts his chin, wincing at the pain in his head while doing so.
- What are you talking about? We're not fighting.
- Not now. We will.
- Sherlock, I don't have time for this.
- Sure you have. Here, let me start.
Sherlock swallows his drink with one swift move and sits in front of John.
- Have you called Mary?
The doctor's eyes widen and then he rubs his right palm on his forehead.
- Shit.
- You didn't call her. And why is that?
- I'm sorry, I had kind of a busy day, we arrived at the other side of the world this morning and then a man pointed a gun at me and then killed himself.
- I'm not an expert, John, but when something like this happens, the first thing a fiancé – or even a simple boyfriend – does is calling his loved one.
- Like you said, you're not an expert, so shut the fuck up and leave me alone.
Sherlock sighs and runs his left hand on his thigh.
- You make things too much easier for me.
- Am I?
- Yes. You want to know why?
- Does it matter what I want?
Sherlock straightens up on his seat and tilts his head.
- Always.
- Really? Really, Sherlock? What I want counts? Since when? Because seeing you jump from a rooftop wasn't exactly a dream of mine.
John is shouting now and Sherlock swallows down his third glass.
- I thought we were over this.
- NEVER, this will never be something to put behind our backs.
John stands up and starts pacing around the room, touching random objects, opening and closing the curtains, biting his nails.
- I told you what happened and why.
- Yes, thank you Professor Holmes, a nice lecture on how to fake your own death. I'm sorry I didn't take notes.
- No, you moron, I also told you why I did it. Is it convenient for you? Pretending not to remember? I'm genuinely curious; it's almost fascinating seeing an average mind like yours at work, especially if intoxicated.
John takes deep breaths, trying to slow down his heartbeat.
- You're upset about what I said earlier. Why? A normal functioning human being should be flattered. But not you. You decide to act childish and then drink straight into unconsciousness. Why?
The doctor grits his teeth and curls his fingers into fists.
- You didn't have to.
- Yes, John, yes I did. He was threating you; I could see the red mark forming on your temple and the utter fury in Turner's eyes. You would have done the same. They're just words John, get over it.
The detective is at his fifth glass: he starts to feel the heat running through his veins so he stands up and removes his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.
- Just words? What you said to me were just words?
- Yes. If it helps, I just made them up on the spot.
- You did?
The look on John's face is a mixture of disappointment and relief.
- Of course not.
- You clearly don't understand the concept of "if it helps".
Sherlock turns his back on him and smiles, carefully placing his jacket on the back of the seat.
- This is so annoying! – John growls.
- What?
- We're fighting and you're worrying about wrinkles on your precious jacket!
- So we are fighting?
John breathes heavily through his nose, shivering with anticipation, then walks up to his friend and punches him hard in the gut, making Sherlock double-over, grabbing his stomach and growling in pain.
- Yes, yes we are.
Apparently Sherlock really dislikes air quotes. And I really miss Gregory House *starts sobbing*