"Who am I?" Sherlock asked. John stared at him, remembering how he'd once thought that he'd never know if Sherlock truly went barmy.
"Sherlock?" he guessed, still trying to understand the question.
"No. 'Who am I' the game. Do you really go around asking people for your own identity?" Sherlock growled. John shrugged, trying not to blush. "Do you know how to play?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah, we did that in Uni," John replied and Sherlock nodded and sat forward on the couch.
"Excellent. How do you play?" he asked. John shook his head at him, dumbfounded.
"You just suggested it!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, and?" Sherlock drawled. John sighed, giving up, and leaned back in his chair to grab a pen from Sherlock's desk.
"Got some sticky notes?" he asked and Sherlock stood up. Too quickly, apparently, for the man threw out his arms for balance and wavered for a moment, looking like he was trying to choose between falling over and throwing up on the floor. He steadied finally and started across the room toward the bookcase. John got up to get some heavier spirits from the kitchen. If they were going to get good and wasted, he wasn't drinking his way through an entire case of beer. He found the bottles safe in their cabinet, and grabbed an open bottle of brandy. They were both too drunk to bother with glasses. "Okay, write down a name you know. Someone real or fictional, doesn't matter, but don't show it to me," he instructed, working his way back. The floor was a little unsteady beneath his eyes, his vision not quite keeping up with the motions of his head. Drunk, but not hammered yet. Sherlock seemed much worse off. John hesitated with the bottle, heading back, and decided to keep it to himself. Even if he did look like a tosser drinking straight from the bottle on his own.
Sherlock held up the card, safely settled back on the couch, and John sat back in his chair. The coffee table had been shoved aside and his chair moved closer. John glanced at Sherlock suspiciously but didn't want to ask. He didn't know what he'd do with the answer.
"Okay, now stick it to my face," John ordered, leaning forward. The room spun a bit with the motion. Okay, perhaps he was more drunk than he'd thought. It was a pleasant feeling, spinning around in his brain, and he wasn't going to fight it. Sherlock sputtered at him, laughing, but John didn't move.
"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked finally, holding up the sticky note on one finger, and John nodded.
"Yes, Sherlock, stick it to my face," he ordered like they were halfway through a gunfight and Sherlock obeyed. John laughed, sitting back. It was a good feeling, seeing Sherlock obey so quickly. "Give me your face," John ordered next and Sherlock obeyed. John laughed to himself, remembering their misunderstanding, and wrote "Sherlock Holmes" on Sherlock's sticky note. He leaned back, proud of his cleverness, and grabbed his bottle of brandy.
"Alright. Now. We only answer questions with 'yes or no', and we ask questions about our character, trying to guess who it is. You get unlimited questions, but when you get a 'no' in response, it's my turn. Whoever guesses their character first, wins," John explained. There, that was concise enough. He wasn't that drunk. Sherlock nodded heavily and leaned back in his chair.
"So it's got to be someone you know. That narrows it down considerably," Sherlock replied and John glared.
"Not as much as it does for you. When was the last time you bothered learning someone's name?" John asked. Sherlock hummed, apparently thinking.
"Sally Donovan," he replied, taking another sip of his drink. John felt his eyebrows rise, surprised. "Or am I supposed to answer 'no'?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the card on John's face, and John shook his head.
"No, sorry, right. Game begins. Am I fictional?" John started. Sherlock squinted at his card, as if trying to remember what it said.
"…No," he answered finally, not sounding quite sure himself. John wondered if that was a clue or if Sherlock really was that drunk off of four beers. The man was skinny as a twig.
"Right, your turn," John replied, gesturing widely and Sherlock nodded heavily.
"Am I fictional?" he asked and John smiled, liking his choice of character.
"No, you're not," he answered and Sherlock scowled.
"This is a terrible way to discover a mystery identity," he growled and John shook his head.
"Don't care," he replied, drinking from his brandy again. He was starting to think he'd underestimated how many beers he'd had before he'd gotten out the bottle. His whole brain felt like it was pushing through a pile of warm squish to get any thoughts out. Definitely drunk. But pleasantly so. He'd go with it. He sipped at his drink again. "Drink more, you'll enjoy the game more," he offered. Likely terrible advice but for once Sherlock listened to him. Sherlock took the brandy from him and gulped it down, his eyes twinkling with the intended insult.
John laughed too loudly and cleared his throat. Sherlock handed the brandy back and sat back on the couch, apparently deciding to wait until it kicked in.
"Am I a vegetable?" John asked, peering at Sherlock.
"You or the…" Sherlock joked, gesturing vaguely at his face. John snorted, finding that unusually funny for the man and Sherlock laughed along.
"Funny," John complimented and Sherlock smiled to himself.
"Thank you," he replied, oddly softly. Sounding almost touched. John paused, wondering for a moment if Sherlock was going to be a soft-hearted drunk. One of those that always took the excuse to share too much. He certainly hoped so.
"Come on," John asked, getting back to the game and Sherlock shook his head.
"No, you're not a vegetable," he replied.
"It's your go." John sat back in his seat, starting to feel a little frustrated. Perhaps Sherlock had been right about this game. Then again, perhaps he'd been right that it just required more alcohol. John grabbed his bottle and took a sip, only to sputter at the taste. Beer didn't mix with brandy at all. He put the beer bottle down further away and glanced at Sherlock.
"Uh…" Sherlock mumbled, turning his head in circles, apparently experimenting with what it did to his vision.
"Am I human?" he asked. John nodded slowly, remembering too much.
"You go. I'm busy."
"Alone is what protects me."
"I didn't know you loved me!"
"Sometimes," John answered seriously. Sherlock shook his head and awkwardly tried to push himself to a straighter position on the coucher.
"Can't have sometimes. Has to be, um…"
"Yes, you're human," John cut in, doing his best to return to the game.
"Yes, I know. And am I a man?" Sherlock pressed. John leaned back in his chair, resting his heavy head on the squishy back. Sherlock succeeded in sitting up and watched him steadily.
"Yep," he answered easily.
"Tall?"
John threw out his hands a bit to widely, clinking against the brandy bottle, but it was too heavy to tip.
"Not as tall as people think," he answered. Sherlock hummed in thought.
"Nice?" he asked and it was John's turn to hum.
"It is relevant because it renders your obvious revelation of attraction towards me inconsequential. You are leaving, ergo it does not matter what state your penis is in when I touch your hair. And because you are wondering, yes, I will still aid in your recovery."
"Ish," John answered.
"Clever?" Sherlock asked and John smiled. Of course Sherlock asked that, to narrow the population down.
"I'd say so," John replied and Sherlock nodded, tilting his head as he thought.
"You would," he said and John couldn't tell if the tone was insulting or not.
"Am I important," he asked next and John winced.
I would have rather died by your side than be so thoroughly left behind.
"To some people," he answered as casually as he could. Sherlock nodded, his head bobbing like a dashboard figurine.
"Do 'people' like me?" Sherlock asked. John pushed his drink away from himself. He'd definitely had enough.
"Er, no, they don't. You tend to rub them up the wrong way," he answered.
"Okay," Sherlock accepted easily and John snorted, pleased with the game.
"Am I the current King of England?" Sherlock asked seriously.
"We.." John started, before he fully processed the sentence and he had to laugh. "You know we don't have a king."
Sherlock stared at him, apparently interested.
"Don't we?" he asked and John shook his head.
"Your go," Sherlock replied, sitting back, apparently unembarrassed. John envied that. Sherlock was so confident about what he did and didn't know, as long as only John was mocking him for it. He couldn't handle anyone else's censure but apparently he was perfectly comfortable with John's. John smiled, enjoying the thought. He tried to push himself up from his seat, thinking he was risking slowly sinking out of it, and got to the edge of his cushion. The world wavered badly and John threw out a hand to catch himself as his butt bonelessly tipped off of the seat, threatening to deposit him on the floor. He got himself back up on the seat, thinking he'd definitely drunk too much, only to realize he'd caught himself with a hand on Sherlock's knee and it was still there, warm against Sherlock's leg. He looked up to see Sherlock still looking at his hand and he pulled himself away, lifting his hands as if in surrender.
"I don't mind," Sherlock reassured him quietly. John glanced up, wishing he was sober enough to take that one in. Sherlock met his eyes, something sad smoldering there.
"You stopped wanting me," Sherlock said, blinking owlishly, and shook his head. "You don't want me," he clarified. John glanced down at his penis in his trousers, half hard despite all the brandy running through it. "Relationship," Sherlock clarified again. John swallowed. That was true. Sober that was true. Probably. He sat back. Sherlock watched him thoughtfully.
"Maybe," John said, holding up his hands again, and Sherlock nodded slowly.
"Maybe," he agreed. John swallowed, wondering where they were going to go with that. Nowhere, from the sound of it, nowhere yet. But what did that mean for right now when they were sitting on the couch staring at each other?
"Am I a woman?" John asked. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he looked almost offended and John jerked a finger up at the sticky note on his own forehead. Sherlock chuckled, though what at John couldn't determine.
"What?" John demanded and Sherlock smiled.
"Yes," he replied, simply, returning to the game.
"Am I… pretty?" John asked, propping his head up on his fist. "This," he said, trying to flutter his eyelashes. Probably not a good move for a drunk man, he thought, and laughed. Sherlock looked horrendously uncomfortable. John started to wonder if either of them were talking about the characters on their faces anymore.
"Err.. Er, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role-models," Sherlock dodged rapidly.
"Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?" John pressed, amused. Sherlock squinted at his sticky note.
"I don't know who you are. I don't know who you're supposed to be," he admitted finally.
"You picked the name!" John exclaimed and Sherlock waved a hand at some undeterminable part of the room.
"Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers," he explained. John slumped in his seat, giving up.
"You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you Sherlock?" he asked. They didn't really need the game anymore anyway. Sherlock rolled his eyes in his sockets like he was trying to read off of his own forehead. John relaxed in his chair, letting his socked feet brush up against the couch. His heart was beating excitedly but that was common for him when he got drunk.
"So I am human, I'm not as tall as people think I am. I'm nice-ish, clever, important to some people, but I tend to rub them the wrong way," Sherlock listed, slurring heavily, before his eyes lit up with delight.
"Got it," he affirmed.
Of course that last thought led him to the answer, John thought, amused.
"I'm you, arn't I?" Sherlock asked, laughing happily. John stared at the man and shook his head, his brain warming happily in its slow thoughts. Human, nice-ish, important to some people, some other…things, clever. Sherlock thought he was clever. John smiled. Or thought he thought he was clever, but John quickly decided to ignore that.
"Mmm..no," John replied warmly and Sherlock's eyebrows lifted in surprise.
"No?" he repeated and leaned back in his seat. "Oh, so I am me, like I thought," he said, looking quite pleased with himself. John scoffed out a laugh, unsure what to say, trying to go over the conversation to see if he'd said something rude. Of course Sherlock had seen right through it.
"You're very clever," John complimented and Sherlock smirked and pointed to his sticky note.
"So you've said," he replied, smirking, and John pulled the note from his own face. He was 'Madonna' apparently. To be fair, he couldn't remember what Madonna looked like these days either. He looked up to see Sherlock folding his sticky note in his hand. John ran a hand down his pants, remembering his bare mattress upstairs. He'd sleep with it unmade; he was far too sleepy to care.
Sherlock was watching him, he could feel it. He looked up but Sherlock was tossing the note, now an origami bird, across the room to land somewhere behind his desk. John watched him, noting the easy movement of his muscles beneath his shirt, even drunk.
"Well then," Sherlock said and John jerked his head up to see the man watching him now. It occurred to him that he had a rare opportunity. A chance to see Sherlock unguarded. But then… it didn't seem right to abuse that, to get answers to questions Sherlock would keep private, if sober.
"Yes," John said and pushed himself up from his chair. "To bed," he said, just as Sherlock asked 'What the hell is Parcheesy?'
They blinked at each other for a moment, John trying to push his sluggish brain to make sense of that, and Sherlock struggled up to his feet.
"No, you're right. Certainly," he said and John nodded and pushed himself toward the steps. They could throw out the left-over pizza in the morning.
A knock at the door sounded too loud in his ears. John moaned and sat back down in his seat, not bothering to get the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it for herself.
~~/~~