A/N The thing is that he'd never have any reason to have alcohol, so when he did, he'd be so hilariously in over his head.

Thanks to johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, 666BloodyHell666, total-animal-lover, and NinjaGirlRebecca

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXVIII. Drink

"You really ought to stop soon," John suggests a bit nervously, eyeing the tall glass of beer sitting on the bar in front of Sherlock. It's filled practically to the brim with dark amber liquid, condensation running down its sides and pale foam fluffing up around its edges. "That stuff's pretty strong, you know, three glasses is plenty…"

Sherlock presses his lips tightly together, shakes his head and reaches out to wrap his shaking fingers around the glass. John watches silently as he throws back another long swallow, his throat moving with the action, then slams it down violently enough for the beer to slosh up around the edges.

Lestrade, sitting on Sherlock's other side, raises an incredulous eyebrow, his mouth open slightly as the detective draws a sleeve roughly over his mouth. "And here I thought that we wouldn't be able to get a single drop of alcohol in him…"

"You weren't the only one," John agrees. Sherlock stares vaguely at nothing as though oblivious to their banter, his pupils alarmingly dilated and his shoulders heaving. "Hey, mate, you alright there?"

His mouth stutters for several seconds as if struggling to form words, then he finally manages to work up his voice, which comes out rough and alarmingly low. "John," he gasps, then raises a hand, claps it firmly down on the blonde doctor's shoulder. "You… you have done… so much for me, did you… know that?"

"Right, we're heading home." John hops off his bar stool, taking Sherlock by the elbow and shoulder and guiding the heavy-breathing detective into a similar action. "Thanks for the drink, Greg, but I don't think we're going to try this again anytime soon."

Lestrade gives an alarmed-looking nod as Sherlock sags, practically panting as he leans heavily on John. "There you are, now," John mutters, helping him into a somewhat straight posture. "God, have you ever had a drink before?"

"Problysometime," he mumbles, the words slurred into a single mess of syllables as he takes a staggering step forward. "Back when I was… younger…"

"Right, I doubt it. Listen, we're gonna get a cab and just go home, alright? You'll probably be out of it by the time we get back, but at least try to be able to walk up to your bedroom, got it? And I should probably warn you that you're going to have one hell of a headache in the morning."

"Don't get headaches... 'cept for when people are… idiots…"

"Oh, you will this time," John assures him grimly, and adjusts his grip around Sherlock's waist, practically limping him out of the bar and trying to ignore the frowns and odd glances shot in his direction. "And I'll be surprised if Anderson doesn't hear about this one, to be honest. So, be ready for a rather humiliating couple of days."

Sherlock just groans.