A Study At Bullimore

12

At around 8 o clock the pair decided to head into the old town to get some food. Sherlock was very drunk and occasionally would heave into a bin before continuing to walk. It seemed as though the alcohol had hit him harder than it had he and it meant that John was essentially carrying Sherlock through Brighton's lanes. It made John wonder how much Sherlock had truly drunk in the past and whether all that champagne consumption had built any resilience. John had been used to the public-school experience, which included drinking hooch and vodka in open fields at the age of 14, students doing A class drugs in lessons and the occasional teacher running a class whilst walking the thin line between drunk and hungover. Sherlock's upbringing, however, had clearly been a very different experience. John wondered if true drinking culture that was so rampant in the city had made its way this far into the countryside. Then again, John could not imagine any of the upper-class going to a corner shop and spending the last of their change on 3 for 2 on alcopop.

"I need to sit down." Sherlock mumbled as they came to a small circle of shops. They had been walking for about 10 minutes, although by the tone of Sherlock's voice, it could have been hours. John nodded, aiding Sherlock to one of the soft wooded picnic benches. The taller man proceeded to place his head on the bench. John found it almost laughable that Sherlock was so easily influenced by alcohol.
"You alright, Sherlock." John asked, sitting next to him.
"Feel a bit sick." He responded. John sighed at his friend as he surveyed the shops around them. They were all independent, classic beach side buildings with thick word art like font written on the fronts. A chip shop caught his eye named 'For Cod's Sake', the white banner grey with lack of upkeep.
"Do you want anything?" John asked the lad, who currently had his head between his leg, with a nod of his head.
"No John, I'm fine." Sherlock said to the floor. John tutted, knowing that this may be a battle. He was almost tempted to by himself something and not Sherlock, but he knew that Sherlock needed to eat.
"I'm getting you some chips." John replied as he stood up from the bench.
"Please don't." The slight desperation in Sherlock's tone forced John to turn around. He looked up at John with a face that masked a mixture between misery and desperation. John took a step towards Sherlock, his face softening on instinct, the situation familiar.
"You don't need to have them all, Sherlock. Just some." Which made Sherlock groan. "I need you to soak up some that alcohol." John continued, pretending to ignore the very clear resistance Sherlock was showing and the growing anxiety in the back of his head. He wondered what Sherlock would have done had he been sober. He pauses, waiting for Sherlock to say something else. He did not, so John walked over to the counter, his chest heavy with guilt.
"Alright lad, what can I get you?" The guy at the counter asked. It was chip shop van, the inside just big enough for one employee, two at a push.
"Two chips please." John answered, feeling for the note in his pocket. £2.50 each. He could decide if that was a good deal or not. The man nodded, turning to shovel chips into the yellowed Styrofoam cartons that were sitting on the countertop. John licked his lips anxiously, waiting for the man to ask for payment. He definitely had a £5 note on him. Even if he didn't, he could ask Sherlock for money. Sherlock would give him money. After about a minute, the man turned back.
"That's 5 quid." He said, handing John two paper wrapped containers. Immediately John handed him the money. The man smiled. "Do you want salt and vinegar?"
"Yes, please." John responded and the man nodded, coating both chips' boxes in both salt and vinegar. It only occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock did not want salt nor vinegar, but he suspected that that did not matter. It would be a struggle either way.

After John had paid, he brought the yellow polystyrene cartons back to the table, the scent of hot grease and vinegar soaking through the paper wrap. Silently, John slid Sherlock his portion of chips. He sighed dramatically in response, before slowly unpeeling the edge of the paper layer by layer, his long fingers hesitating at every layer. John watched him open it as he busied himself with his own box. There seemed to be pure force that Sherlock was using to be using to even imagine opening the box itself. To ease the mood, John began to hum, folding the greasy paper over in his hands. Sherlock looked up suddenly.
"That's my song, isn't it?" John blushed a little at Sherlock's drunken enthusiasm.
"It is. Yes." Sherlock looked down at his hands before picking up a chip. John watched him bite it before continuing. "How do you write?" Sherlock took a moment to swallow, gripping the table slightly as he did.
"I remember it all in my mind palace." He gestured to his head, not quite as enthusiastically as before. Obviously, he was sobering up. "So, I just rewrite sections as I play." John nodded as he ate. "Plus, basic muscle memory means I instinctually remember finger positions before I remember specific notes."
"How does a mind palace work?" This made Sherlock smile and caused John's heart to beat a little faster.
"It's essentially remembering a map of areas in which different information is located. As long as I can remember where the information is in, which room I can find it, nothing can be forgotten."
"Amazing."
"I know." Sherlock replied, raising his eyebrows in agreement. John smiled widely.
"One question though," Sherlock hummed in reply. "Why a palace?"
"Why not a palace?" And John laughed.