"Client!" she called too loudly. Sherlock groaned in protest. John turned around to see whoever had come knocking. The room tilted unpleasantly. He was definitely drunker than he'd intended.
He'd only just spotted the short complaisant-looking girl hovering in the doorway when he realized why he'd had to turn at all. His seat. His seat was back. He patted his hands down on the arms of the chair and turned to see Mrs. Hudson smiling softly at him, her expression full of hope.
John sheepishly turned toward the client, thinking he should send her away until they were both sober. She was starting to look concerned.
"Hello," John greeted.
"Hello," Sherlock echoed from behind him. Mrs. Hudson turned and started making her way down the stairs.
"Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?" the client asked and John turned around to look at Sherlock.
"A client! Perfect!" Sherlock exclaimed, popping up from his seat and letting his computer crash to the floor at his feet. He sank back down immediately, holding his head, and John gestured to the client where she could sit while he dragged himself out of Sherlock's seat.
"Grab a kitchen chair," he suggested, moving to the sofa to face her. Sherlock followed suit, sitting down beside him. Too close to him, John thought, feeling Sherlock's hip slide against his own but he didn't comment.
'Maybe', they'd said. What the hell did that mean? Did Sherlock want him then? Was he going to wait? Wait for what? Wait before doing what?
"Splendid. Tell your…thing?" Sherlock requested, flapping a hand at her. John watched him, wondering if Sherlock knew what maybe meant.
"Oh," the woman said, clutching her small hands in her lap. She looked monstrously uncomfortable. Sherlock leaned back in his seat, brushing John's shoulder.
"I don't a lot," she started senselessly and John crossed his arms. "I mean, I don't date all that much and… he seemed nice, you know?" she picked at her nails. "We seemed to automatically connect."
Hell, John was tired. They'd been drinking for hours. Sherlock rubbed a hand down his face, evidently feeling the same thing.
"We had one night - dinner. Such interesting conversation! It was… lovely."
John smiled and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock was propped on his fist, his eyes closed, apparently unaffected by the description. They'd never be that 'lovely', and John dared say their usual topic of conversation would quite scare this woman away. But maybe…
"To be honest, I'd love to have gone further but I thought, no, this is special. Let's take it slowly, exchange numbers."
At that Sherlock seemed to liven, rearranging himself on the sofa and glancing at John as if to check that they were both still there. Sherlock had always been uncomfortable about sex, John thought, wondering about that now. 'Maybe', they'd said. What the hell did that mean?
"He said he'd get in touch and then… maybe he wasn't quite as keen as I was but I… I just thought, at least he'd call to say that we were finished," she explained, almost in tears.
After one date? Not likely, John thought, thinking Sherlock was sure to kick her out with little more explanation than how boring it all was. Sherlock looked oddly stricken by her words for a moment but the expression melted off his face unnaturally quickly. An especially clumsy attempt to look sympathetic, then. Sherlock stared at the client emotionlessly and John stopped worrying.
He woke up to Sherlock complaining predictably.
"Boring, boring, boring," Sherlock was repeating and John closed his eyes again, trusting Sherlock to get her out of the flat, when Sherlock exclaimed: "No! Not boring! Fascinating,"
John groaned softly. Must they do this tonight?
"John! John! Wake up!" Sherlock protested, holding his neck and shaking him softly. Avoiding his shoulder, even plastered drunk. John opened his eyes and tried to look awake, deeply unhappy with the idea. "Apologies about my, you know…" Sherlock started and cleared his throat.
No, Sherlock. What am I to you? John wondered vaguely, blinking at the man and wishing the client would ask.
"Rude. Rude!" Sherlock scolded him and John obediently kept his eyes open. The client didn't look happy.
"I checked with the landlord and the man who lived there died," she pronounced dramatically. John blinked, trying to catch up. Whose landlord? Which man? How did she know him? The guy she went on one date with? "Heart attack. And there we are having dinner one week on. And I found this thing online. Sort of a chat room thing, for girls who think they're dating men from the spirit world," she added, fishing a folded up piece of paper from her purse. John frowned, wondering when ghosts had entered the conversation. He leaned over to ask Sherlock but the man was already leaping to his feet like he had no alcohol in his system whatsoever.
"Don't worry. I'll find him in minutes," Sherlock promised, moving across the room like he was readying to go out. "What's your dog's name?"
Something was wrong with that. John couldn't quite remember what, but he thought he might have missed something. Some little detail…whose dog?
"Yeah, I'll be there if you want," John mumbled, unsure why he was promising to go along with his mad roommate when they'd bother be better off falling into bed.
"John, wake up!" Sherlock ordered, gripping John's neck again. It felt good. Warm, comforting. "Meant to …the game is…something," Sherlock rambled, starting away. John opened his eyes again, unsure when he'd closed them. Their client was watching them rather worriedly.
"On," he supplied.
"Yeah, that. That," Sherlock agreed and followed their client from the room. John accompanied them, hating the whole arrangement. They got into a taxi with the nervous looking woman and it wasn't until the taxi driver was honking to wake them up that John realized how much they'd just trusted her. Still, she'd brought them to a relatively nice section of the West End and John wasn't too uncomfortable about following her to meet the landlord and get shown up to their 'haunted' flat.
Once there, however, he had to admit that he was entirely out of his depths. Still drunk and definitely missing details from the case, such as why they were in this flat at all. John leaned against a support beam in the middle of the room, doing his best to look like he was paying attention. Sherlock seemed to be doing much better, checking out a round plate set vertically in the middle of the flat. Perhaps Sherlock could deduce what its purpose was, he thought, and giggled.
"Ooh, it's nice," he said, to cover up the laugh. "Nice place."
Sherlock seemed to flop onto the sofa randomly and John giggled again. The client and the landlord looked unhappy. Grumpy, maybe. They shouldn't do this in the middle of the night. It hit John then that he was incapacitated. Drunk and in public and there were two strangers here. The alcohol kept his heart beating steadily, without any fear at all, but John knew that was wrong. He should be scared. He'd be scared any different day.
"See anything?" Tessa asked. Sherlock seemed distracted. That was bad. They shouldn't distract Sherlock at his work. "Any clues, Mr. Holmes?"
John gazed around the flat, looking for intruders.
"I'm just gonna whip this out," Sherlock announced proudly and John was pleased. Perhaps they could get out of here, when Sherlock was done. He didn't like open spaces. He didn't like strangers or being alone.
"You alright?" someone asked him. A woman. John jerked and turned his head and the room spun. Not good, too drunk around this…client. What was her name?
"Yeah, he's clueing," John reassured her.
"What?" she asked and he spoke louder.
"He's clueing for looks!" he explained, almost yelling. Sherlock was on the floor with his bum in the air. Asleep, maybe. That was smart. It was the middle of the night. But then, John was alone and that was a bad idea.
"I can kill you," he told the landlord, trying not to slur. It was important the man understand that. "What does 'maybe' mean?" he asked.
"I'm calling the police," the landlord answered and John smiled. Lestrade was a good man. Then the landlord pulled Sherlock up from the floor and it wasn't good anymore. John started forward. He'd kill anyone who touched Sherlock; he remembered deciding that…sometime before. Sherlock flailed in the man's grip, shouting.
"This is a famous detective. It's Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson."
Damn it. She'd given their names. She knew them. Not a great idea to kill in front of her. John grabbed the support beam, almost falling. Too drunk for this.
"What d'you think you're doing? Don't compromise the integrity of the -"
Sherlock threw up and John hesitated, unsure if people were still fighting. It didn't look like it.
"Crime scene!" he supplied and looked at their client. He thought to high five her but then.. He didn't like touching strangers. Not anymore, not since.. But it probably wasn't good to think about all that, drunk. That wasn't the point.
The landlord was on the phone. John gestured to keep quiet with a finger over his lips and the client glared at him. Still, it sounded like a call to the police so John gestured again.
~~/~~
The police coming for them. There was something wrong about that. Something bad. Something about John. Sherlock pried himself up from the white carpet, avoiding the vomit there, and tried not to fall asleep. John arrested. Bad. Why? Shoulders? Something about cuffs and men behind…
Problem. Big problem. Sherlock fumbled in his pocket for his phone and pulled out his wallet. Wrong thing… He threw it on the floor and tried again. He called Lestrade.
"You've got Greg," Lestrade answered. Sherlock relaxed, glaring at the landlord still on the phone.
"John," Sherlock said.
"No…Greg. Is this Sherlock?" Lestrade answered senselessly.
"John arrested. Drunk," Sherlock explained, closing his eyes. Christ he was tired. "Bloody…handcuffs," he cursed and Lestrade was finally silent. Sherlock lay back down on the carpet.
"Oh..shite," Lestrade cursed. Understanding. Good, Sherlock could sleep. "Where are you? Sherlock, where are you?"
"No idea," Sherlock answered honestly and stuck his phone in the air, his face still smashed against the carpet. "Police, tell them where we are," he ordered. Someone took the phone.
"You called the police too? Why?" the client complained.
"Tell them where we are!" Sherlock shouted, trying to sound scary but his mouth got full of lint from the shag carpet and he had to spit.
"Oh, my god," someone complained. Landlord, most likely.
"Someone died here. Bad for rent," Sherlock explained and heard the client stammering out an address to Lestrade.
~~/~~
"Wakey Wakey!" someone shouted nearby. John groaned. He could feel his heartbeat in his brain. Water. He needed water. But it didn't sound even possibly worth moving his head, which would probably result in throwing up all over himself.
He shouldn't have reached for the brandy. John let out a pained groan and squinted his eyes open. He could see some familiar man - the landlord of somewhere? - standing next to Lestrade. Greg was in uniform. That was odd.
"Oh my god," he moaned, miserable. He never should have fallen asleep without water. He never should have gotten drunk at all. Lord but he was never doing it again. Not worth it. "Greg. Is that Greg?" he asked. He'd fallen asleep on a sofa. Not their sofa.
"Get up. I'm gonna put you two in a taxi. Managed to square thing with the uniforms on duty out here."
John decided not to try to understand that and focused on the 'getting up' part of the sentence. He rolled off the sofa onto his feet and felt his brain spinning. Definitely not worth it. He didn't even know what time it was.
"What a couple of lightweights! You couldn't even make it to closing time!" Greg laughed, just as John stepped in what was definitely a dried pile of vomit. At least he'd passed out with his shoes on.
"Can you whisper?" John asked, getting close to Lestrade and the inspector turned on him.
"Not really!" Greg shouted in his ear. John's headache spiked horribly but he smiled. Lestrade was no man for kid gloves and John knew he couldn't take that treatment from him. "Come on," Greg ordered, softer now, and led them out of the flat.
They got to the ground floor and Lestrade called them a taxi, explaining that he'd not yet had a drunkard hurl in his new car and he wasn't starting now. He walked away from them to talk to the landlord and left John and Sherlock sitting on the sidewalk to wait.
"Well, thanks for a … you know… an evening," John said, shoving his head between his knees.
"It was awful," Sherlock replied. John didn't argue but he wasn't sure he agreed. 'Who Am I' was amusing and… 'maybe'.. Maybe that'd look like a good moment, once he was sober enough to understand it. "That woman, Tessa," Sherlock started, holding a hand to his temple. Even Sherlock got hungover, John observed, gratified.
"What?" he prompted.
"Dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months. What a wasted opportunity," Sherlock hissed, sounding suddenly furious. John lifted his head from his knees, his heart sinking at the words though he wasn't quite sure why.
"Okay," he said simply and waited for the cab.
~~/~~
They got back to the flat and stumbled up the stairs in silence. The living room was still dark, the night outside quiet.
Oh thank god, John thought, pushing his way inside. He could probably get away with drinking a couple gallons of water and sleeping his hangover away. He pushed himself toward the bathroom, following Sherlock and his mouth began to water, preparing to hurl. Shit. He swallowed vilely, hoping his stomach kept itself under control, and pushed Sherlock forward down the hall until he could get into the bathroom.
He laid his head sideways to drink directly from the tap. It was cold against his cheek and teeth and woke him up but soothed his headache. He swallowed until he thought any more water would upset his stomach for sure, and started the horrid trek back to the scratchy bed upstairs.
~~/~~
Sherlock woke up with his head pounding. Light was filtering through the curtains in his bedroom. Morning.
Brilliant deduction.
He spun his head around, making his headache spike, but his vision tracked normally. Sober but hungover. His thinking would be affected all day. Horrible. He dragged himself to his bathroom to piss and wash his face, ignoring how his body ached. He wanted his brain to work again. John had touched him the night before, different than usual. Hesitant. John said 'maybe'. That'd seemed to make sense last night; seemed like an exciting promise. Now he had no idea what they'd meant. 'Maybe'. That could mean a hundred thousand things. More.
He pushed himself into the kitchen, determined to figure out the Tessa case. He had a distinct goal - keep John from leaving without the use of physical restraints or coercion, specifically with 'fun' - and they couldn't spend every night drinking themselves into a stupor. Even if it had worked before he'd been forced to look up parcheesi.
John came downstairs before long, holding his forehead with one hand and murmuring unintelligible complaints. He settled onto the couch and Sherlock decided the case wasn't particularly necessary. John didn't look like he was planning on moving for the rest of the day. Still, the case was a good one. And John liked to see him work.
"Why did you get up?" Sherlock asked, turning on the kettle. Tea. John liked tea. John grunted without opening his eyes. "Why is that couch better than bed?"
John groaned and licked his lips.
"No sheets," he grumbled and threw an arm over his face to block his eyes. Right. Mrs. Hudson must have packed up John's stuff, once she'd finished happily unpacking Sherlock's. The kettle whistled and Sherlock growled at it, vowing that they'd only ever buy appliances that didn't squeal. John groaned in protest at the sound and Sherlock shut off the stove and poured them both a cup. John usually took milk with his but they had none in the house so Sherlock fixed it with sugar and brought it over to the coffee table. He sat down where John had sat before. He pulled out his laptop to begin researching their client and John started to snore.
~~/~~
John woke up, feeling almost human, and saw a mug of tea waiting for him on the coffee table. Sherlock sat in his chair beside him, a beer glass with a teabag floating at the top balanced on the leather arm rest. Mrs. Hudson would never have put up with that.
"Thanks for the tea," John whispered, pushing himself up to sit and grabbing the mug. The tea was cold but he didn't care. The sweet liquid was precious.
"Anytime," Sherlock replied easily, still focused on his laptop screen. John sipped at his tea, considering that.
Perhaps it was time that they just lived, and let the rest fall out as it would.
"Drinking," he grumbled, only to hear Sherlock snoring. He turned around to see the genius propped up on his own fist, his laptop still carefully balanced on his knees, sound asleep.
John pushed himself up to fetch more water.
"Do you ever wonder why the hell we drink?" John complained, heading back from the kitchen. "Because I'll tell you, this is not bloody worth it," he mumbled, his head pounding a bit sharper from the effort.
"S lonely otherwise," Sherlock slurred into his fist. Apparently awake again. And maybe still drunk. John considered him for a moment, surprised at the sentence, and made his way back toward the man. Sherlock was snoring again.
He looked gorgeous. John ran a hand over his forehead, trying to organize his scattered thoughts. They weren't going there; he wasn't going there. They needed calm. They needed to be friends.
And he needed to get something to eat. Surely there'd be nothing in the house, with Sherlock living here alone. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson would be home. It was… some day of the week? He couldn't remember if it was a weekend or not. How many days had it been since he'd been fired? Not many. Two, probably? John shook his head at the insanity that was life with Sherlock Holmes and started down the stairs toward Mrs. Hudson's flat. His rent was probably due, sometime soon. He'd have to go back to the bedsit.
Never again.
He ignored the problem for now and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, deciding that if he was going to actively ignore all of his problems in a drunken stupor, he might as well give up trying to look like a competent adult about it.
Mrs. Hudson answered and ushered him in with her usual excited hospitality, speaking softly for the sake of his light headache and pushing him into a seat in her kitchen. She had a little breakfast nook set up at the back of the room, much more civilized than their collection of dirty laboratory equipment no one bothered to clean.
Mrs. Hudson puttered about the room, toasting breakfast breads and cooking sausage and making a seltser water 'to help with his head'. He took it gratefully.
"How are you feeling?" she asked finally, cracking an egg into a pan and John sipped at his drink, trying to decide if he'd answer honestly or just talk about his hangover.
"Mmm," he stalled, when he had to say something.
"It's just like old times, having you here," she said and John set down his glass, deciding there wasn't much in his life that she didn't somehow already know. "Thought I'd make your favorite, to celebrate," she said, putting down a full breakfast plate in front of him. John hummed, remembering the many mornings Sherlock and he had given her breakfast orders, like living in a diner.
Mrs. Hudson sank down in the seat across from him, smiling warmly at him. John smiled back awkwardly, unsure if they'd ever been in a room alone together before.
"So are you? Back then?" she asked as he cut into his first link of sausage. John looked up to meet her eyes and quickly took a bite of his food. A cowardly way out but it served its purpose. Mrs. Hudson eyed him knowingly and John swallowed and cleared his throat.
"I don't know," he answered and she nodded.
"Well, you see, I'm just asking because it's not kind to get his hopes up, if you're set in your mind to leave again," she explained and John pushed his plate away, his appetite extinguished.
"He's hopeful, then?" he asked and Mrs. Hudson's lips twisted, like that didn't merit answering. John cleared his throat again. "Yes, well, I am. Hopeful," he said and she smiled softly.
"Well then, no pressure, dear. You give yourself time. If you know what you want, it'll pan out in the end," she promised. She must have read something in his face for she leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. "Even if all you want is to figure out what it is you're hoping for. Give it time, dearie," she cooed. John swallowed, not sure he was reassured.
"I'm not gay," he said, like it was programmed into him to say and Mrs. Hudson smiled softly.
"You are sometimes," she answered and winked. "And you know, if you've found the right one, the person that you click with, it's the best thing in the world," she professed and John leaned back in his seat, uncomfortable with the feelings washing through him. The feeling of something tragic to lose being lost. Slipping away from them.
"What about you?" he asked, to change the subject. He didn't want to think about Sherlock, sleeping upstairs.
"Me?" she asked, sounding scandalized.
"Did you think you'd found the right one when you married Mr. Hudson?" he clarified, suddenly wondering if Mrs. Hudson was also 'gay sometimes'. Mrs. Hudson crinkled her nose.
"No!" she exclaimed, sounding almost happy at the confession. "It was just a whirlwind thing for us. I knew it wouldn't work but I just got sort of swept along. And then we moved to Florida. We had a fantastic time but of course, I didn't know what he was up to. The drugs." She whispered the last word, like it would shock him.
"Drugs?" John asked too loudly and winced at his own noise.
"He was running, um.. Oh, God, what do you call it? Um..a cartel. And got in with a really bad crowd," she explained and John supported his aching head with his fingers, enjoying the story. Mrs. Hudson's past; how had he never asked before?
"Right," he said, like it was all normal so far.
"And then I found out about all the other women. I didn't have a clue. So, when he was actually arrested for blowing someone's head off, it was quite a relief to be honest," she said.
"Right," John answered, like he'd heard a dozen such stories before. That had to be a solid indicator of a mistaken relationship, he thought; when murder and arrest was a relief. No matter how betrayed he'd been by Sherlock and how badly he'd wanted the man to suffer its consequences, he'd never really wanted to be separate from the man, not until it was his own hate he'd had to escape. But he was far too hungover to decide if that meant Sherlock and he had something better together than Mrs. Hudson had had, or something far worse.
"It was purely physical between me and Frank. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. And um, there was one night.." She started and John held up a finger. He definitely didn't want to hear the rest of that story.
"Oh, is that Sherlock?" he lied, pretending to listen for the stairs.
"Is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, sounding confused. Then John actually did hear footsteps upstairs and he pushed himself out of his chair. "Oh, John?" Mrs. Hudson called and he turned around, looking guiltily at his untouched plate. "I do hope you and Sherlock get back together. No one makes him laugh like you can, no one at all," she said. John nodded slowly, propping a hand against his sore back.
"Me either," he admitted and she smiled warmly, like that answered everything. John turned around and made his way upstairs.
~~/~~