John didn't know how he let himself get talked into this.
Oh wait. He did.
It came in the form of a six foot tall detective who had latched onto the idea, and wouldn't let it go.
Yes, it was all coming back to him now.
Sherlock had been a bit... obsessed with the details of John and Mary's wedding, and he wasn't going to miss one thing, simply because it involved drinking, and going out to places that weren't crime scenes.
Sherlock was strangely traditional in that way.
John shook his head in an attempt to clear the thought. He may have been just slightly drunk. Buzzed, really. Nothing much.
Sherlock, on the other hand, apparently miscalculated when it came to figuring out his alcohol tolerance.
(Although, John had heard from a reliable source that he had roped a certain Miss Hooper into doing the calculations for him, and she could have... slipping a decimal over or something. Payback could be a bitch.)
Sherlock was sitting on a stool across the table from him, his graduated cylinder more than half finished. And this was the... third pub they were at, which meant Sherlock had ingested... more alcohol than he probably had ever before, which John couldn't be bothered to count, because who cared about maths anyway?
"Drinking lowers the seizure threshold," Sherlock informed John, leaning towards him slightly.
John nodded like it was the most interesting fact he'd ever heard. Sometimes, he swore that Sherlock forgot he was a doctor.
Of course, he was a little drunk as well, and may have forgotten that he was. So how could he fault Sherlock for forgetting, when he so often deleted things?
John frowned. He was thinking too much.
"Well," he drawled. "Don't have a seizure then."
Sherlock giggled. "Okay."
His face turned serious. "Is it working?" he asked.
"Is what working?"
"I'm telling my brain to not have a seizure. Is it working?"
John swatted in Sherlock's direction, but missed enormously. "Yeah, but it doesn't work like that, silly."
Sherlock seemed puzzled by John's statement, but nodded. "Right. You would know. You're a doctor."
"And a soldier," John added, because it seemed like something important.
They both sat back in their chairs and surveyed the pub they were in. (Sherlock had solved the case of an old man killed by his wife just down the street.)
"Probably shouldn't be in clubs with the flashing lights," John noted.
Sherlock wagged a finger at him. "Ah, but we don't know if I'm photosensitive, because someone wouldn't let me do experiments."
"Damn right," John muttered, taking a gulp out of his graduated cylinder. It was nearly empty. When did that happen?
Sherlock sighed. "And now we'll never know," he added mournfully.
"Shut up," John ordered. "You're not allowed to be sad about missed experiments. As you very loudly pointed out the other day, this night is about me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but conceded.
"Still don't see why you couldn't have invited Greg along too, maybe Mike. Anyone really."
Sherlock frowned. "Who?"
John waved a hand at him, downing the rest of his beer. "Never mind."
Sherlock looked away, still frowning.
"It's been... I don't even know how many years that you've known him," John said, frowning again at the difficulty of numbers. "And he's told count countless times, and you still can't remember his name. How do you do that? 243 types of tobacco ash, and you can't even remember a four letter name. Or..." he counted on his fingers, "If you wanted to go all out, seven letters. Huh?"
He looked at Sherlock pointedly, but he didn't seem to be paying attention, staring off into the distance, probably deducing someone or something.
"Sherlock," John sighed, waving a hand in front of his face.
Sherlock blinked once, but didn't respond.
"Sherlock," he repeated.
His focus snapped back to John and he glared at him. "What?"
John sighed, giving up on that line of conversation."Perhaps one day you'll remember his name," he finished.
Sherlock only frowned at him, swallowing the last of his beer.
Two pubs later (and John couldn't even remember how many pubs that had been, again with the maths) and they somehow found themselves back at the flat.
Or rather, on their way up to the flat. The stairs posed somewhat of a problem.
Sherlock was muttering about his reputation for... something, when Mrs Hudson discovered them.
They found the energy to get up the stairs after that.
Another half hour later and they found themselves with sticky notes on their heads and drinks in their hands.
John squinted at the note, having forgotten what he put, and giggled again when he remembered.
He thought he was quite clever for having come up with that.
He could only imagine what Sherlock had given him.