Someone should stop me.
…
Sherlock realized that he might be hung over. Perhaps it was the pounding in his head that alerted him to the fact, perhaps it was the way the weak sunlight filtering through the window seemed far, far, far too bright.
Or it could be the fact that he was laying half on, half off the couch, with a ripped shirt and one of his socks missing.
John chose that moment to open the door much too loudly, causing the consulting detective to wince as he checked his flatmate for anything that might give a clue as to what might have happened the previous evening.
John had bloodshot eyes, a torn collar, three new bruises on his forearm and, by the looks of it, and even worse hangover than he did.
As he was passed the new sheet that had appeared in their letterbox that morning, Sherlock stopped deducing.
Sometimes, you just don't want to know.
John and Sherlock's Rules for ANY sort of police function/party/after-work drinking group
Especially the NSY Christmas Party
I'm not even going to ask about what was going through your heads, or for the finer details of last night's…events. Just observe this new set of guidelines and we will never speak of this again.
-Experimental chemical compounds shouldn't be added to already-spiked punch. We've had to put out a publication ban to preserve what's left of New Scotland Yard's dignity…and don't you two dare say ANYTHING.
-Sherlock, I don't care whether or not you blew up your wardrobe in some sort of experiment that will prove invaluable in a later case, you will wear PROPERLY FITTING clothes to all NSY gatherings. Those pants were INDECENTLY tight, and I am taking no responsibility for any and all comments, stares, and insinuations.
-Anderson will recover. Eventually. However, if you two poison him again, I will team up with Mycroft and make you both go undercover the next time we need to do a sting at a couple's therapy retreat. And no, this isn't a threat. It's a promise.
-You are both forbidden from ever getting anywhere near mistletoe ever again. I don't want to know whether or not you snogged, but it appears that the majority of the females on the force are all for shoving you into a broom closet with a hidden camera to "work through your feelings"
-Yes, a hidden camera. Ours are a strange lot. And apparently there might be a fanclub.
-John is not allowed to hijack the sound system to play "proper decent music". I dislike techno-pop as much as the next sane non-club-hopper, but the DJ is going to need therapy after a man half his size and a good fifty pounds lighter knocked him out with his own earphones.
-And, for the love of all things holy, stop flirting with the techies! Both of you! I don't care that John can be just as charming as Sherlock can fake when he feels like it, I don't care that they can give you access to files, cameras, and restricted gadgets, they're all very delicate and if you break their hearts we'll be dealing with computer viruses for weeks!
I don't even know why I bother…
…
Sherlock raised an expressive eyebrow. So…
"A fanclub?"
John looked a bit worried. "I'm not setting foot in NSY headquarters without an armed guard. Or several."
Sherlock considers the statement before twisting into a more comfortable position on the couch. "Given how it takes to procure such security, you've plenty of time to make some tea."
"We're out of milk."
"Go to the shop, then."
"SHERLOCK!"
…
A combination of writer's block for this fic and excessive ideas for other ones is to blame for the slow update. Feel free to wear your goggles, but I haven't the courage to write slash just yet. However, the fanclub idea has been plot-bunny-ing in my head, and I'm wondering if anyone might like to see a fic revolving around that.
Anyhoo, I hope this gave you a few giggles on an otherwise dull Tuesday evening. Leave a review on the way out and I might be tempted to update a bit faster!