Drunk // Sheriarty AU one shot

drunk

Sherlock Holmes flops down onto the hard stool by the bar; with one leg being shorter than the rest he nearly falls off the damn thing. Typical. Holmes doesn't go to bars much, in fact he doubts that he ever has, but today he couldn't think of anything else to do.

His brother's funeral was today. It was a small service, with few people surrounding the grave with black umbrellas in their hands to protect them from the rain. Molly stuck by him the whole time, gripping onto his arm, anchoring him to reality. He didn't want to be there. But John and Molly forced him to be.

No-one really knew him, not like Sherlock did anyway. He never did find his goldfish as Sherlock used to tease him about. And the funeral showed that - only five people were there, not excluding the sermon, and it just about broke his heart, because he knew that his brother deserved better than this. He saved the country on multiple occasions, and yet it was Sherlock's friends who showed up.

Because Mycroft didn't have any.

So after the funeral Sherlock wanted to get so drunk he couldn't remember anything. He wanted his mind to stop racing and he wanted to be alone. John offered to come along, but Sherlock refused. Watson reluctantly let him go, hoping his friend would be okay.

The bar was nothing special. It was an average bar with the regulars watching the football on the tv screen, and the drunken teenagers who have just come of age off to the side. It was the first place he came across, and the details didn't matter to him. He just wanted a place that served alcohol and lots of it.

"What would you like?" The barmaid asks, cleaning a glass with a white cloth.

"Whatever's strongest."

Sherlock pulls his black tie from its knot, and hangs it loosely around his neck. He was in denial. He knows he was in denial, but he couldn't wrap his head around how this could've happened to his brother. Mycroft of all people dying inexplicably. It just made no sense to Sherlock. It would've made Holmes feel better if his brother was murdered, or something happened to him that he could investigate so that he could feel like he was doing something. But natural causes, what could he do about that?

The barmaid places a glass of a smokey brown liquid in front of him, and Sherlock downs it in one. It stings the lining of his throat, and he strains himself to keep from choking, but a hint of satisfaction bubbles in his chest as he knows that it won't take long until he's a drunken mess. Exactly how he wants to be.

It's around an hour later, after however many glasses of whatever Sherlock has gulped down his throat that the door to the bar opens once more. Sherlock is nearly passed out on the bar, the shouts and cheers from the football fans being the only thing keeping him conscious. Footsteps sound from behind him, and in his hazy state he can make out a figure pulling out the stool next to him. The figure calls the barmaid over and orders a drink.

"Sherlock. Sherlock." Holmes swears he can hear his name being called, but everything sounds like he's under water. His surroundings swim around him, and it takes all of his strength to lift himself from the bar to finally come face to face with the figure sitting next to him.

It turns out that Holmes knows precisely who the figure is. And he dismisses the person's existence as he is certainly drunk and this person is supposed to be dead. Sherlock looks the blurry version of Jim Moriarty up and down, attempting to use those deductive powers of his.

"Are you checking me out Sherlock Holmes?" Moriarty asks, a smug smile evident on his face. The sound of the familiar Irish accent jolts Sherlock and a confused whimper escapes his mouth. Moriarty only laughs in his face. The barmaid comes back with the Irish man's drink, but Moriarty glides the glass over to Sherlock. "Here drink this." Sherlock pushes the glass away. "It's not poison darling, it's water. Now drink up." Sherlock reluctantly picks up the glass, and quickly swallows it's contents.