AN: Hey dudes! Ahm back again.

So I have no prompts left, but this chapter is for my poor daddy who, as he seems to be allergic to life, has been told to go on an exclusion diet. He can basically eat lamb, turkey, rice, grapes, courgette and sweet potato. It. Sucks. So this is probably going to be horrendously boring for you, but any well wishes to my father would be greatly appreciated, since it will possibly stop him moaning, and will give you a tutorial on how to drink expensive Whisky, or Whisky in general.

Thanks to all those who reviewed on the last chapter, and well done to A-level students who got their results today, and good luck to GCSE students who get them next week.

Lily

I stumbled clumsily up the stairs and threw the door open as loudly as I could.

Unluckily, no one was there to hear it, Sherlock apparently being out and Mrs Hudson being deaf. So, my grand entrance impeded by the lack of an audience, I wandered to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for my emergency bottle of Famous Grouse. Unfortunately, my fingers closed around empty space three times and I finally had to admit defeat.

It didn't stop me swearing loudly and kicking the cupboard in frustration.

Fortunately, I did have a backup plan. I crossed as fast as I could to the bookcase and picked up a bottle I found therein. I peered bad naturedly at the label and read 'Dalmore. 1263 King Alexander III' Hmm. Must be Sherlock's. But it'd do.

I opened the ornate cardboard box, and brought out a glass bottle bearing a silver stag's head. It was about half full and a tantalising golden brown.

I had just pulled out the cork and put the tempting bottle to my lips, when I felt it snatched from my hand and the cork put firmly back in.

'I trust that you have an extremely good reason for abusing malt whisky in that way.' Said Sherlock's voice frostily.

I rubbed my face and sighed 'Please Sherlock, I really, really need to get drunk tonight.'

'I see.' The voice defrosted a little 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No. I want to abuse your malt whisky.'

He stared at me for a little while with his hands on his hips. Then he sighed and opened his arms.

'Come here then.' He said.

When I was safely settled in his lap, he pulled the bottle and two glasses towards him and poured out a generous measure.

'Right, first thing to do,' he said, picking up his glass 'Is to warm it.'

'Warm it?' I said in confusion. 'I normally put ice in.'

I shrank under his ferocious stare 'You are extremely lucky I am so very attracted you, or I would evict you from your comfortable perch there.'

'What's wrong with ice?'

'It makes the whisky go cloudy.' He snorted 'Unless you're an American of course. This whisky is un chill filtered, the ice will destroy the long esters and therefore part of the smell and the taste.'

He has this incredible way of making me feel about four inches tall 'Oh.' I muttered.

'You warm it to release the flavours and smells. It creates a chemical reaction that...'

'Less science, more drinking Sherlock.' I said, holding my glass in a shaking hand.

'Right, fine. Anyway, take a sip.' I did, and I have to say he was right. From the little taste I had gotten on my lips when I tried to abuse the whisky, this whisky would have beaten my old cheap brand hands down, but now it was just incredible. I could taste barley sugar and fruits. Oak and spice assaulted my nose and it slipped down my throat without the burn that I was accustomed to with Famous Grouse.

Sherlock smiled at my face and said 'Better?'

I nodded slightly, savouring the aftertaste 'So much better.'

'Good.' He said with his standard smug grin. He got up, depositing me on the floor and retired to the kitchen. I sat there sipping my whisky, feeling slightly disappointed, I had hoped that my master class would continue, but apparently not. Just as I began to get into that pleasant stage of relaxation that strong alcohol brings, when Sherlock re-entered. 'If you thought it was good neat, try it with water.'

I smirked 'If I am not allowed ice in my whisky why are we allowed water?'

He rolled his eyes with the 'My god you are so unintelligent why on earth do I associate myself with you at all John' look.

'The water brings the smell and the taste to the forefront of the palate John.' He raised the small jug that he'd brought from the kitchen. I didn't know what I was more impressed at. The Fact that he was so very knowledgeable about Whisky or that he'd managed to find a clean jug in our bomb site of a kitchen.

I took it from him and proceeded to pour a little into the glass. He grabbed my wrist after a second. 'Only a drop John, you'll drown the flavour!'

A sip later I was a convert. All the same flavours were there, but just so much more potent now. Just so beautiful, it tasted even better on Sherlock's lips.

Three whiskies later, I was sat on the floor, leaning again Sherlock's legs, while he ran a hand through my hair over and over. I had just reached the slightly fuzzy phase of drunkenness when everything feels wonderful and you can even forget anything bad that may have happened in your day at work...

'So why did you lose your job?' Sherlock asked quietly.

Apparently, no you can't. When you live with the world's only consulting detective you begin to expect it. I sighed and passed a hand across my face.

'How?'

'When you come home from the clinic you normally have your ID either round your neck or in your pocket. It was in neither place tonight. That and I came to find you attempting to get pissed.'

'Sarah. The official reason is because of my awful timekeeping and abysmal sickness record. But she told me that she doesn't feel comfortable with me around after our relationship.'

'By that she means..?'

'I saw her naked and then dumped her for a man.'

We both sat in silence for a little while 'I'm sorry John.'

I shrugged 'Not your fault. There are other jobs.'

'Yes but...'

'It's her problem if she can't deal with being dumped to make her ex-boyfriend happy.'

Again, companionable silence. 'Thank you for giving me a whisky master class. I really appreciate being told I'm wrong when it has a good outcome.'

He smiled 'You can try being...uneducated in some other things if you like.' He said huskily.

I blushed and smiled 'Maybe later. Thank you, for the beautiful whisky.' I said, lifting the glass up.

He smiled and pushed his hand through my hair again 'Piece of cake John.'

AN: SO. Possibly the most boring thing I have ever written. Anyway, me dad says I have to tell you why the Dalmore is called 1263 King Alexander III. Essentially, it's cos Dalmore was originally owned by the Mackenzie clan and in 1263 the head of the Mackenzie clan was hunting with King Alexander III. A 'twelve pointer' or 'Royal' stag charged the king, and was killed by the head of the MacKensie clan. Since then they had the licence to put the Royal stag on their coat of arms, with compliments of the king. The symbol of the Dalmore is now the twelve pointed stag. And THAT my dear friends, is what you get when you spend your childhood touring around the highlands of Scotland going to whisky distilleries. As I sit here in my living room in Hampshire there is enough whisky in the cupboard behind me to keep me paralytic until I die. Which, if I drink all that whisky, will probably be considerably sooner than expected.

Please, please, please review and prompt me, cos then you don't have to sit through boring shit like this. It's a two way system.

By the way, there is no record of what happened to the stag. It probably ended up as dinner. Also, I meant no disrespect to the Americans, but it's true, whisky was chill-filtered so it can take ice and not go cloudy. Also, maybe Boxerbee will like this, not that I am typifying Scottish culture or anything. Stop talking Lily, please review. It stops me talking.