Part 2

Sherlock felt the light of day forcing itself through his eyelids. He gave a groan. Suddenly, a jolt of panic coursed through him, making him feel more alert. He snapped open his eyes. His head was pounding, and his mouth was dry. He attempted to raise a hand to his face, but his reactions were slow and heavy. Something was wrong.

Had he received a head wound? Concussion? Feeling around his head tentatively, he ruled it out. What then? Had he been drugged? Poisoned? Turning his head slightly, he took in his surroundings. He was in his own flat. John was huddled silently in his armchair. What had happened here? Was John affected too? Sherlock tried to find the energy to raise himself up on his elbows. His head fought against it. He gave a groan.

"John?"

John sat up in an instant, alert.

"I'm awake," he slurred quickly before setting eyes on his flatmate. He let out a laugh.

"John, I think I'm dying," Sherlock told him urgently.

"It certainly smells that way," John replied, standing from the chair and stretching himself out.

"What the hell happened last night? Last thing I remember, I was on the trail of the murderer. How did I get home?"

"Oh, you really don't want to know!" John chuckled, heading for the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water, and placed two slices of bread in the toaster. John had to admit he got a small amount of pleasure listening to Sherlock balking in the next room.

Carrying a glass of water and the dry toast back into the living room, he placed it on the floor by the sofa. Sherlock had sat up now, his feet on the floor and his elbows propped up on his knees. He looked at the toast in distain.

"Do you really not remember anything from last night?" John asked him, sitting heavily beside him. The motion made Sherlock's stomach churn. He was mocking him; the great Sherlock Holmes. He felt feeble. He felt stupid.

"I was je-ducting, de-juicing...Urgh...my mouth won't work!"

"Oh, it was working fine last night," John quipped in amusement. Sherlock eyed him warily.

"Oh God, I didn't try to kiss you, did I?"

"What? No! God, no! You just made yourself look like a twat."

"Uh," came the response from behind his hands. "Was it just you?"

"Yeah, me...and Sarah, ("Uh!") ...oh and Mycroft too."

Sherlock snapped his head up quickly.

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah...he was your ride home. You were sick in his car."

Sherlock's face broke into a grin.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed before grabbing a slice of toast and taking a tentative nibble.

"So, did you solve the case then?" John asked over his shoulder as he headed back to the kettle.

"What? Yeah. It was the tutor. Some sordid love affair gone wrong."

John took out his phone and typed a quick message.

He's still alive...

"John what is this bucket doing...oh."

John had to laugh. He entered the living room with two mugs of coffee. Sherlock retched at the smell of it and pushed it away.

"Drink it, you ungrateful sod. Lestrade will be round at 9."

John's phone beeped.

Excellent. Inform him I'm forwarding the valet invoice. MH.

John gave a smirk. Sherlock looked at him testily.

"Who are you texting?"

"Oh, no one."

The pair sat, drinking their coffee (Sherlock, reluctantly) and letting the time slip away from them. John knew that Lestrade would arrive in 40 minutes, but a small part of him wanted Sherlock to be witnessed like this. It was mean. But it was true.

"I'm sorry I made myself look like a twat," Sherlock muttered, resting his head against John's shoulder. John closed his eyes briefly.

"Who are you talking to, Sherlock?"

There was a brief pause.

"Myself, obviously."

"Thought so."

John knew his eyes were still closed, but Sherlock's head weighed heavily on his shoulder, and his half-drunk coffee sat snugly in his hand. He was comfy. Much comfier than he'd been in that chair all night.

"So tired," Sherlock yawned.

"Me too."

"And I smell."

"Yeah, that's just you."

John tried to open his eyes, but his foggy brain wouldn't allow it. Just five more minutes...

...The living room door opened with a bang. Both men physically jumped, startled by the sudden sound. John spilt his cold coffee in his lap.

"Damn it!"

They both turned their heads slowly towards the door. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood, his eyes bright with amusement.

"Not interrupting nap time, am I boys?"

The two men scrambled from the sofa and took a step apart.

John, feeling his face burn in embarrassment, rushed up the stairs to change his jeans and remove himself from the awkward situation. He could hear Lestrade's questioning voice.

"Uh, what's that smell?"

What followed next made John's jaw hit the floor.

"John had a bit too much to drink last night. I was up all night looking after him."

The little shit! John hoped that Lestrade would take one look at Sherlock and know that it wasn't true. But Lestrade usually took Sherlock's word as gospel. John hid upstairs in embarrassment until he had gone.

When Lestrade had left, Sherlock sauntered over to John who was aggressively washing the mugs.

"You're cross with me."

"Yes," John said through clenched teeth. "Because you told Lestrade it was me that was drunk."

"Oh," Sherlock mused. "I thought it was because I'd been sick on the floor."

"Why would I be cross with that? You promised last night that you'd clean it up. Because you're such a good friend." He emphasised the last two words. Sherlock looked taken aback.

"I said that?"

"Yep."

"That doesn't sound like me."

John thought that was Sherlock's way of getting out of it. He was fully preparing himself for the task. Especially when Sherlock then made excuses about having to nip out that afternoon.

But as John woke from dozing in his chair that afternoon, he saw a wet patch on the carpet, foaming white from excessive soap suds. He was also incredibly surprised to find a cup of hot tea beside him, with a post-it note folded over and stuck to the mug. John plucked it from the mug, and noticed a smiley face drawn on the outside. He opened it up with both hands. Inside a note had been scribbled in familiar writing:

You might get a snog next time x

John threw his head back on the chair and chuckled. He grabbed his phone and typed three words which he knew would cause a laugh from the other man's throat.

In your dreams!

-End-