Niles was quite sure the doctor was knackered. Even the familiar turns of Baker Street seemed alien to him, the slurs of his voice promising that the metal numbers on their apartment door were warping and blurring into the navy blue paint and that the streetlamps were full of angry bees.
"Are you - are you quite sure this is the place?"Niles supported the doctor beneath his good shoulder, fumbling with the keys to the apartment as he opened the door. The doctor had had approximately six glasses of gin, two mixed drinks, and five beers. Niles had slowly sipped at about half of that over the course of the evening. He had no intention of being without his wits that night. John Watson had a nice tolerance for a such a little man - Niles had the military to thank for that, he supposed - but even he could hardly stand under the influence of so much alcohol.
"Yes, Doctor, of course it is. See? Right key and everything. Up you get then!"
He heaved him up the stairs, the doctor's weight becoming more and more cumbersome the higher they went. For a small man, he could be surprisingly heavy.
"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, you blessed woman, we're home!"
"Shh, it's nearly three in the morning. Let's not wake the dear lady, hm?"
"Oh, oh shhhhh…" said the very inebriated John Watson, a finger pushing his lip up to touch the bottom of his nose before his shushing devolved into a giggle. Niles shook his head and carried him up and to the living room of 221B. There the doctor tugged away from him, collapsing into his big puffy armchair.
"God - that was too much… just, too much gin. When did we get a dog?" he said, chuckling uncontrollably as he looked at some of the boxes that still littered the living room. Niles followed his stared to the skull sitting atop one of them, a small smile on his lips. The doctor certainly was amusing in this state.
"Dr. Watson, that's a skull. Not even a dog skull - "
"Oh hush, Sherlock, I know. It's a friend of yours, you said! I thought that was so queer."
Niles's attention snapped back to the doctor, a look of concern on his features. He stepped to the doctor's chair and knelt in front of it. Sherlock, he had said. Niles had figured from the looks, from the mumblings and sighing that the some of the things he did and said - wore, perhaps, even - struck a cord with John, but he hadn't guessed to what extent. It was silly, most likely just a drunken mistake, but it was surprising all the same.
"Dr. Watson?"
John moved suddenly, his hands reaching out and grabbing him on either side of the face, squishing his cheeks in, bringing him close. Their noses touched. Niles could smell the gin, the beer, the desperation on him.
"I've always - you know - always - "
"Doctor - John. John? It's me, Niles. Moved in a week or two ago. See? Funny green hair?" He tugged at a strand of it and watched John's face, which had lowered almost to his chest. He was quiet for some time, and Niles almost thought he'd fallen asleep. But then -
"I know," he whispered.
The sadness in that sentence brought a frown to the young surgeon's face, and he lifted a hand to the doctor's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Niles was used to having to do this, lend a hand to the weary, the teary, the forlorn. He face fell into its familiar contours: the worried frown, the raised eyebrows, the soft eyes. "John…" his voice was soft, soothing, practiced.
"I know."
The doctor buried his face in his hands, his chest beginning to heave - Niles recognized the motion. When he spoke his voice quivered the slightest bit, his shoulders shook just enough - the man was trying not to sob. Niles licked his lips, but didn't speak. What was he supposed to do with this?
"I just… God, I miss him," John said into his hands. "I miss his stupid curly hair and the stupid way he turned his collar up to look cool, and his stupid bloody cheekbones - " the doctor's voice hitched in the midst of his frantic gesturing. "I miss his stupid - stupidity! God, he was terrible - right awful with people. Didn't know how in the world to deal with presents properly." John paused, sighed deeply, sniffled violently. "But he was bloody brilliant. Sheer genius. He could - he could look at your clothes and the way you walked and tell you everything from what you did twenty years ago to what you ate for breakfast that morning on the train!"
A flag went up in the back of Niles' head. The doctor was still ranting, but he couldn't listen now. Tell you everything? he thought. He couldn't help but be intrigued. What would the great Sherlock Holmes have said about him? He'd heard of him, of course. Heard of him and dear John Watson, trusty companion and friend. Heard of their deep ties to the Yard, hints of their connections to the government. Heard that the media and the police stayed away from Baker Street as a general rule, now that they'd grown tired of pestering the poor inhabitants for stories and, now that Sherlock was gone, help. In the wake of Sherlock Holmes Baker Street had become something of a haven, a loophole, a perfect place for people who wanted their comings and goings to stay out of the public eye. People like him. He hadn't ever seen the man in action, but the idea of him sent a pleasant tingle down Niles' spine. Genius like that should never go unappreciated. But the doctor's rant had dissolved into quiet, shuddering gasps - carefully controlled sobs. His attention snapped back to the present.
"John, come on. Let's get you to bed. You need some rest." He moved without asking, slipping an arm under the doctor's and lending him the support of his frame. John stood and moved with him obediently. Niles would have given anything to take a look in the detective's bedroom. All the notes, the records of his brilliance - the man would have been an interesting course of study. But the young surgeon had figured John would never let another soul see the place, and offering the bedroom switch was what cemented his stay in Baker Street in the first place. No, he'd have to settle for a quick glance now, after he put the good doctor to bed.
He was quiet as they moved towards John's bedroom, only stopping when Niles reached for the doorknob. John pulled away from him again, reaching for it himself.
"I've got it from here, I think."
"John, you couldn't make it up the stairs on your own."
The door creaked as John leaned on it, breathing deeply, trying to keep himself steady. Niles watched him like a hawk, saw the gears turning in what was left coherent of his brain. He was about to be disappointed.
"Sorry - it's just - " John looked at the door, at his feet. Niles gave his shoulder a pat.
"It's alright. I understand."
John only nodded, leaned the door open and slipped in, shutting it behind him. Niles could hear the sound of him shuffling around, bumping into a nightstand, then a long pause. He could almost imagine him standing over the bed, contemplating it, contemplating the room around him. The poor man must have been smitten.
"John, if you need anything, anything at all, I'll be right here, 'kay?"
He didn't answer, but Niles knew he'd heard him. He also knew he couldn't move, couldn't leave, not until he heard John hit the bed.
Which, incidentally, only took another twenty minutes. Niles loved alcohol.