A new chapter for you! We should be done by the tim S4 airs *gasp*! Thanks to all as always, enjoy :)

V is for Vino, Vomit, Velociraptors, Voodoo

Mary was bored, she was fully on schedule for the wedding, and thoroughly sick to the back teeth of it. She needed some respite, and who better to have over than someone else who was tired of weddings: Molly Hooper. The little pathologist was constantly being asked if they'd set a date yet, with pitying eyes following the revelation that even though they'd been engaged for a long while, there was still no concrete details for them to gossip with. Molly wasn't one to complain (her work with Sherlock was evidence enough of that), but she had been particularly graphic with her description of what she'd do to the next member of her department to ask about her supposedly false engagement. Anderson's theories weren't helping her case either, he'd managed to infest everyone she knew with the notion that Tom was some sort of fake fiancé to tide her over until Sherlock came back and asked her to marry him. She was very, very, very done with wedding talk, and more than happy to acquiesce to Mary's invitation to get drunk at her's and ban talk of all things matrimonial.

John and Sherlock were away on a case, meaning the two women got the flat to themselves all evening. Molly was intending on having a couple of glasses of wine and walking home, nothing excessive, but as with the best laid plans of mice and men, this went drastically awry. Firstly, Mary had insisted on topping up her glass at every available opportunity, so she didn't know how much she'd had to drink, and then, the second costly mistake, was the appearance of the vermouth. Granted, the Martini that Mary made was wonderful, but mixed with the copious amount of vino in her system, it did not a tipsy Molly make.

They'd put the world to rights over the first bottle of wine, deciding that voodoo may be the only way to get men to understand why time off for menstruation may be a good plan, and that Mrs Hudson would certainly benefit from it. Over the second bottle, they'd made some voodoo dolls of John and Tom for them, and one of Sherlock for Mrs Hudson, the idea seeming better and better the lower the level of wine in the bottle. It was after the completion of the dolls that the vermouth and gin were wheeled out, and Jurassic Park put on the tele, as Mary had never seen the classic, and Molly was insistent that she see it.

The case finished earlier than they thought it would, with a promising 7 being relegated to a meagre 5 within an hour of Lestrade calling them to the scene. Disappointingly, it had been the butler in the greenhouse with the revolver, which led to a myriad of Cluedo references and puns from John and Greg, and a lot of eye rolling from Sherlock, with a little sulking thrown in, as neither would play that game with him anymore. The pair shared a cab to John's, as the now ravenous consulting detective needing feeding, and Mrs Hudson wasn't home to provide instant sustenance. What they weren't expecting to come home to, however, was a pair of grown women chasing each other around the living room, pretending to be velociraptors.

Molly was the first to react their arrival, bursting into laughter at the look on their faces. Mary came running to the hallway at the sound of her friend's howling, and tripped over her own feet in her hysteria, falling into Molly and knocking the two hysterical women to the floor in a drunken mess. John smiled fondly, and went to try and help his wife up from the floor, but the hasty change in orientation made her head swim, and bolt for the bathroom. Sherlock was not so lucky, Molly looked up at him from her position on the floor, squinted a little, and promptly threw up all over his shoes. He sighed, picked her up, carried her into the bathroom, where he promptly dumped her in the bath, ignoring Mary in the corner with her head down the porcelain throne, John rubbing her back.

"How are you getting home?" He asked her exasperatedly, hoping that Tom would be picking her up, but not holding out for it. She looked at him in confusion for a few seconds before declaring that she would be walking home. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her, took off his vomit covered shoes, and went back into the lounge to get Molly's phone, and text Tom. He then set about cleaning his shoes in the bathroom sink, ignoring Mary's retching and Molly's whining behind him.

"Sherlock, take her out of there, or she's going to hurt herself trying." John said to his friend, uncomfortably watching Molly slip and slide with her socks on the plastic of the bath.

"She's far safer in there than out John, especially if you value your furniture." Sherlock replied shortly, never taking his eyes off his shoes. John rolled his eyes, but elected not to leave his fiancée's side as she lost the contents of her stomach.

"No, I'm not! Let me out!" Molly pouted indignantly in the bath,

"You are not coming out of the bath." Sherlock stated, leaving what he thought was no room for argument.

"Why?" She asked, doing a very good impression of a five-year-old.

"Because you're drunk." He replied in his best patronising voice,

"I am not."

"You are."

"Not."

"It's like arguing with a child." Sherlock grumbled,

"Not." Molly sulked, proving him right.

"John keep an eye on her." He'd barely finished the sentence before leaving the room.

"You can't leave me here!" She wailed,

"Yes, I can." He mumbled to himself, shutting the door behind him. He returned shortly after with a glass of water, an empty bin, and one of Mary's old t-shirts. He handed her the items and stood expectantly next to the bath, grabbing the water back off her when she tried to tip it over her head, and putting it on the counter next to the sink, as he knew he'd need his hands when she tried to swap her currently unblemished blouse for the t-shirt.

"This isn't my pyjamas, I'm not wearing it." She threw the t-shirt on the floor, and folded her arms in defiance.

"We're not in your flat, that will have to do. Or do you want to vomit all over your favourite blouse?"

At this point, Mary had stopped throwing up, and both her and John were transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of them.

"No." Molly replied,

"Then you'll have to change," Sherlock stated more calmly than he felt; his ability to tolerate drunk Molly was wearing thin.

There was no response to this, as she was too busy throwing up into the bin. Once she had stopped he passed her the water, which she took a couple of tentative sips from, before handing it back in a rather cack-handed manner, pouring a load of water onto his feet. He swore under his breath, his fingers drumming against the glass as he tried to salvage what was left of his patience. After a minute of expectant glaring and finger drumming, Molly eventually relented and tried to swap her blouse for Mary's t-shirt, getting every limb stuck in the wrong hole in the process. Sherlock extracted the limbs with more precision than gentleness, making sure to be as awkward and prim as possible, a slight red tinge visible at the top of his ears if you looked carefully.

The doorbell rang, which broke the spell the room was under, and Mary started cackling again, saying that it was Anderson; his conspiracy senses were tingling and had lead him here. John went to answer the door, thankful that it was Tom, and Molly could be extracted from the bath tub and taken home to bed.

"Take a seat, this could take some time," He'd said to Tom, returning to the bathroom to find Mary rolling around with another fit of the giggles, and Sherlock and Molly arguing, yet again. This time it was over whether she had to go home or not, as he dragged her vertical, put his coat on her, and carried her out of the bathroom. Tom's eyes narrowed at the sight, but he kept his mouth shut, as Sherlock was looking mildly murderous. Molly was put down on the sofa next to Tom, and Sherlock returned a moment later with the bin, which she snatched off him and proceeded to cuddle like her life depended on it. Tom sighed, grunted something that resembled a thank you to Sherlock before more or less dragging Molly out of the front door and into the waiting cab.

By the time John came back out of the bathroom, Sherlock, and half the contents of his fridge, had gone.

Molly was fairly docile up until her feet touched the carpet of her flat's hallway. Then she dropped the vomit bin, bolted for the bedroom, and accosted her poor cat, who luckily managed to scarper before she could start trying to plait his fur again. Tom followed her in quietly, intending to get into bed, unfortunately for him, the moment she saw him she bolted into the lounge, where she threw up on the rug under the coffee table. It was at this point that he also noted she was not wearing shoes, and had trodden muddy, gravelly footprints all through the flat. Tom sighed heavily, this was going to be a long night.

John returned Molly's things around noon the next day, and had the door opened by a very worse for wear Tom, who invited him in for a coffee. It turned out that Molly had kept him up until 5 am, running around the flat, throwing up, crying, whining and having staring competitions with the cat.

"Now you understand why Sherlock puts me in the bath." Molly smiled, sipping on her coffee.