A/N: Not sure where this came from, but I do have a sister coming over, so there's that, I suppose. Anything else is just coincidental. Not sure if there's more to this plot or not. Best if I don't start making promises. -csf
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'Never have I ever... skinny dipped,' Greg starts, taking a measured sip of his drink. He watches John raise his eyes to the ceiling in a masterful conjuring of innocence, and Sherlock just shrugs–
'Inconsequential,' he mutters. They both sip their drinks in unison, admitting to it. Lestrade wonders if he could have phrased his question differently, missing a golden opportunity.
Anyway, it's but a lazy evening at 221B, and even the prodigious child Sherlock has joined in, dubiously attracted by the nibbles and the pints, more likely sensing the potential to know more about John; and how John still manages to keep whatever parts of his past secret from Sherlock, Greg can't figure out.
'Never have I ever killed someone,' John says.
'Including duty?' Greg asks.
'Dead is dead,' Sherlock shrugs.
They all take a sip of their drinks. They all had their bad days, down to duty or in extreme circumstances. John is clearly expediting the game to its forlorn conclusion, trying to get them drunk.
Sherlock keeps his glass raised between dainty fingers for his turn, studying the dissolved carbon dioxide bubbles escaping.
'Never have I ever been married,' the detective adds.
John and Greg groan. Figures the genius would be so good at exploring the normal humanity present in others but not himself.
They shrug after a shared glance and down their drinks. Sherlock refills their glasses.
'Never ever have I taken an interest in gay sex,' the inspector ups the stakes.
John looks suddenly very much like a poker player, thinking through carefully his next move, while Sherlock squints at Greg in utter disbelief; well, that backfired quickly for the inspector.
Shifty eyes and not quite facing each other, somehow they all take a gulp of their drinks, and mutter their excuses:
"It was for a case" ... "Army barracks" ... "We're all grown ups here"
John is possibly the first to recover, and tries to salvage the game. 'Never have I ever got shot.'
'Still trying to get us drunk?' Lestrade chuckles. They all drink up dutifully. John refills all their glasses.
Sherlock's eyes are lit up. He singsongs: 'Never have I ever had a regular desk job.'
'Lucky you!' the inspector mutters, as both he and the doctor drink up.
It doesn't take long before Lestrade is eyeing John carefully. 'Never have I ever performed a surgery on someone.'
John gulps and drinks his drink. Sherlock waits.
'Never have I ever handcuffed someone,' says John.
They all drink. John finds his head spinning. He can only wonder how bad it must be for Sherlock, who is not used to alcohol consumption.
'Never have I ever spoken Dhari.'
John gives Sherlock a dark look, and takes his poison.
'Never have I ever played the violin,' Lestrade tries to even the playing field.
To his surprise, they both admit to the violin. They notice the surprise and mutter embarrassed excuses they wouldn't consider fully sober:
'Sherlock tried to teach me.'
'Only because you asked.'
'But I'm terrible at it.'
'I don't know, you have potential.'
'Do I?'
'You made a great special effects noise, just like a door creaking, remember?'
John giggles – he positively giggles, and it's endearing to see the usually controlled man loosen up among friends.
'It's not Paganini, but oh well...'
Sherlock and Lestrade exchange an interested look between them. John is just sober enough to gulp drily.
'Never have I ever—'
Sherlock turns his head first, possibly only a second delayed, his guard down due to that uncommon pint and a half he's already had in what is most certainly an empty stomach. The other two hear it the next moment, a sharp call of:
'John, you there?'
The doctor's face immediately transforms into a study in concern. 'Harry?' He gets up, Sherlock looking fleetingly taken back by his friend's strong display of remaining coordination and motor control. Quickly John goes to the landing, unable to hide his anxiety.
'John's sister?' Greg tries to confirm with Sherlock, but the homely deductive genius just shushes him and keeps trying to listen in. 'I thought they didn't get along.'
'I said shush!'
Greg rolls his eyes and decides to play the host, getting to go greet the guest. He suddenly hesitates as he realises it's 221B, and 221B is not his flat, it just feels so homely as if it was.
Sherlock is pulling him back down by the cuff edge, and Greg is trying to make him let go off him when John re-enters the living room – slight wobble – followed by a very close lookalike.
Harry Watson is the frilly, girly version of John. Same big pleading eyes, straw coloured hair falling down straight and wrapping heart-shaped around her features. Greg hesitates, stunned by the impact of Harry's similarities to the good old army doctor. Are they twins? he wonders.
'It's never twins. At least, never homozygous twins,' Sherlock drawls, annoyingly right and ever a mind reader. 'John is a man,' Sherlock adds helpfully, 'and Harry's got boobs!'
Greg doubles up in hysterical giggles. 'You're so wasted, mate!'
John, a bit sobered up by the realisation of Harry and alcoholic beverages in the same room, starts manhandling her towards their kitchen.
'Don't mind them, they're a bit – hmm...'
'Drunk?'
'No!' tries to deny it, but he's cowardly ratted out:
'Yes! She's the expert, John!' Sherlock sniggers from the living room.
'Drop it, Sherlock!' he hisses, uncomfortable.
'No! I won't! You drop it, just drop it, John, drop it, just... what are you even holding, John?'
John scrubs his face, ticks the kettle on after a cursory inspection for any unsavoury contents, and makes Harry sit at the kitchen table in wait. He goes to the living room, hauls Sherlock off his seat, drags him in unsteady footsteps to the man's bedroom, gently lowers him to his bed, unbuttons the collar if his friend's dress shirt and unloops the belt, before removing his shoes. He slows Sherlock's steady descent sideways to his mattress, his eyes closing shut of their own accord, knees coming up to his chest like a small child. John covers him with the soft duvet and leaves the bedroom silently, bedroom door ajar in case he calls out for anything.
Here John returns to the living room and repeats the procedure, guiding Greg to the sofa, and supervises as Greg himself gets his shoes off and his wallet and keys from his pockets onto the coffee table. 'Night night, sleep tight, John,' Greg mumbles as John turns out the tall lamp light and spreads a warm blanket over the inspector. Greg is snoring before John starts turning away.
The doctor walks less than steadily back into the kitchen, a bright pool of light where Harry awaits him, just as the kettle boils the water for tea.
'Haven't lost your touch, Johnny,' Harry comments. Her brother lets the remark hang silently between them.
'What is it, Harry? You wouldn't have come if it wasn't important.'
'Johnny, leave the tea. Please come take a seat.'
The doctor seems not to hear her, he sure doesn't stop putting feverish tea together. Biscuits too. His countenance is grave like a man on a mission.
'Tell me, Harry.' There's a steel edge to his tone now. 'Are we safe here tonight? Did you get yourself into another mess?'
She bites her lip, lowers her gaze, plays with the frayed ends of her split hem.
Abruptly John stops tea making and drops heavily on the nearest kitchen chair. He rubs bleary eyes.
'Right, I'll keep the first watch then,' he says, conversationally.
His sister indulges in a tentative smile. 'Like I said, things haven't changed much, Johnny. Just like when we were kids, huh?'
John turns his head and stares straight through her. 'Of course nothing changes, I'm still your brother.'
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maybe TBC
