Here Be bromance, For Romance go back to Ch.7

The cab ride home was thankfully uneventful, Sherlock dozing quietly next to me as I replayed the evening's events in my head. We arrived at the flat, before I knew it and without a word Sherlock awakened and staggered out of the cab towards the front. It was as if the motion of the stopping vehicle roused him, and he waited as impatient as ever.

"Pay the bloody man all ready, John." He shouted from the steps. "You have the keys." I shook my head, as smart as he was I'm quite sure he'd forget his head if it weren't so important to his work. I quickly paid the cabby who glared at me, and drove off without a word.

"Steady on," I said, receiving an uninterested glare as he swayed switching from foot to foot, his hands thrust in his coat pockets, as if stamping off the cold. I quickly unlocked the door, "There you go, now get inside before you wake the neighbors."

"Dull." He huffed as he made is way up the stairs. It was rather quite comical, watching as his usually fluid movements where clumsy and stiff due to the liquor. I took my time hanging up my jacket in the hall closet, Mrs. Hudson was either thankfully a sleep or out, then I heard a thud from up above. I rolled my eyes, either a criminal had picked the worst (or best from the criminals stand point) night to strike the detective or he had passed out. I hoped for the latter, but when Sherlock is involved nothing is ever predictable. Cautiously I went up the stairs only to find that it was indeed the latter of the two options. Sherlock, was sprawled out on the floor his feet up on the couch and his arms lying straight, like a cross.

"Sherlock," I tried softly, unsure if he was in fact asleep or just had his eyes closed. "Wouldn't your bed be a bit more comfy?"

"Hmm," he replied. "I have things to do."

"You don't even have a case." I chided him.

"Details," he replied.

"How 'bout a cuppa?" I asked turning toward the kitchen and receiving a noncommittal grunt in reply. I busied myself with the tea preparation, finally getting it down to an art considering all the biological and chemical obstacles that stood in my way. I returned to the next room a cup in each hand to find that Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. "Oi, Sherlock." I nudged his side with my foot, receiving another groan. "Tea." I stated bending down and placing the cup on his chest before sitting on the couch that contained his bare feet.

He remained motionless, however, save for the rise and fall of the mug perched upon him. I sipped my tea thoughtfully wondering if perhaps this little venture into inebriation was actually a blessing in disguise. He was want for a case as of late, but while this usually saw a bit of healthier behavior in sleeping and eating patterns (mixed with horrible depression type behavior) the last few weeks I cannot recall him getting any rest. There was always some experiment or he got sucked into a crap show on the telly. As a doctor I have tried to persuade him of certain things, but where he is concerned my medical expertise holds little to no value.

I finished the last dregs of my tea, and felt satisfied that it was best to let sleeping dogs lay. Plus if he moved at all the scalding liquid would be revenge enough for the night's events. I returned my cup to the kitchen sink and turned out the lights. "'Night, Sherlock." I said before heading off to bed.

The next morning I was awoken by clattering and beeping coming from the main room of the flat. I smiled to myself, knowing that the great Sherlock Holmes was probably nursing a painful hangover and searching for something to end it. It was the method in which he would he was fixing the problem that wafted over me with worry, along with the smell of something burning. I dashed out of my bed and made my way to the common room to find Sherlock perched in his chair by the fireplace, mug in hand and a distant look in his eyes.

"Wha, What's burning, what's that smell?" I asked.

"I made coffee," He replied sidestepping my question. "That tea you made was quite horrible, John. Really, you couldn't be bothered to heat it up."He tentatively sipped his coffee.

I knew he was purposefully ignoring my question, because there was no way he didn't deduce that the mug was from last night. "Oh and there's a letter for you." He indicated to the envelope upon the other chair with his head as he rose from his seat and made off down the hall for the shower. I stared after him, shaking my head as I opened the simple white envelope that simply read John in precise print. I unfolded the letter and read it carefully:

It should come as no surprise, but perhaps in your case it is still a surprise. I really couldn't say. Anyway, I have been made aware of the silly little excursion of drinking and, I dare say, dating that my brother was a part of last night. Firstly, bravo for convincing him to go along, needless to say mummy has quite given up on that area of my little brother's life. Secondly, thank for making sure that Sherlock behaved himself, while my brother has had some nasty vices in the past drinking was never really his area and therefore he can really be quite the handful whilst inebriated.



"Bloody hell," I whispered under my breath, only the Holmes' I shook my head. "You couldn't have just texted?" I asked the air, before noticing the final lines of the letter:

P.S. I know what you're thinking, I could have just texted this, but where is the fun in that? Enjoy the fruit basket.

"Christ!" I swore, crumpling up the letter. It's not big brother that's watching us it Mycroft. I shook my head before realizing that he had mentioned a fruit basket. I glanced around the room but found nothing of the sort, before a thought crossed my mind and I moved cautiously into the kitchen. I still had yet to see the afore mentioned fruit basket, but then I went to the microwave and gently opened the door of it. I was met with a big gust of smoke and the site of horrible molted fruit carnage. "SHERLOCK!" I yelled, clenching my fists in disbelief. I could only imagine what those brothers were like as children.

As if on cue Sherlock sauntered back into the room, fresh from the shower. Without even pausing he reached past me for the coffee pot and nonchalantly poured himself more coffee.

"It was probably poisoned." He stated taking a sip from his coffee before turning to go back to the next room. "No need to thank me."

I just stared after him in disbelief.