anonymous requested mythea, warstan & sherlolly- Women of the Stars, so enjoy this T rated drunk!lock comedy.

"They're angels," John proclaimed, drunkenly (and repeatedly) stabbing his finger on the bar for emphasis. "All of 'em. Angels."

"Thas' a clicky," Sherlock scoffed, equally drunkenly. "Yer a writerer, Jawn, use 'at 'magination yer s'posed to have. Psssht. Angels. Jus' a clicky, s'all that is. Ammirite, Mykey?"

Mycroft, who was sitting up very straight and proper and trying to look not at all as pissed as he actually was, turned his head very slowly to face his brother. "Cliché," he pronounced carefully, nothing but disdain in his voice. "Not clicky, Sherl. Cliché."

"Psssht," Sherlock said again, waving a dismissive hand in the air and narrowly missing his brother's nose. "Clicky, clishey, wha'ever. Not angels, though." His eyes grew misty. "They're more like…star ladeez. Wimmin o' the shtarz, ammirite?"

Mycroft gave that statement due consideration. John contributed nothing further, having slumped down facefirst on the bar and begun snoring loudly. "Yes," Mycroft said finally. "Women of the stars."

"Huh?" Sherlock asked, having forgotten the conversation entirely in the minute or so it had taken Mycroft to deliberate. John started awake and made an incomprehensible series of noises meant to indicate that no, he hadn't actually been sleeping and was fully awake and aware of everything going on around him.

"Women. Of. The. Stars," Mycroft repeated slowly. "That's who we married us three. Incandesecent creatures of light and beauty unmatched by any other women or beings in exishtence."

"Ah ha!" John exclaimed, causing both Holmes brothers to startle and nearly lose their seating. "I knew it! You're sozzled, Mycroft Holmes! You…you…slurred!"

Mycroft looked affronted. "Did not!"

"Did too!" John replied, poking him belligerantly in the chest.

Sherlock leaned so far back to avoid being poked by mistake that he fell of his barstool - or would have done if it wasn't for Greg Lestrade's quick reflexes. He hauled Holmes the younger back upright. "So you three enjoying yourselves, then?" he asked amiably. Too amiably; Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yesh," John replied, this time pointing his finger at his own chest. "I yam. An' so are they. Mycroft," he added, leaning forward confidentially, "is sloshed."

Greg grinned. "Is he really? Now I really am sorry I had to work late tonight!"

"Our wives are incandescent angels of light from another world," Mycroft said grandly as he rested one arm on the polished mahogany of the bar, not slurring a single word.

The effect was utterly ruined as he then toppled sideways, eyes still wide open but as glazed as an American donut, and fell unconscious to the floor.

Greg sighed and opened his mobile. "Hi, Anthea? Yeah, the lightweights are ready for you three to pick them up and take them home now. No, John and Sherlock are still conscious…barely." He grinned unrepentantly as the other two glowered at him. "So. How long will it take you three incandescent angels of light from another world to materialize at the bar and take your drunk-off-their-arses home, then?"

By the time he hung up, Sherlock had joined his brother on the floor and John Watson was once again face-planted on the bar, one hand still curled protectively around his glass of scotch. Greg signaled the bartender. "I'll have one of those," he said, indicating John's glass. "And don't worry - their wives are on their way to pick this sorry lot up. But until then…" He held his mobile out. "Everybody smile for the camera!"

Sally Donovan helped him make a lovely collage out of the pictures he took that night…and it took Sherlock three whole days to notice it before he ripped it off the bulletin board in the squad room.