Many thanks to all who are following this, apologies in the delay to updating, I've had a lot of statistical thermodynamics to do. Love to all, enjoy!
D is for Drunk
Molly, Greg and John had popped to the pub after a particularly arduous day babysitting the most annoying man in London. There had been a double homicide, cold case re-opened after another body had turned up in the same condition as the previous two. Sherlock had almost exploded; he hadn't had a decent 8 for a while. He'd run John ragged, apparently it had been necessary to avoid all forms of transport that day, for reasons never divulged. There had been several trips to Bart's, including an hour's straight quizzing for Molly over bodies that had been sent for cremation nearly twenty years ago. Molly had also been unfortunate, in that her shift started at 6 am. Sherlock hadn't left the morgue until 9 pm that evening. She was thoroughly exhausted too, and feeling guilty as Tom was going to take her out for dinner that evening. She'd had to cancel on him at short notice again- something that was becoming more frequent of late. Molly decided that she would have to have words with the detective, and when that didn't work John and Greg would.
"Where is that utter bastard anyway?" Asked Greg, downing the rest of his pint.
"Probably passed out in Baker Street, having eaten his body weight in chips. If he hadn't come home by now, Mrs Hudson would have rang," John shook his head at his former flat mate's behaviour, it was self-destructive at the best of times but post case it swung drastically in the opposite direction.
"I was supposed to have dinner with my fiancé tonight. Is it too much to ask to have one evening not disrupted, one normal evening a week?" Molly cried into her wine glass; an entire bottle on an empty stomach may not have been the wisest move. John patted her on the shoulder,
"Come on Molls, let's get you home. Mike's already swapped your shift for the 6pm one tomorrow." He said softly, helping Molly to her feet.
"You want us to catch you a cab?" Greg asked, Molly shook her head,
"It's ok guys, I can get home. Thanks see you tomorrow most likely," Molly waved giggling softly to herself. John and Greg waved back, walking in the opposite direction, shaking hands as they parted at the end of the road.
"Will she be alright?" Greg asked quietly, as if Molly was still close enough to hear.
"I'd put money on Sherlock's homeless network making sure she is," John said, more confident than he felt. They said their goodbyes and made their respective ways home.
Molly didn't want to get a cab; she knew she probably should, but she hoped walking back in the crisp night air would help clear her head a little. This wasn't her first Sherlock induced wine fest, and most certainly wouldn't be her last. She absent-mindedly tripped over a small hole in the pavement, landing awkwardly on her wrist. Molly swore under her breath and got back to her feet, it had been a while since she'd diagnosed a live body, but it was likely just a sprain. If it was worse in the morning she could pop upstairs before her shift. Besides, she was only about 5 minutes from home now, and the combined journey and wait tonight would be horrid.
"You really ought to watch where you're going," A low voice scolded from behind her,
"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" Molly exclaimed he was the last person she was expecting to see.
"I was informed you were inebriated and walking home, thought I'd check up on you. Your fiancé not see fit to escort you home safe?" Sherlock said coldly, looking down at her,
"Leave Tom out of this Sherlock. It's your fault I'm in this predicament anyway." She scowled up at him, the fact that Tom was asleep in bed had nothing to do with this, then again it's not like he would have been much use in a sticky situation anyway.
"Let me see your wrist." He ignored her, holding out his hand expectantly,
"It's fine, just a sprain." She deliberately took a step back from him, and when he took a step forward to forcibly take a look, she took another step back and poked her tongue out at him.
"I will take you to John's house. He can decide that." Sherlock sighed, the things he did to get access to the morgue.
Naturally, John did not appreciate the wakeup call. He'd not long been in bed and the house was quite cold with the heating off for the night. He had confirmed it to be a mild sprain that needed to be supported for a couple of days, and promptly kicked them out.
Sherlock bundled Molly into a cab and took her home, he was in a generally good mood anyway having solved the case earlier, but was also aware that a severely hung-over Molly would be of no use to him tomorrow, and he had an experiment with hair that he wanted to start.
It certainly had nothing to do with the cross-dressing case; it wasn't like John had laid out very specific terms upon which he would don ladies clothing. One of which was that Sherlock should start looking after his friends better; another that he should buy his own milk.
He deposited her on the sofa and pushed her bedroom door ajar lightly. Tom was sprawled out across the bed, and out of the count. There was no way he'd get Molly in the bed without moving Tom- and although he wouldn't wake him up, Sherlock was not overly keen on the idea of touching the drooling male adult.
He walked over to the sofa and poked Molly in the shoulder, upon no acknowledgment of the poke he checked she was breathing. Fully satisfied that she was merely passed out drunk and not likely to be of harm to herself, he went off in search of things she might need. He fished around in the cupboards and found some paracetamol, aspirin, and caffeine concoction. Sherlock placed the tablets and some water on the bedside table. He looked down at the small woman curled up on the sofa; she probably shouldn't be sleeping in her clothes. Something John shaped was nagging at the back of his mind with regard to social protocol in this situation. He perched on the end of the bed and fired off a text to John:
[is it appropriate to change Molly into pyjamas? SH]
[Go to sleep] John had set up an automated response to any text sent by Sherlock between the hours of midnight and 7 am. For the most part, they had failed miserably to convince the detective to leave him alone when he was trying to fulfil normal human functions.
[Should I strap her wrist? SH]
[Go to sleep] It didn't help matters that Sherlock had managed to permanently disable the silent function on John's phone.
[John, answer me or I will ring you until you pick up SH]
[Go to sleep], [Help her change, strap wrist, SLEEP] came the less than pleased, non-automated reply from John. Sherlock frowned, help implied consciousness. Molly was not. He had no trouble fitting a wrist splint, but was not comfortable with undressing Molly when she was unconscious, even he wasn't that socially retarded, so he resolved to prod her in the head until she woke up.
"Go away," Molly slurred, trying to wriggle away from him.
"You need to get changed, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, pulling her up into a sitting position,
"No." She pouted, fighting to lie back down again and failing miserably.
"John said so," Sherlock said with the voice of sibling to sibling pseudo-parent authority.
"Don't care," Molly sulked, still trying to lie down
"I'm not a patient man Molly," Sherlock growled, Molly turned to face him,
"Fine, Mr Bossy boots" She mocked, trying to stand up and promptly falling into the coffee table. Sherlock rolled his eyes as she fought to get back on the sofa, and snuck into the bedroom to get her some nightwear.
"Put this on. I'll get a blanket." He thrust one of his shirts at her and left to get something warm to put over her, hoping she'd be changed when he got back. No such luck. He spent the next half an hour watching Molly wander around the living room, depositing clothing everywhere and trying to find Toby. Apparently there was a craze on the internet where people put bread around their cat's necks. She wanted to try it, naturally. Another twenty minutes, three slices of bread and one very aggravated cat later, Molly was snuggled up on the sofa.
"Why're you here?" She asked softly,
"John said that's what friends do," Sherlock shrugged, John had actually said he had to do it, and that it was the least he could do after all the things she'd done for him, and if he didn't do it, John would punch him in the face again, but Molly didn't need to know all that.
"Ok. Nighty night," She mumbled into the cushion, sliding into a restful slumber.
Tom awoke to the beautiful sound of retching in the bathroom. Retching while the shower was running. He stumbled out of bed and into the lounge, where he found clothing strewn everywhere- on the table, the floor, the TV, and the sofa. He recognised most of it as Molly's; with a few notable exceptions- there was only one man who wore shirts like that. Tom hung his head, he'd never taken Molly for a cheat, but the scene in front of him did not bode well. He wandered towards the bathroom, where the retching noises had now ceased, and low murmurings could be heard.
"Molly, are you ok?" Tom asked, knocking lightly on the door.
"Come in," She croaked,
"What's going on Molls?" He asked softly, pushing the door ajar, he was greeted by a freshly shaven Sherlock,
"She threw up all over me. I believe the colloquial phrase is 'chunder dragon'."
"Why?" Tom yawned, Sherlock glared at him.
"She drank an entire bottle of wine on an empty stomach. She then elected to walk home, tripped over her own feet (a paving slab!) and sprained her wrist. There's a bruise on her shoulder where she fell into the coffee table trying to get undressed, and Toby was not impressed when she tried to 'bread' him - there are scratches up her forearm - instead of eating the bread which would have made the scenario of throwing up this morning less likely. Of course none of this would have happened if you had seen fit to escort her home yourself." He snarled, swept out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Molly muttered the immortal words of the morning after the night before:
"I'm never drinking again."