"Oh, my God!" I exclaim loudly, slurring slightly, and point at Mike Stamford downing an entire bottle of whiskey, and I laugh giddly. I stare at him open-mouthed, and giggle. All the alcohol I've had makes me feel unimaginably light and fuzzy.
Mike suddenly slams the bottle on the counter of the bar, choking.
"Oh, my God," I repeat, looking at Mike with a funny expression on my face.
"I'll never recommend that to anybody," he splutters, and coughs, looking at his watch. "I've got to go home and sleep tonight off. I've had too much to drink."
"Don't drive drunk, mate. Get a cab home," the barman tells him, nodding.
"Did you hear him, Mike? Don't drive drunk ok?" I giggle and take another swig of my drink.
Mike smiles lightly and looks at me through the corner of his eye. "You're drunk," he tells me bluntly, and I burst into a fit of laughter. "Wasted," he mutters and plucks my drink out of my hand before I drop it. Then, it's as though he suddenly remembers something, and he smacks his forehead with his hand. "Carol's gonna kill me," he says, shocked.
"Wasn't she the reason we got drunk?" I slur and reach for my drink, but Mike takes it out of my reach.
"Oh, God," he moans and lays his head on the bar.
"Come on, now," I say irritably, patting him on the shoulder. "You're not married yet, are you? No! You'd need a priest, a bible, and a ring for that," I say slowly because my brain is all fuzzy, counting off my fingers. "Not that I'd know," I add and rest my head also on the bar.
We both sit there for a couple moments, hunched over on the bar, until the barman speaks. "Alright, lads, time to go. You guys are drunk," he tells us matter-of-factly.
I lift my head up and look at him through my heavy eyelids. "Drunk?" I ask stupidly and snicker.
"Come on, John. Let's go."
I feel Mike grasp my shoulders and lift me out of the stool.
"Where are we going?" I ask him.
"Home," he says simply.
"Home," I repeat and sigh.
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Mike catches a cab and pushes me into the car and slams the door behind me, then goes around the car to get in on the other side. "Baker Street," he tells the cab driver, and we take off.
Through the car ride, I stare at my hands, while contemplating whether I need to get the shopping soon or not. In the middle of me thinking about which bread I'd like, Mike phones somebody.
"He's completely wasted, Mrs. Hudson," Mike says, glancing at me. I hear some indistinct chatter. "Yeah, that'd be great. I've got to get home, so..." he trails off, listening to whomever is on the phone. "Alright, thanks." He hangs up right as we pull up to Baker Street, and I see Mrs. Hudson walking towards the slowing cab.
"Come here, John," she says cheerfully and helps me out of the cab.
"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."
"Not a problem."
I stare at my shoes, fascinated, while Mrs Hudson struggles to keep me up off of the pavement.
"Well, I'm off."
"Goodnight! Come along, John."
I giggle and stumble with Mrs. Hudson to the door. When we finally make it up the stairs to 221B, I collapse half onto the floor and half on my armchair.
"Help him, will you Sherlock?"
I hear Sherlock sigh and murmur that yes, of course, he will.
"Guess what, Sherlock?" I slur and flop around to look at him. Giggling, I repeat the question in a sing-song voice. "Guess what, Sherlock? Guess what, guess what, guess what?"
"God, you're drunk," Sherlock notes, staring at me with a faint smile playing on his lips.
"Yeah... Mike got engaged, so we went to the nearest pub to get drunk together," I tell him and grin stupidly. "Her names Carol and..." I trail off, spontaneously forgetting what I was about to say.
"That's nice."
"Yeah. Yeah, nice," I murmur, thinking.
Distantly, in the back of my mind, I know the alcohol level in my blood is extremely high, so I'm not acting like myself. And I feel as though I could say anything, do anything and maybe not remember it in the morning: Sherlock has always been the one to chase me, even though I was unsure, and he's always been the one to make the first move. He always is honest with his feelings, and he is the one who actually shows the desire to continue our romantic relationship.
Now, as he stares down at me and I stare back with a glazed look, I feel bold, and start to stand up. I stumble, because my hands shake and slip on the fabric of the armchair. But when I get up I look at Sherlock seriously.
"I don't drink. Not usually. I don't like it, actually, I don't like not feeling in control of my body. But I partly got this drunk on purpose," I tell him, and grip the chair for balance because the room around me is spinning, and I know I don't have much time left before I pass out. "Alcohol makes you do things you don't normally do, but that doesn't mean that your intentions behind your actions aren't true. So... I wanted to do this," I say quickly and step into Sherlock. I grab his face between my hands and stare at his face.
"John," Sherlock says, amused, definitely smiling now. But he wraps his arms around my waist and keeps them there. "What are you doing?"
"This," I mutter and crush my lips to his. I grab fistfuls of his hair and kiss him urgently.
Fire ignites between us, and it's hungry, oh, so hungry for more. He is everywhere; his hands on my back, crushing my body into his until we are but one, single being; our hot breath mixing and mingling, exchanging air; his hair falling into my face, tickling my eyes and nose; and his lips urging me forward, encouraging me. This feels unbearably good and my thirst for Sherlock seems like it will never be satisfied. His tongue lashes out at my bottom lip, smoothly brushing it, and I moan appreciatively; in return, I bite down, hard, on his upper lip and I taste his blood. Sherlock growls deeply and grabs my thigh with one hand, grasping it and bringing it up. Then he grabs my other leg and heaves me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, all the while kissing me.
But air is not coming to me, I can't breathe; I'm drunk and kissing doesn't help the fact that the room was already spinning, and spiraling out of control.
"Wait," I gasp and pull away to stand up and bury my face in the space between Sherlock's jaw and collarbone. "I can't breathe."
"John," Sherlock whispers breathlessly, and cradles my head to his shoulder. "How long have you felt this way, John?"
I laugh humorlessly, a slight hysterical tone to it, seeing as I am still properly, and completely drunk. "A while."
He laughs too, giddily and breathlessly. "You wonderful, man, you." He kisses me quickly on the lips and leads me down to my bedroom, allowing me to lean on him.
"Sherlock."
"What?"
"I like you. A lot."
He looks down at me and smiles, a pure and shining happiness radiant in his face. "I would hope so, considering we've had sex more than several times." He winks at my sudden flush but then cradles my face in one hand, bending down to stare deeply and passionately into my eyes. "I know."
