Sherlock and John

Late Night Drinks

'Lestrade...' I slur, 'have I ever told you how much I .. Rely on you?'

I can't think straight. I try and sift through the thoughts and ideas in my mind but they all become tangled up in a sloppy heap. It's like trying to find a piece of hay in a needlestack... Or is that the other way around? Pah. Whatever. I don't care.

I'm like him. I don't care about anyone or anything other than myself. I just know how.. bloody clever I am and I tell everyone I meet about how that's the case.

Hah. The case. Get it?

Didn't think so.

Still, after all the things I say about how much I loathe him, I can't help missing him, or wishing he was here. He'd bring out two measuring cylinders, and we'd be able to go through tons of bars without getting tipsy.

He's clever like that.

He even knows when I need to pee. How smart is that?

'John?' Lestrade hisses, over the sound of awful pop music. 'John, are you okay? You look a little... Out of it.'

'Im fine!' I protest, doing my best impersonation of a sober person. 'Im completely fine. I've only had... A lot to drink. Never been better. Life is wonderful and amazing..'

And I'm sick all over the floor.

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(Sherlocks p.o.v.)

As John staggers up the stairs in his drunkardly fashion, I can't help feeling sorry for his brain in the morning. He's in no state of mind to remember what I told him about drinking water, and he's going to have a terrible hangover in the morning.

Idiot.

He swings his way round the door frame, and the pungent stench of vomit washes over me, like a putrid wave of horror. He's obviously been drinking. Any fool could deduce that, but he hasn't used the special measuring cylinder I've acquired for him.

Honestly. Sometimes, I don't know why I bother being 'nice' to people. It gets you nowhere,

'John.' I whisper, trying not to sniff the vomit again. 'John, I think you should have a lie down.'

He staggers over, and places a hand on my shoulder.

'Sherlock.' He slurs, trying as hard as he can to look me in the eyes, 'why don't you just admit it. You're in love with me. You always have been.' I sit back in my chair, and unfold my newspaper.

'And what makes you say that?'

'I dunno.'

'No, of course not. You're drunk John. Go to your room before you say something stupid.'

'Is this stupid Sherlock?' He hiccups, before staggering down the corridor to his room. 'Is it stupid to say that we're best friends.'

'John. That doesn't even make any sense.'

'I didn't mean it too.'

'We're very good friends John. Now, go to your room before I kick you out the apartment.'

'You're not my mother. You can't tell me what to do.'

His bedroom door slams shut, and I hear a loud snoring emanating from his room.

'For gods sake.'

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