A/N: Not sure what prompted this idea. I was on lunch at work, calmly eating a sandwich when I suddenly straightened up like a meerkat and furiously wrote this out … oh, how the mind works!

Chapter 03: Sherlock and frying pans do not go together, even outside of cooking practicalities, and John returns home one night to an unexpected surprise … Rating amended to T to be safe due to minor alcohol usage.

Sherlock © ACD and BBC

Out of the Frying Pan

John Watson was not drunk.

He was chipper, content and decisively merry, but he was not drunk. Being drunk was for … well, drunk people.

He stepped out into the cool London-night air, away from the raucous cries of the men in all their pub-soaked-glory, and allowed the breeze to rouse him from his 'merry' state. Lestrade fell into place beside him, eyes shining; cheeks and nose flushed red beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps.

"You're drunk," John stated.

"Yup," Lestrade agreed happily, nudging John's shoulder with his own. "So are you."

John shook his head. "No … I'm merry."

Lestrade snorted. "Sure." He squinted at his watch and turned back to the pub entrance. His bellow of, "Time, gentleman; time!" earned him a mixture of protests and shouts of agreements from his colleagues [1]. Lestrade's drunken-voice rang surprisingly clear as he called an end to his birthday celebration and announced he was going home. Lestrade smiled at John; the expression quickly wiped when a single voice rang out into the street.

"Lightweight!"

Lestrade spun around, glaring at the many faces hovering by the door and pressed up against the pub windows. "Who said that?"

"Aww, c'mon sir, just one more pint," another voice shouted. There were so many people staring at them that John couldn't pinpoint any single baritone.

Lestrade caved. "Doctor?" he said, turning to John.

John politely declined the offer. He had already envisioned making for home and was looking forward to the prospect of climbing into bed. And perhaps coffee … yes, coffee sounded good.

"How are you getting home?" asked Lestrade, ignoring the wolf-whistles his colleagues were now throwing his way to get his attention.

John thought about it for a moment. "Taxi," he proclaimed finally. "I'll get a taxi." A taxi was a good idea. He couldn't walk in this … merry state.

Lestrade laughed. "John, you're drunk." He waved his hand as John opened his mouth to argue the remark. "I'll hail you a cab."

Lestrade's concept of 'hailing a cab' turned out to be stepping directly into the road and thrusting out his warrant card like a determined lolly-pop lady to the nearest approaching vehicle, which fortunately for John was a cab. The car screeched to a halt, the driver's head appeared out of the rolled-down window and he immediately declared he 'hadn't dun' nuttin'!'

"I suspect you have 'done something', but I'm too sozzled to care," Lestrade called back. "See to it that you get my friend safely home," he added, opening the car door and unceremoniously bundling John inside. The Inspector gave John's address to the stunned driver before grasping John's hand in a firm handshake. "Thank you for coming, John."

"Thanks for the invite," replied John, mildly curious as to how he had gotten into a taxi so quickly. "I'm sorry I couldn't persuade Sherlock to come."

Lestrade brushed the apology off casually. "He's a miserable git anyway. I'm not even sure why I asked him along … moment of weakness, I suppose. I knew he wouldn't come."

John had to agree with him there. Any attempts at persuading Sherlock to join him, even to merely wish Lestrade a happy fiftieth [2], had failed; the detective had flat-out refused. "I have no desire to socialise and drink myself into a stupor," was his final say on the matter. John had taken all of this in his stride, called Sherlock an unsociable idiot and left him to his devices.

Lestrade released the doctor's hand and bade him goodnight. He shut the door and lifted his hand in a farewell gesture to John as the taxi pulled away from the kerb.

~o~

Overall, it had been an extremely enjoyable night.

John found that Lestrade, when in a relaxed, care-free environment (rightly so, as it was his birthday), proved to be a brilliant people-person. Despite the fact that John hardly knew his colleagues – only remembering a few names and appearances from past cases he had assisted Sherlock with – the Inspector ensured he was never left standing in a pub corner or sat alone at a table looking into his pint glass.

Yes, it had been a terrific night, and John relayed this information happily to the taxi driver as he pulled up outside 221B.

He stepped – or more, stumbled – out of the cab, unnecessarily tipping the grateful cabbie far more than the adequate amount and announcing cheerfully as he handed the money through the passenger window that he was not drunk.

The driver smiled at him in what John saw through a happy-not-drunk-haze as understanding. "Tell me that when you're sober, mate," he said, bidding John farewell before the window rolled up and the car drove off, along with John's tip. John waved until the rear lights were mere dots in the distance. He continued waving … then it dawned on him he was no longer waving at car brake lights, but stationary traffic lights.

The doctor smiled, overly pleased with himself (he didn't know why … it didn't matter why), and turned to the front door of 221B.

He fumbled to get his key out of his coat pocket, fumbled some more to get it in the door and, when his attempts to open it failed, realised he was standing outside 219. He shrugged and moved over a door.

The brass-plated number revealed 217.

John frowned, spun in a little circle to make sure he had the right street and retraced his steps until he was finally outside 221B. He gave a whispered, "Ha!" of triumph, got the key in the lock first time (as to be expected of one not drunk) and opened the door with a flourish.

He stepped over the threshold, resisted the urge to fling out his arms and declare, "Honey, I'm home!", and padded up the darkened stairwell. His movements were ninja-stealthy so as not to wake … what's-his-face … the Unsociable Idiot he lived with. The living room door creaked in protest as he crept inside; no declaration necessary.

John heard the sound of footsteps fast approaching. Before he could locate their source a metallic clang sounded in a far-off place and what felt like a thousand stars exploded behind his eyes.

He wasn't drunk, because a drunk would have collapsed. John hugged the floorboards instead.

~o~

When the doctor woke he was in bed … which made sense; where else was he supposed to be? His head pounded mercifully despite the cool flannel pressed to his brow and the soft pillows beneath. It took him a few moments to notice the figure standing close by.

Sherlock gazed down at him, expression as unreadable as ever.

John hated that. Had he told Sherlock he hated that? Perhaps he should.

"I hate your face," he murmured. He frowned and mentally repeated the words … they sounded a little off. No, he quickly decided, they'd do. He gestured to his own eyes so Sherlock would understand what he meant. "Yep. Your face. Hate it."

Oddly, Sherlock did understand what he meant. He smiled and said, "Very well."

"I'm not drunk," John told him.

"I think not," Sherlock replied in all seriousness. "I suspect any drunken activity has subsided to allow room for the concussion."

"Concussion?" Medical knowledge bloomed like a mental encyclopaedia in John's mind. He shook his head. "No. You only get concussion if you're struck on the … y'know – the …"

"Head, yes." The amusement was evident on Sherlock's features.

John looked at him long and hard. "You hit me on the head, didn't you?"

Sherlock's eyes lowered before answering. "Not intentionally."

"Sherlock."

"Fine, yes," the detective amended, "but I did not realise it was you." There was a touch of remorse in his tone.

"Last night?"

"Last night," Sherlock confirmed.

"What with?"

"… A frying pan."

There was a pause. Sherlock returned his gaze.

John shot up to give Sherlock his best concussed-glare; he saw double for a moment, but he managed it. "Oh, well, that's alright then. At least you didn't have a gun aimed at my head! Of all the … I trust you have a good reason for trying to cave my head in with a cooking utensil?"

Sherlock brushed off the sarcasm and picked up the flannel that had fallen across John's lap. "As I stated before, I did not intend to hit you. I received several threatening text messages yesterday evening, so had reason to believe an undertaking of revenge may be attempted – it was a trifle case, nothing of concern," he added quickly before John could question this. "The person involved is hardly one to carry out his threats; however I was conducting experiments in the kitchen late last night and I heard someone taking their time sneaking upstairs. I naturally assumed the gentleman was trying his luck, so I grabbed the nearest implement that could knock my potential opponent unconscious." He gave John the briefest of apologetic glances. "In my defence, you informed me you were staying out after your merry escapades, so I did not consider the possibility it was you."

John scoffed. "I did not."

In response Sherlock took his mobile from his shirt pocket and held it out so John could see the text message displayed in sharp clarity on the screen.

'StaYin' at Lestar, u unsocibubble eediot; bk 2moz … I'm knot drunk – J.'

Sherlock's eyes glinted mischievously at John's dismayed expression. "I am curious as to where you were planning on staying at Lestrade's."

John sunk back against the pillows and smiled through his defeat. "I was drunk," he conceded.

Sherlock chuckled and returned the flannel to John's forehead. "I know."

~o~

End

~o~

A/N II:

[1] A policeman calling 'time' in a pub can signify closing, hence the objections; however in this case Lestrade is referring to wanting to bring his birthday night to a close. :-)

[2] Oddly enough, Rupert Graves – who plays Lestrade in the series – turned fifty in June this year … I took a stab in the dark at his age and then looked it up (happy coincidence).