Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.
Warnings:The Llama has arrived. Heavy mentions of alcohol. I don't endorse this kind of behavior. I don't mind the occasional drink, but alcohol DOES kill brain cells. And you don't grow those back. So instead, drink responsibly so you have the ability to read these words by the time you get to seventy.
John awoke from dozing on the couch when a door slammed downstairs. There was a mighty raucous up the stairs to the second floor, and then the scrapping of keys at the flat's door. Quickly he stood, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece as he scrubbed his face.
It was nearly three in the morning.
He'd been out like a light for close to four hours. Whomever was at the door was clearly successful at getting the key in the slot for it shuddered open under the weight of unsteady feet. John himself strode swiftly to the doorway to catch the wood before it slammed into the wall, again. Ms. Hudson was already on them about the nicks and holes in the walls.
Without really registering it, Watson suddenly found himself arms-full of Holmes, who was pissed as all hell could be.
"Oh god, Sherlock-"
"J-John, I've found the most fantastical way to combine the harshness of whiskey with the smoothness of cider!" Sherlock drawled hotly into his flatmates jawbone, even totally smashed his cultured voice was as smooth as ever.
While not one too concerned with PDA between friends, the man rarely ever gave his best mate this much attention. Not that John could really appreciate it at the moment given the circumstances. 'Twas rather awkward holding up the taller man by the pits of his delicately long arms. Said limbs were twining about his shoulders sloppily, creating a vice-like grip starkly contrasting the dead weight of the rest of the youthful aristocrat. Even with a continued appreciation for exercise, the height difference between the two of them was far too great for John to manage.
Stumbling, the doctor adjusted his grip and fumbled backwards, rotating their trajectory to sprawl them about the sette. Of course, Watson miscalculated slightly and still managed to be arms full of Holmes, only this time incapacitated beneath the man sprawled over his chest and lap.
Sherlock, in his abysmally drunk state, didn't really notice the inconvenience and had proceeded to continue his loud garbling about the mixology of certain fruit ciders, particularly of the hearty apple variety. When John had stumbled over the coffee table, he merely gurgled up with laughter, finding the whole lot of it hilarious apparently.
"Sherlock, mate, you're absolutely smashed! What the bloody hell have you been drinking? You said so yourself you have a high tolerance for alcohol, so what gives?" John nearly shouted, trying, fruitlessly, to adjust his position to an upright one where he could better navigate the situation at hand. No such luck. Even with how thin the younger man was, dead weight was dead weight, and Sherlock didn't see it fit to hold his own at the moment.
"Four shots of tequila. Three shots of straight whiskey, that ruddy gold kind you go on about. Two Blue Moons, and a spritz of something girly this gentleman bought me. A Bloody Mary, with extra paste. One glass of chardonnay, again by some random person, though I think a lady this time. Couldn't tell in the lighting, you know. Moved on to the Jack Daniel's, then the bourbon... oh god the bourbon. I don't remember how much of the bourbon," -the consultant had the audacity to begin nuzzlingJohn's neck at this point- "I think I changed bars then, can't be sure, then on to the ciders and hard ales. This lovely chap at the bar tossed up the cocktail I told you about, the one with the sour apple and the cider. The shot of whiskey in that is purely Indian! They make it with grain and molasses. Sort of a rum more than a whiskey, but still ever so biting. It was glorious," Sherlock managed to list it all as if talking about the seasons or some other such trifle thing.
With each new liquor John had a harder time of it keeping a calm demeanor. The man drank his weight in booze! If he wasn't dead already, Watson would have assumed the man before him was going to get alcohol poisoning or die choking on his own vomit in his sleep. He had to get him into the bathroom as soon as possible. John would punch him in the stomach if he had to to induce vomiting. He already knew there wasn't any way to get the fool to a hospital this late at night without a right fuss. Sherlock would never go through with it and he'd never forgive John if he forced him (as if one could force a Holmesto do anything). So, since stomach pumping was out of the options, induced vomiting it was then.
"Get the bloody hell off me, Sherlock! You stink to high heaven, and you are not going to bed filled with this much alcohol. To the bathroom with you, you right fool!"
"Yes, dear, just as soon as the room stops spinning about," his flatmate groaned into his shoulder.
John was getting really tired of being a pillow. He was getting even more tired of being the pillow to his flatmate. And, even more, he was getting tired of being a pillow to the man he was at this point unhealthily attracted to, even if he was piss ass drunk off his rocker.
AN: So I'm terribly sorry for the late update. It's pretty short, but it's better than nothing. And I'll make up for lost time by posting another right tomorrow.
READ AND REVIEW~! I LOVE YOU ALL. : O