I woke up in an unfamiliar room with pale green walls and ceiling. My head felt like it had endured multiple blows from a sledgehammer, and my mouth and throat seemed to have grown a coat of fur. I looked around as much as possible without jarring my poor head, then carefully levered myself to a sitting position. I groaned at a sudden wave of nausea.

"John, you're up."

I turned my head carefully towards the voice. Greg Lestrade sat at a small table in front of a mug of coffee and two pieces of toast. I frowned blearily, rubbed my eyes. Have I just spent the night at the Detective Inspector's house? I pushed myself to my feet, then grabbed the arm of the sofa to steady myself.

"Oh, god," I groaned. Lestrade smiled sympathetically at me.

"Come have coffee," he offered.

He stood and poured a second mug, then placed it in front of the empty chair across the table from him. The thought of ingesting anything made my stomach churn, but there was always a chance that coffee would help the headache. I staggered to the table and sank down onto the waiting chair. I took the milk Lestrade offered, poured a bit into the coffee, and took a sip. It was good coffee, and I was relieved to find that I would be able to hold it down.

"Bit of a lightweight, aren't you?" Lestrade was smiling teasingly at me. "It was only a few beers," he added.

"Four beers," I corrected, "strong ones." Lestrade laughed aloud.

"Ex-army doctor," he said musingly. "I dunno, guess I would have expected you to be hold your liquor a bit better." I returned his smile. It did seem a little incongruous.

"Look," I said after another sip of coffee, "Last night..."

I remembered a surprising amount of the evening, considering how I was feeling the morning after. Lestrade chuckled at my opening.

"You were in a state," he said. "Reminds me of-" He stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking to my face, expression wary.

As a member of the Yard, I was sure Lestrade had escorted his share of inebriates to various places, but none of those memories would be sensitive enough to make him stop mid-sentence and glance apprehensively at me like that. No, I knew exactly what he was thinking about. I massaged my forehead with my fingertips. The memory seemed to engulf me.

I carried Sherlock out, after Irene Adler left. I'd examined him briefly, not entirely trustful of the assurances Irene had offered. His heart and breathing rates were slow, but not dangerously slow, and he didn't seem to be otherwise injured. I knelt and lifted him- he was unhealthily light, and I brought him easily with me as I stood. I'd had plenty of practice with this.

Police were arriving, apparently responding to Sherlock's unconventional summons, by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. Lestrade was there as well, presumably on Mycroft's directive. He managed to slip us away despite the best efforts of several police and paramedics who were trying to pry Sherlock from my arms. I piled Sherlock, who was half asleep and half awake and babbling, into the backseat of Lestrade's waiting car with me, and we set off, once Lestrade had had a chance to get a video of Sherlock, delirious and incoherent.

When we arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock was alert enough to insist on being allowed out of the car on his own. I got out on the opposite side and ran around the car just in the nick of time to catch my drugged friend as he stumbled out of the car and plunged face-first toward the asphalt. I hauled him to his feet, slinging one of his arms over my shoulder.

As I dragged him towards the door, I noticed that our little spectacle had drawn an audience. Anderson was standing a few feet away, mobile out, videoing Sherlock and I as we stumbled hazardously towards 221B. I felt a flash of annoyance, then brushed it away. Anderson deserved a chance to get back at Sherlock, who frequently got away with insulting the man in front of his colleagues. Even if Anderson is an irritating, self-absorbed little git.

Once we were inside, I realized I was going to have to pick Sherlock up again. He was no help at all at the moment, and there was no way I was going to lug him up seventeen stairs in this position. I entertained the thought of going back outside and getting Lestrade to help me, but I thought of Anderson and dismissed it quickly. I can do this, easy.

Reaching down, I lifted Sherlock's legs under his knees, then started up the stairs, stopping to rest against the wall at intervals. He mumbled a stream of random, half-audible nonsense as we proceeded. I carried him all the way to his room, set him down on the bed, pulled his shoes off of him and covered him with the sheet. Sherlock had stopped mumbling by now to stare at me bemusedly, as if trying to fathom what I was doing or perhaps what was going on. I laughed.

"Just go to sleep, Sherlock," I told him. "You'll be fine in the morning." He stared at me for a moment more, then obediently closed his eyes. I leaned over him to tuck the blanket around him more securely. When I straightened up, I stayed standing there for a moment, looking down at the figure on the bed. It was almost surreal, seeing Sherlock, all defenses down, lying drugged and asleep in bed.

"John." I glanced up into Lestrade's worried face, realizing suddenly that I must have been sitting there for several minutes staring blankly at my coffee. I sucked in a breath that was almost painful, as if the air was thick with tiny sharp particles.

"Sorry," I said to Lestrade, not looking up at him. He was silent for a moment, and I could only imagine what he was thinking. Three guesses says he's amazed by how screwed up I am.

"Come on," he said after a moment, "I'll give you a lift home on my way in."

When we pulled up at my flat, instead of letting the engine idle as I got out, Lestrade cut the engine and turned to face me, looking rather upset.

"John, it doesn't seem like you're doing too well," he said.

If I'd felt any better, I'd probably have snorted. You think? But I was far enough gone on that spectrum that hearing his assessment was just depressing. I stared down at my hands, feeling pitiful. Lestrade sighed.

"Look, if there's anything I can do... I really mean it. It doesn't feel right, leaving you here like this. Why don't you give me a call, when you're feeling a bit better?"

I'd been so sunk in my melancholy that I'd almost forgotten about my hangover, but now that I noticed it, it was back full force. I opened my mouth to politely avoid Lestrade's request, but he spoke again before I could.

"No, you know what, never mind, I know you're not going to call. Let's just- why don't you come over for dinner on Friday? If you're not busy." I racked my brain for an easy excuse, but I seemed to have lost my ability to improvise.

"Great. I'll pick you up here at seven. No excuses, John." Lestrade started his car again. I picked up my coat and folded it over my arm as I opened the door. "Thank you," I said before I left, "for last night." Lestrade smiled, looking almost relieved that I was still capable of basic social function.

"Any time, John, really. You have my mobile number if you need anything."

I'm lucky, I thought, as I watched him drive off. I didn't know I had such a friend there.