Author's Notes: Like I said, our little boy is growing up. Thanks for all the reviews, as always, and keep them coming!

Anthony, Chapter Thirty-Six

It was stupid. Anthony knew that he had been stupid. Stupid to take that first sip, and stupid to keep on drinking despite how awful it tasted. He didn't know why he had done it...all he really knew as he walked alone down the streets of London was how dumb he was to leave his mobile at the bonfire.

It was all Chris' fault. Well, in the end, it was Chris' fault. His fault for making Anthony feel like some sort of third wheel between him and Christine, or like he was being babysat by the couple. He wasn't some kid they were forced to look after – he was supposed to be their mate. It had started when Nate left the beach.

"Hey, An: I'm gonna head home early. You coming?" It really was early, but Nate wasn't much of a drinker, and since that was what most of the party's attendees were already doing, he didn't harbour a lot of interest in hanging about. But Anthony was sitting with his friends, and Tal had asked him to come, so he decided to stay. "You sure your dad won't mind?" Nate had asked before going.

"What does he have to do with it? I can look after myself."

Chris supported him, holding Christine tightly around the waist. "S'alright, Nate. We'll take good care of him." Anthony was a little insulted by the idea of him needing to be 'looked after', but he let that one slide. It wasn't until later that Chris was really starting to piss him off.

It was like Chris and Christine had forgotten he was there. Tal was off dancing somewhere, and while she was rather cute, Anthony didn't have anything drawing him to find her. So, he sat with his friends on the picnic table, chatting. It was Adam who showed up to the party – late and drunk - and started offering everyone beers. He handed one to Anthony. "Never seen you drink one of those," he said as he did it. Anthony didn't feel pressured – at least, not by Adam. But it was something he'd always wanted to try, and why not there, in good company?

"An, you know you don't have to, right?" Christine asked him as he battled with the bottle cap. Ever the mother of the group, she was.

"Please, like I've never had a drink before," he lied, and took that first sip. It was gross, but he kept himself from making a face. Chris gave him a look: he was, of course, well-aware that Anthony had never had a drink in his life, but he generously didn't announce that fact to the rest of the group.

Anthony kept drinking. It wasn't until he stood up to get another bottle that his head felt light, and he felt as though he had to keep his focus on placing one foot in front of the other. But it was a nice feeling. Calm. He got the second bottle.

It wasn't long before the conversation had ended, and Chris and Christine were...involved...with one another. Adam was long gone, no doubt trying to collect some dodgy girl. It was then that Anthony started to feel lonely, and soon after that, he felt angry. Chris was ignoring him. Chris, who had assured Nate that he'd look after him – not that he needed looking after. He was sixteen-years old, for goodness sake. That was more than old enough to handle himself at a party. But Chris had been distant for ages. Ever since he started going out with Christine, he was too caught up with thoughts of her to pay Anthony any mind. The worst was when his Dad was sick. It was like he didn't know how to even make an effort to be there for his friend. Chris must have known how worried Anthony was for his father, but all he ever did was insist that things were going to be okay.

"I'm sure he'll get better," Chris would say, but Anthony, at the time, didn't believe that. It wasn't okay. His Dad was going to die, and he...he didn't know what he would do if that happened.

He needed a friend. Not his Mum, not his Uncle...a friend. Chris was that friend, that one person he could trust with anything. Chris was the only person who knew about Los Angeles, who knew about Mycroft's secret hospital, who knew about the surveillance and all the criminals that came too close to home...and all Chris cared about now was Christine.

Just as Anthony felt as though he would explode into anger – despite how uncalled for it would have been – there was a girl dragging him out onto the beach. She started dancing with him, and who was he to refuse. She had a drink in her hand, one which she occasionally sipped on as she moved. Anthony followed suit, and before long, but were rushing about, searching for more to drink. Anthony felt as though he could soar away at any moment, if it weren't for his pesky feet tripping all over each other.

More dancing, and eventually Anthony discovered that the girl's name was Heather. She was blonde, like Christine, and he decided to tell her all about how pretty she looked. She asked him questions, he tried to answer coherently, and eventually he was confiding in her all of his pent-up anger for his best friend.

"You're so mature for your age," she marvelled, and Anthony felt a little proud. Yeah, he was, wasn't he?

Anthony had no idea how long it had taken before he and Heather were sitting by the water, snogging awkwardly. He didn't know her last name, or if he'd ever seen her at school: he only knew that they were kissing, and then Tal was yelling, and then he really wanted another drink.

"You feeling all right?" Suddenly, Chris was with him, his hands clutching onto Anthony's shoulders.

"I can't stand up just fine," Anthony assured him, but for some reason he couldn't get the words out unslurred.

"Let's get you home."

"I don't want to go home!" Anthony was still reaching for his – how many beers had he consumed so far? "'Sides, don't want Dad to know I'm being drinking tonight."

Chris frowned. "Look, mate, why don't you come over to my house for the night? We can call your Dad and tell him you're sleeping over."

"Sherlock will know. He knows...everything. I'll just walk it off," Anthony decided. "See?" he said as he walked away. "I can do this all right."

Chris chased after him. "Come to my house. My Mum's at work, she won't even see you 'till tomorrow. Just...let's go, okay?"

"Where's Christine?"

"She went home already."

"You didn't want to go with her?"

Another frown. "That's not really any of your business..."

"You're not really any of my business!"

And then Chris was laughing, and Anthony was fuming. "You should maybe lay off the alcohol from now on, Mate. You're not the best I've seen at holding your liquor."

"Oh, like you bloody care!"

"An!"

"Just leave me alone...like usual...you..." Anthony couldn't find a word strong enough to describe what he was feeling about Chris, so he threw his phone at him. It missed, landing in a pit of sand behind the dark-skinned boy. Chris immediately went to retrieve it, and when his back was turned, Anthony raced away from the bonfire, away from the beach, and towards the streets.

He knew where he was...for a while, anyway. Eventually, the streets started to all look alike, and Anthony was finding it harder and harder to stay upright. That was when the guilt set in, and he started to realize how stupid getting drunk was as a decision.

Even in his stupor, Anthony had been well-trained by his family to look out for danger, and he knew when someone was following him. He quickened his pace when he saw the lights of the car shining upon him, but he couldn't run. He was too out of breath, and when he stopped to catch it, the car pulled up next to him. It was a car Anthony recognized: his Dad's.

Only Dad wasn't driving.

"Get in," Sherlock ordered briskly, and Anthony's feet were sore, so he complied.

"How'd you find me?" he asked, not bothering to put on a seat belt.

"You're walking to Baker Street." His Uncle looked unimpressed.

It seemed that Anthony's reflexes had kept him safe.

Sherlock was quiet, but looked over occasionally to peer at the boy. Worry spread throughout Anthony's veins. "You can't tell my Dad." Sherlock laughed. At him? "He already knows, doesn't he?"

"You think he would have just let me take his car?" Sherlock shook his head. "The Donovan boy called the house. He was quite concerned about you."

"Bullocks."

"Language, Anthony."

"Oh, sod off! You're not my Dad! No matter how much you wanted to be..."

Days later, it occurred to Anthony that he didn't know why Sherlock hadn't pulled the car over and blown a fuse screaming at him. He would have deserved it. Instead, though, Sherlock simply sighed:

"You have made a multitude of bad decisions tonight, young man." 'Young man,' Anthony repeated in his mind, but then he looked at his Uncle – oh wait, his Godfather – and saw the disappointment in the aging man's eyes, which were levelled solemnly on the road ahead of him.

As they pulled up in front of the house, Anthony was starting to feel a little more grounded. Perhaps it was only because he'd been sitting down for some time, but he didn't feel quite so inebriated anymore. He apologized to Sherlock. "I'm really sorry, Uncle. I know I was stupid."

"Indeed, you were." Sherlock sighed, again. "You're young, entitled to make mistakes, but you must still face up to them. Out you go," he ordered the teenager, unlocking the car doors.

There was nothing Anthony wanted less than to go inside his house and face the music, but he did. His Dad was there, muscles clenched, with a few very select words on his tongue to greet Anthony with. It seemed to take days, but finally no one was yelling at Anthony anymore.

"Can I go to bed now?" he asked, feeling like a child. His head was still scrambled, and he felt as though he might fall over.

"Yeah, you go to your room," his Dad agreed. "And you'll stay there until school starts, and then that'll be the only place you get to escape to for another month!"

"You're grounding me?" It wasn't fair: he'd never been grounded before. As if his parents even knew how to keep him at home.

"It's for your own good," Mum was saying. Anthony looked to Sherlock, who had been silently observing the one sided battle. He had a look on his face that Anthony couldn't quite understand...like he was remembering something. Had Sherlock ever come home drunk? Did he know how Anthony felt? Obviously he knew better than Mum and Dad. As if they ever had any fun, as if they could possibly understand what he was going through.

"It's not fair!" Anthony cried. "This is stupid."

"Says the boy who decided to drink underage," his father chided.

"Oh yeah," Anthony sneered, "Like you're one to talk. Drinking with kidney problems – and you're supposed to be a doctor! You're just looking to get yourself killed for real this time!"

"Anthony William-" His mother was already scolding, but Dad stopped her.

"No, Mary..." he looked so tired. "I'm in no state to discuss this right now. I'm off to bed." He left, and Anthony couldn't help feeling guilty.

"I'll take it from here," Mum said in place of a 'Goodnight' and it didn't take long before she had finished her lecture. "Go to bed," she ordered Anthony, who complied more than willingly. As he left the room, he could hear his Uncle's voice:

"He didn't mean it...he's not in his right mind."

"I know...I don't know what got into him."

The next morning, Anthony woke to a wall of sound. Screeching? Someone was dying, that much was sure, and if it wasn't him, it was a thousand thundering cats.

He stumbled down the stairs, leaning heavily against the banister to keep from tumbling to his own tragic end. Memories of the night before played out in his head, and he tried to place words and faces as he pieced his night together. As he turned the corner into the living room, he found his parents sitting on the couch while Sherlock played on his violin.

"What are you doing?" Anthony mumbled.

"What does it look like he's doing?" Mary told him, obviously.

"What time is it?"

Sherlock – blissfully – stopped playing. "It must be half-past seven, wouldn't you imagine?" He answered, smirking.

Anthony knew their game. It was obvious – painfully obvious, really. But, with the previous night's fuzziness finally clearing, Anthony realized that he deserved to be played. "I'm...sorry. For the things I...I think I said."

The adults were quiet, each waiting for another to answer. It was Sherlock who finally broke. "Quite all right. Just don't do it again." A weight was lifted from Anthony's shoulders. No, he wouldn't do it again, the feeling in his head was more than enough reason not to. But then, Sherlock lowered his bow onto strings and started playing once more, and Anthony's eyes seered. He ran back up the stairs to see if he could numb the sound with his pillow. He could hear his parents laughing at him all the way there.