Chapter Twenty Three

"You can't possibly know that!" Two hours and four pints later, Sherlock had given John a detailed account of the life of the bartender, including his romantic relationships with three female and one male guest. Sherlock grinned at John, glad to be able to surprise him again.

"He must have a scar on his right ankle. It's the only reason why he is still a bartender in London and not in Rio."

John refused to believe him. He was comfortably drunk and enjoying himself. To hear Sherlock talk for so long had a calming effect on him, no matter how insane his stories sounded, and having him chat away in a pub seemed almost too normal for them, not that John was complaining.

But Sherlock seemed to realise that they should go home soon if he wanted John to be able to carry himself without causing too much embarrassment.

"Come on, time to go home."

"Hmm." John nodded, pushing himself upright. "Home."

Sherlock smiled and lead the way. Outside, Sherlock took a deep breath, which made John giggle.

"What?"

"Breathing is boring." He was dangerously close to sounding exactly like Sherlock, and Sherlock had to chuckle. "Do you always remember everything I say to throw it back at me?"

John grinned and pushed his hands into his pockets. "No, only the really silly things."

Sherlock had to laugh and playfully bumped his shoulder against John's. Grinning, they walked back towards Baker Street.

While they walked, John noticed that Sherlock kept looking at him just to turn away again as soon as John's head turned into his direction. It was very unlike him, because usually he would look properly at anything that interested him without flinching. The next time Sherlock did it, John turned his head and looked at his friend. He could see that Sherlock wanted to look away, but having preserved his self control through four pints, he didn't.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock?"

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

"A case."

"What case?"

"The case I was working on before Moriarty turned up."

John frowned. "There was another case?"

Sherlock smiled and looked away. "There's always a case, John."

"Yeah, except for when it's the case that you are bored."

"I'm not really bored that often."

John laughed out loud but refrained from commenting.

They reached the door and Sherlock unlocked it. "Do you want to come up for a cup of tea?" he asked, grinning at John.

John, unable to suppress the giddy feeling in his stomach, nodded. "I'd like that very much."

Inside, they shook the snow out of their coats, and finally Sherlock took his coat off. John managed to walk up the stairs without holding on to the rail and without tripping, but managed to spectacularly throw a cup off the kitchen counter and against the table where it shattered to pieces. However, he wasn't quite sure whether the beer was to blame or something else.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"Do you feel any effect at all?" John asked, balancing two mugs toward the coffee table.

"I do." He smiled and opened his eyes again. "It's been a while since I was drunk."

"You're not drunk. I can't even tell that you've been drinking at all." John wanted to sit down on the armchair, but Sherlock motioned for him to sit on the couch.

"Well, I'm not an obvious drunk then."

John looked at him and took his arm, checking his pulse. Strong, regular, stable, and maybe a little bit faster than it should be. He moved closer to look into his eyes and Sherlock had to smile. His pupils were dilated, but not so much as to tell him that alcohol was involved. It could have just been the weak lightening or….

John sat back, taking his tea, but moving uncoordinated he spilled some on his hand in the process. "Fuck!"

Sherlock chuckled and took the cup from his hand so he could wipe it on his jumper. "You swear a lot."

"Thanks." John felt silly. Maybe drinking this much hadn't been such a good idea, especially since he seemed pretty well drunk while Sherlock just sat there quietly, still in control. Why was he always so in control?

Sherlock handed him the cup again, making sure John held onto it and watched him drink with a barely suppressed smirk.

"How are your injuries?" He didn't know why he asked that, it just came to his mind that he should take a look again to be sure that everything was healing nicely.

Sherlock's smirk was unnerving. "I think they're fine."

"No, let me see." John insistently tugged at his shirt, too drunk to care about how it must have looked like, or drunk enough to pretend that he didn't care.

Sherlock laughed and carefully pulled up his shirt, exposing his waist. John stared for a while, unable to take his eyes off the patch of skin that he was presented with.

Fighting the urge to touch him, he pulled the shirt up higher with his right hand and used his left to carefully pull away the band aid. It had been bleeding again, probably when Sherlock had let himself fall on the couch, but overall the wound was healing nicely. "Does it hurt at all?" He looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him, now completely serious.

"No," Sherlock said, and then, seemingly having to think about his answer more carefully. "I wouldn't call it pain, really. It's uncomfortable and strange. Somewhere close to pain, but not quite. I'm just not used to it."

"Good. Okay, I'll just go and clean it again and patch you up." He yawned.

Sherlock chuckled. John wondered if he had ever experienced Sherlock in such a good mood as he was in this evening. Maybe it was his way of being drunk. "Don't you think I should do it? Just to make sure that it's done properly."

John pouted. "I'm still your doctor."

"My drunk doctor, yes."

He wanted to get up, if only to prove Sherlock wrong, but his friend pulled him back down and he ended up leaning against him, his head resting lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. He closed his eyes.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to sleep?"

John forced his eyes open and looked at him, placing his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. There was no other way to keep his head up, he thought. "The wound," he stated, and even as he said it he felt silly for even suggesting to do anything about it.

Sherlock smiled and John suddenly felt very warm and very shy at the same time, but he felt too weak to move his head. "I guess sleep sounds really good."

Sherlock moved closer and for one tiny moment, their noses touched before Sherlock gently pushed him away and against the back of the couch. John felt incredibly tired now, but the prospect of being separated from Sherlock kept him awake. His hand rested on his arm, trying to hold him back as he stood up.

"I'll just be a second." His voice was low, almost gentle. John could hear him move to the kitchen to get the first aid box and after a bit of fumbling around, he returned.

"Do you want to stay down here?"

John opened his eyes, frowning. With a sudden flash he remembered falling asleep on the couch, exhausted and confused because Sherlock had gone and he hadn't known what to do with himself. God, he was so glad that all of this was over now.

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll get you a blanket."

"No, I'm fine. Just … stay with me."

Sherlock smiled and sat down again, but realised that it would be difficult for John to sleep if he was just sitting there, so he took off his shoes and did the same with John's and leaned back towards the end of the couch, pulling John with him. This way, they could both pull up their legs on the couch and John was resting comfortably against Sherlock's chest. He wrapped one arm around him protectively and John held onto his arm as he moved to accommodate to his new position.

John was too tired by now to even think about what was happening, and he felt too comfortable and warm to think that anything they did was strange at all. He inhaled deeply, pressing Sherlock's arm close to his chest and drifted off.

you guys are the best! your reviews make me a very happy and giggly writer.

Oh, and for those fearing that after chapter 25 it's all over...I've kind of written a sequel to this story,..sooo...stay tuned :p

xxx