Summary: The one time Sherlock held Anderson's hand. "I had no idea Sherlock was such a light weight – and Anderson, too."
A/N: This story is dedicated to the wonderful Atlin Merrick, who inspired me to write this fic. The exact inspiration can be found in her (excellent) Sherlock fic: Minutiae: or 156 I Know About You in Chapter 22: 'Now Sherlock's held severed heads, human eyeballs, and Anderson's hand (once) (long story), and none of these gave him nightmares.' I aim to write the 'long story' here. I really hope you enjoy, and please leave your comments at the end, I really appreciate them!
Warnings: Use of 'bastard' in a swearing context.
"Wow John, I had no idea Sherlock was such a lightweight! Why didn't you tell me before?"
John observed Sherlock guilty. He was the one who had coerced the detective to have his first drink. He hadn't needed much persuasion after that.
John had only wanted to enhance Sherlock's mood in the festive season. Didn't everyone drink at Christmas?
Eager to draw the half-drunken banter away from Sherlock, he locked his eyes on the other familiar and less-than-sober person in the large, decorated hall.
"What about Anderson, Lestrade? He's quite the raver, isn't he? Never thought he hid his party animal side under that dashing blue forensic suit, eh?"
Lestrade straightened. "Alcohol makes idiots of us all."
John grinned to himself. "Even Sherlock." They both chuckled at that.
John watched on as Sherlock barged around the room, with drink in hand, attempting some lurid gyrating movements.
"He looks like a puppet with his strings cut. How about a leash for your next Christmas present, John?" Lestrade said, looking deadly serious.
John groaned and put his head in his hands. "He's a bloody nightmare."
Lestrade slid another beer across the makeshift bar. "Have another drink. Enjoy the party, right?"
Taking one more look at Sherlock, John grabbed the drink and chugged it down in one.
Bloody hell was he pissed. Staggering slightly, John leant against the cool brick of the building, his breath crystallizing in the cold night air.
A disgruntled Lestrade stumbled behind him. Sherlock and Anderson were slightly ahead, both of them barely coherent.
Bloody taxis. Never there when you really needed them.
Despite the freezing cold air, the hot, surging roar pounded through John's bloodstream, and he felt alive.
He didn't need a taxi, but by God did the drunken pair in front of him.
Casting a glance back at Lestrade, he jogged up to Sherlock and Anderson.
"Shhhoohhhnn." Sherlock slurred. "Hey babe..."
John spluttered himself to soberness.
"Babe?" He repeated incredulously.
"Freakkk, you just called Shhoon babbee..." Anderson giggled.
"Shhut it Anderrsohhn, you babe..."
John and Lestrade choked simultaneously.
"John, take a note of this." Lestrade chortled.
John held up his phone. "Got it on video."
Lestrade smacked him on the back. "Good man."
"Bench!" Sherlock cried, stumbling towards the park bench across the road.
"No Sherlock! We gotta get you home! Before you pass-"John sighed. "Too late."
John and Lestrade looked at each other. Anderson lay face fat on the pavement next to the bench, a small lake of dribble collecting by his open mouth.
John and Lestrade crossed the road. The doctor knelt by Anderson, examining him carefully. There was something suspiciously lumpy in his pocket. Pulling out the item in question, he discovered it was a half eaten mini bag of Maltesers.
"I wouldn't touch those if you were you John." Lestrade shook his head vigorously. "Do you fancy a bloody nose and a verbal evis-" Lestrade hiccupped "-evisceration in the morning?"
"I live with Sherlock." John raised an eyebrow. "Enough said."
Suddenly, John had a very, very good idea. The packet of Maltesers lay dropped on the pavement forgotten as he stood up.
"Lestrade." John grinned headily. "I have an idea. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
Lestrade grinned, nodding.
"Let's get to work."
"John, this isn't what I was thinking at all."
The hysterical doctor looked consternated. "What were you thinking then?"
"I was thinking you should have put that video on YouTube."
"This is much better."
"They surveyed their handiwork for a moment.
"Picture?" Lestrade giggled. John nodded silently, still bent over with mirth.
A few snaps later, John put away his phone. "Should we leave them here?" Lestrade asked.
"Well I'd love to stay around for the aftermath, but bloody hell is it cold!"
"I can get the CCTV footage." Nodding to the camera situated across the street. "It'll be my Christmas present to Sherlock."
Another minute of panting laughter. Lestrade shivered, hands shoved under his armpits, the rush of alcohol burning off. "Nothing of value on them?" He asked.
"Sherlock left his phone at home."
"No harm leaving them here then. It's-" casting a glance at his watch – "three a.m, and I'd say the sleeping beauties will awake in four hours.
John nodded, only feeling slightly guilty at the prospect of leaving Sherlock alone.
Casting one last back glance at the sleeping pair, the doctor and inspector walked off grinning.
Precisely four hours after the mischievous duo had left, Sherlock awoke. It was a slow and painful process. He was never drinking anything remotely alcoholic ever again.
Immediately, he sensed the presence of another human being in his personal vicinity. Male, early forties, unconscious. Had consumed large amounts of alcohol and chocolate the night before, judging by the stench the man was emitting.
A number of possibilities ran through his numbed mind. He daren't open his eyes.
He would have to extricate himself carefully before the other man awoke. He could recall nothing but a drunken, hazy blur from the night before, and it was a possibility he had done something he would regret.
His right leg was resting over the man's lap, his right hand entwined with the man's left, and the man's head was resting on the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, hair tickling the detective's nose. Most worryingly, the man's into the dip of his collar bone like a half forgotten kiss.
It would make things more difficult if he had become sexually involved with the stranger. Sherlock cursed himself for being so blatantly human.
His movement had awoken the other man, and Sherlock retreated to leave.
Upon opening his eyes however, he came face to face with a very familiar person.
"YOU!" They both simultaneously cried. Sherlock recoiled immediately, untangling himself in a panicking affair of numbed limbs. Anderson stood frozen, with a look of sickened horror on his face. He was panting a mantra of "Oh god, oh no, the freak, what have I done..."
Sherlock tried to block out his useless mutterings. As the blood and alcohol rushed to his head and legs, he fell on his hands and knees and began to wretch. The possibilities of what he could have done with Anderson, off all the seven billion people in the world, flitted through his mind, and only increasing his illness.
A few minutes later, he stood to face a very pale Anderson.
Hesitantly, Anderson asked, "Do you remember...doing anything appropriate last night?" Any past enmity between the two seemed to have been forgotten in the face of this potentially horrifying crisis.
Sherlock thought for a moment. Sinking to sit on the bench, he stated very calmly. "I called you..." He sucked in a deep breath, "I called you babe." He spat the word out with distaste.
This only served to turn Anderson paler. "I think John videod that."
Sneaky bastard, Sherlock thought.
A flash of red between the slats of the bench caught his eye. Bending under the bench, he picked up the half eaten packet of Maltesers.
"Mine!" Anderson possessively squawked, and snatched the packet out of Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock did not care. He was desperately trying to recall the last hazy minutes before he had lost consciousness. He remembered the presence of three people – John, Lestrade and Anderson.
Another flashback of watching TV with John, and thee mundanity of adverts.
He then realised that he – and Anderson – had been the victims of a drunken, clumsy and humiliating prank.
He entertained the numerous ways in which he could verbally and physically humiliate and torture those conniving bastards, John and Lestrade.
He then realised he would have to –as usual – explain to Anderson what had happened last night.
"Do you recall the presence of John and Lestrade before you passed out last night?"
Anderson thought for a few moments, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Sherlock sighed pointedly. Anderson sent him a glare, and then nodded, mouth to full of Maltesers to speak.
"Have you watched a certain Maltesers advert, or will I have to further degrade myself by explaining?" Sherlock spoke very slowly and sarcastically, closing his eyes as the rays of morning sunshine stabbed at his sensitive felsh.
A few seconds later, he heard the satisfying sound of Anderson choking. Not so satisfying as the remnants of slobbery crumbs of chocolate and biscuit on his shirt. He brushed them off disdainfully.
"Those... bastards!" Anderson wheezed. But Sherlock was already gone.
"Hey!" Anderson cried. "Where are you going freak?"
"Scotland Yard!" Sherlock yelled. "Imbecile." He muttered.
The enmity had returned.
Striding confidently into Scotland Yard, Sherlock met all the humorous eyes that followed him.
Bursting into Lestrade's office, he was met with the sight of a familiar trio huddled around John's phone – Lestrade, John and Donovan. They were all clearly in a fit of hysterics. Sally was the first to look up.
"Hey, babe." Sally sneered, clear pronunciation on the intended jibe. John and Lestrade looked up simultaneously, and at the sight of a murderous Sherlock stifled their giggles.
"Would you like to explain," Sherlock spat out, "What happened last night?"
John giggled again. "Um, Sherlock. You have – pointing at his collar bone – chocolately saliva, um, there."
Lestrade continued, "And you have sick on your hair."
John finished with, "Oh, and, there's a malteser on your coat."
As an enraged Sherlock strode towards them, the pair gulped. They sent each other a look which said, 'It was worth it.'
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