"No, no, no! We have to do the little spin game after we've taken the shot!" John exclaimed, his words stumbling under a heavy alcohol-paralyzed tongue.

"Holy hell. Have either of you ever done a proper stag or were you just never that borderline cool?" Damian groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in a manner that made Sherlock remember Addie and his overwhelming urge to call her and tell her how pretty she always is. Damian, knowing where the consulting detective was headed, plucked the mobile out of his shaky fingers and pocketed it in his own jeans before glancing at the rest of this motley crew. His father was swirling a glass of scotch lazily while chatting with a tipsy Greg Lestrade; his brother was staring at the elder Holmes, Mycroft, as if he were a particularly appeasing –albeit, uncomfortable- piece of meat; John Watson and Sherlock were already so plastered it was a wonder they were even functioning. The saddest part of the whole ordeal what that they had been out a grand total of forty-three minutes and the stag was already a bust. He forcefully shoved two paper cups full of strong, cheap tea into either of the inebriated men's hands and forced them to chug it down. As the faces of disgust receded, their more logical sense of self began to resurface. "Right. This is the plan. We're having a pint here and then we're moving to strip club down the way for a laugh and some chips and then we're hopping every pub on the High Street. Got that?"

"When you give out instructions like that, you sound like Addie. She's pretty. I should call and tell her that." The detective patted his pockets awkwardly, an anxious expression flashing across his face. "Oh, bloody hell. I've lost my mobile. This is bad. Mummy and Daddy will be so cross. Mickey, I lost my mobile!" He called to his brother, who, in an effort to feel borderline comfortable next to the firecracker that was Nikolai Eduardo Villalobos had shot-gunned a double whiskey.

"Oh, no. You did! Mummy and Daddy will be so cross. You're in trouble, Billy!"

"I'm surrounded by idiots," Damian muttered, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow with his left hand and John with his right and gesturing his brother and father to collect the rest of the men for their excursion to the strip club.

They managed to get them all, stumbling and giggling, into the strip club, walking through the haze of the smoke machines and clouds of perfume worn by various girls trying to make a living. "Round of chips and pints, please." Andy called to the closest waitress and doing all humanly possible not to thump Mycroft for his chanting of If the government catches word of this.

Nik patted Sherlock, a little more focused than he was before the walk over, on the back and grinned. "How about I treat you to a dance? It's your stag after all. Anyone catch your fancy?"

He watched as the detective stared around and frowned. "Addie's not here."

The younger of the Villalobos laughed. "Good on you. Sorry to burst your bubble, but my sister is not, in fact, a stripper. However, these ladies are working, they need the pay. Make someone happy and pick one."

"I'm not comfortable with—holy!" There was a sudden drop of a body onto his lap, and Sherlock, looing very much like a frightened puppy, flapped his arms around, his mouth refusing to make the sounds of protest he so wanted to make.

It took a minute for him to focus on the blue eyes leveled on his. And when he did, he regretted that he had. "Hello, sexy. Let's have dinner."

"Devil woman! Devil woman!" John exclaimed, backtracking off his chair to the point that he fell to the floor. "What is she doing here? Mycroft!"

"Don't say my name. Someone might recognize me. You're on your own." He replied, hiding behind his pint of beer and plate of chips.

"Devil woman!" John exclaimed again.

"Shhh. I know what you want, Mr. Holmes," Irene Adler whispered softly, tracing a finger down his cupid's bow and lips.

Out of his deep panic, he found his voice. "For you to get the fuck off me would be a good start!"

"Oh, you wound me. Let me repay the favor—"

"No one is repaying anything to anyone. Miss Adler, I presume." Nikolai explained, a slightly irritated edge to his voice as he dragged the unwilling dominatrix off of the terrified soul that was Sherlock Holmes. "You're just as uncharming in person as you are by description."

"And you are?" She asked, bored and picking at her red fingernails.

"Someone who has tried to keep a bad drinking crowd under control and is not in the mood to battle an old enemy of his. Most importantly, I'm someone who does not appreciate you attempting t strangle my sister with a belt. Now, scram!" Her vile, red lips twitched in amusement and she ran her fingernails down the red head's chest with a definite sexy vibe to her movements. Unamused, Nikolai grabbed the hand and plucked it off his person as if it were disgusting. "Oh, honey. I'm not buying what you're selling. And, if what my friend Mycroft was saying is true, MI5 will be here to collect you in a minute or so." The Woman stared blankly at her opponent for a minute before turning in a huff and disappearing in the mist of the club and Nik sat back down.

"Did Mycroft really call MI5?" John asked, curious.

"Mycroft is trying to hide. He's not doing anything at the moment, but it was a pretty convincing story, wasn't it?"

"Sorry to interrupt your moment of glory, but Man of The Hour just revisited his lunch. We're going back to the flat." Damian said, doing his best to keep Sherlock both supported, but far from staining his clothes.

"This is the best stag ever!" The detective yelled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

TBC