Thanks to TheJesusFreak777 (I still need to reply to you… My organising skills are pitiful) and The souless ones.
I have never got drunk. In fact, the only alcohol I have ever consumed is champagne at Christmas, for the last few years. Blame Fanfiction for my knowledge of how drunk people function.
"It's a three-pipe problem." - Sherlock Holmes The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes [He says this so much I've had to put the name of the compilation I have on my Kindle.]
A Little Drunken Activity (Or "Mrs Hudson Falls Down The Stairs And Lestrade's Brain Gets Broken")
Mulled Wine, it transpired (whether both should be capitalised or no), was a lot more alcoholic than anyone had realised.
Mrs Hudson kept dissolving into giggles, and Molly was a little… A little looser than she normally was. Lestrade had stuck to his beer, and being a bipolar alcoholic (on when his ex-wife refused to have contact with him/at Christmas), he was a lot less affected than anyone else. But it was John who had suffered the most significant change.
Sherlock knew John Hamish Watson as a quiet, sometimes relaxed introvert. Mixed with alcohol, it made a monster.
"And you sheeee…" John slurred, his hand gesturing feebly to what might have been the laptop, the still abandoned handbag, the skull, the mantelpiece, or in fact the wall in it's entirety. The last was a little likely, knowing John's infuriating ability to miss tiny details. "Then Shheeerrrloockk…"
This wasn't remotely funny, and Sherlock pulled a face as everyone that was drunk began to giggle/becoming fully hysterical in the guise of Lestrade. Mycroft rolled his eyes, and for once shared a brotherly glare of desperate annoyance at the drunken group.
"CHRISTMAS MUSIC!" Mrs Hudson bellowed suddenly, before letting out a loud burp and giggling. "Come on Sherlock dearie, we need to play some Christmas music…"
She stood up, and made to go down the stairs. However. Her drunkenness must have affected her balance and sense of direction, as Sherlock heard a shriek, then a pull of fabric, and then several ominous thumps.
Everyone was shocked into silence. John tried to stand up, but as Sherlock had noted earlier, he was drunk. So he just flopped back down again. Lestrade was half-asleep, but Mycroft looked to be already on the phone, calling 999.
"Well." Sherlock said, after a few shocked moments of silence. "I always thought that alcohol had a less-than-pleasant affect on us. Now there is some more evidence to back that up. THE AMBULANCE IS COMING MRS HUDSON!" He yelled.
"…Good." A quiet voice came, from the foot of the stairs. "I think I've busted my hip again."
If Lestrade had to give his (rather drunken) opinion, then the day was splendid. Especially as he found himself giving Mycroft many unashamed winks once everyone else was attending to Mrs Hudson or drunkenly chatting to the hospital staff.
And it was satisfying to see the normally cool and collected Mycroft blush, if only for a second. Lestrade's mind had been tinted by being around Sherlock so much, and, naturally, carrying on a 'relationship' with said detective's older brother.
He laughed loudly, ignoring the disapproving glares of the nurses and doctors. Sherlock was so very gay too; he looked at John like Lestrade wished Mycroft would look at him like when they were 'in company' (that was how Mycroft put it).
Christmas cheer…
Lestrade raised an imaginary glass to Sherlock, who was now applying another nicotine patch to his arm. Mulled Wine was good, strong stuff. Not strong enough for an old drunkard like him, but strong nevertheless.
He'd have to get Sherlock to try a little. The Consulting Detective confronted with Morrison's Extra-Strong Mulled Wine…
His mind was going in circles. Lestrade laughed loudly again, and shook his head as Mycroft glared at him.
Old git.
Git being the loose term, as Sherlock would say. Or Mycroft himself.
Oh, Christmas would be fun this year…