The Doctor And The Detective (Johnlock)

Sixteen

Mycroft was fuming. Sherlock was pretty sure he had never seen him as angry as he was now (although that's what he told himself every single time his brother was angry). He marched into the room that Sherlock was being all sad and sick in and literally picked his brother up by the collar of his shirt.

"What on earth were you thinking? How could you just come straight back into danger? You didn't even spend a week there, Sherlock." Mycroft hissed. Sherlock closed his eyes. He had a headache and was still beating himself up about John. He really didn't feel like arguing at the moment. Sherlock voiced this thought. Mycroft looked ready to stab him. Multiple times. With a chainsaw.

"Believe it or not, I'm worried about you, Sherlock. Oh, don't you roll your eyes at me! I'm your brother, of course I care! And mother would kill me if you died. It's in both of our best interests for you to stay out of danger. And that means not staying here." Mycroft crossed his arms, waiting for Sherlock's answer. Sherlock massaged his temples.

"I'm not in the mood to make a decision right now. Just get me some aspirin and leave please."

Mycroft sighed and sunk down on the couch. Sherlock thought he'd just given up and would leave like he always did, but when Mycroft was unusually silent he got worried. Looking down, Sherlock noticed the defeated expression on his brother's face. "What am I going to do with you, Sherlock? I've tried to hard to keep you safe, but it's so hard when you don't want to stay safe. What have I done wrong?" He let his head drop into his hands. Sherlock, feeling rather alarmed, plopped himself next to his brother and curled his arms around him without second thought.

"You've done nothing wrong, Myc. It's me, you know that. I'm just- I'm just a bitch, pretty much." Sherlock nuzzled his nose into Mycroft's hair like he used to do when they were young. Mycroft sighed and let his hands drop into his lap. He hesitated, then awkwardly wrapped his arms around Sherlock in their second hug that week. Unlike the first, however, this one only lasted nought point two seconds before it became too awkward to continue and the brothers broke away.

Mycroft stood. "One day. You have one day to do whatever you want. But I expect you back in the safe house by midnight tomorrow." Without a look back, Mycroft strode back out of the house, leaving Sherlock in his wake. The detective sat for a moment, his mind swirling with incomprehensible thoughts. He had one day. How would he spend that day? Was there anything that would take his mind off John? Mycroft didn't know about John (although Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion he'd find out very soon).

After sitting on the couch staring at the clock for ten minutes, Sherlock decided he'd wasted too much time thinking. Standing and pulling on his coat, he left the house, sweeping out the door in a very similar fashion to his brother. He wandered down the street with no particular destination in mind - just somewhere where he could distract himself from his own mind. He pondered several times in front of malls and small shops if he'd like to go in (he even considered shaving off all his hair at the hairdressers, but decided against it - it might give people the idea that he was having a mental breakdown). Each time he thought nah, I'll keep walking and kept walking.

Eventually Sherlock had reached the club-ridden parts of his neighbourhood and dithered in front of the flashing neon signs debating whether to go into not. He stopped in front of a random one - he didn't even see the name - and made the split second decision to enter. Pushing the heavy metal door open, Sherlock was sucked into a world of noise, heat (both temperature wise and emotion wise) and strobe lighting. He fought his way through sweaty club goers to the bar. "Give me your strongest." He slammed the money down on the counter - he was glad of the dosh he always kept in his coat pocket - and waiting for the bartender to make his drink. A whole combination of alcohols were poured into the glass, so many that Sherlock lost count, and then to top it off the top was lit on fire. The glass was pushed toward him. Sherlock swallowed any doubts he had and downed it in one, coughing and almost throwing it up then and there. Immediately he ordered another.

An hour and a few (okay, so maybe a lot) of drinks later, Sherlock had spent all his spare money. His mind fuzzy with alcohol and his hormones raging, he looked around for someone good-looking to claim as his own for the night. Sherlock was surprisingly good at holding alcohol and could drink a lot without becoming 'drunk' drunk, but even he was vulnerable to the level of alcohol he had consumed. He lifted himself from the barstool and weaved his way into the crowd. Someone tapped his shoulder. Turning, Sherlock just made out the face of the very man he was trying to avoid thinking of - John Watson.

"What are you doing here?" he slurred, evidently way more drunk than Sherlock. Sherlock frowned.

"I might ask you the same thing. What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"You broke me, Sherlock. I'm tryin'na find some girl who'll- who'll have sex with me." John wobbled a little and gripped Sherlock's arm to steady himself. Sherlock frowned again.

"Some girl? But John, you're mine." He pulled John closer. John didn't object. His lips moved, but Sherlock couldn't make out what he was saying over the noise. Pulling John along behind him, Sherlock made his way to the back of the nightclub and into the toilets. Someone was throwing up in the last cubicle and a couple kissing feverishly glared at them. The man's shirt was off and it was clear what they were about to do. Sherlock felt himself get more turned on, and pulled John out of the toilets and through the first door he saw.

Luckily the door led outside to the alleyway behind the club. It stank of cigarette smoke and piss. Shoving John against the wall, Sherlock kissed him ferociously. John, in his drunk state of mind, kissed back, moaning into Sherlock's lips. The make out session turned more passionate and rough and eventually John beckoned onto the street and slurred that he had a hotel room they could go to. A brief sober thought flashed through Sherlock's intoxicated mind - is this right? - but it was gone as soon as it came.

(Yay, I told you I'd update sooner! And wow, they're doing it again... *sigh*
So what are your thoughts on this chapter? Did you like it? Sorry that it's a little longer than the rest...
Also, I'm writing this all on my phone so there might be a few mistakes here and there. Just point them out to me if there is and I'll try to change them. Thanks!)