Author's Note: Hey everyone~
I got such nice reviews on the first chapter of this story asking me to write more that I finally gave in and did so. =) This chapter isn't really as good as I wanted it to be, but I still hope you find it at least half as enjoyable as the first chapter. ^^;
I will, however, be completely done after this one. I have no other ideas to add, but if you enjoy the way I write Sherlock and John, I'm sure I can think of some new story to write when I catch the inspiration. I really do love writing these two and their bickering, so it's very likely I will write more of them if I can think of a "plot."
Thanks again for your nice comments! I really appreciate the feedback~ 3
That night, Sherlock remained wide awake for countless hours, this time hunched over his desk. His dark eyes were glazed over with thought and the expression on his face was blank enough to seem like his conscious was in a completely different world. He had spent so long thinking about what John had told him that his own mind seemed to have stopped working; the mind of the infamous Sherlock Holmes had been turned into useless mush. It wasn't until nearly two o'clock in the morning when his forehead had befriended the wooden desk below him and allowed him to drift into a soft slumber. That slumber, however, was disturbed promptly when the door to his office was flung open and a man stumbled in.
"Holmes!" he heard a familiar voice shout out his name, causing him to bolt upright in his chair.
Sherlock, discombobulated from sleep, frantically looked around for the source while blinking rapidly to wake himself up. His gaze fell upon the very man he had spoken to earlier that day, and instant befuddlement came across him. John was pointing an accusing finger at the detective, his lips moving soundlessly as if trying to find words. The usually "prim and proper" gentleman now had a rather distorted appearance, and as he walked, his steps were clumsy. Sherlock had cleared from his initial spot as his friend approached, brows furrowing when the man groggily fell against the desk and sent several papers fluttering to the floor.
"Watson, I really wish you wouldn't make yourself present in my room when you've been drinking," Sherlock said, yet was watching with legitimate interest on his face over the prospect of a drunken John Watson.
"No! You listen to me, Holmes," the man spat, his voice slurred as he clutched the table to hold himself up.
"My ears are attentive, dear Watson." Sherlock raised a brow at his friend and lit his pipe, puffing silently while he waited for a response.
"I will be marrying Mary," John declared boldly with a raised chin.
"Yes, you made that clear."
"You won't be doing a thing about it, understand? You can't just go around… pushing yourself all up in my face… getting in the way…"
"I don't believe I ever said I'd get in your way," Sherlock commented nonchalantly. "I won't be in your way once it's all done-"
"You'll always be in the way!" John shouted and suddenly stood upright. "You're like this annoying little pest that won't leave me alone no matter what I do!"
The detective inclined his neck indignantly and turned away to look out at the sky blanketed with shadows. "I admit that I take you with me on a lot of cases, but you've never complained about them before," he replied, then added in an undertone, "You actually seem to somewhat enjoy yourself."
"That's not what I'm talking about!" John made his way toward Sherlock, again, falling against various pieces of furniture as he walked. "You—You are constantly in my head and I can't get you out! You just… use your voodoo to make me completely lose my mind and constantly pull me in… make me unable to think clearly..."
"Well, you've definitely lost your mind if you think I'm into any sort of dark magic," he said with a huff. "It's even scarier that you believe in such things, dear Watson."
When John had finally reached Sherlock, he began to fall forward again, but the other man caught him by his forearms and attempted to haul him to his feet. John hastily placed his hands on his partner's shoulders to help push himself up, then took the chance to shake Sherlock with violent desperation. "Why are you putting me through this?"
"Perhaps it'd be best if you sat down-"
What seemed to be out of nowhere, Sherlock felt an odd sensation against his lips, one that caused the pipe within his hand to fall to the floor. John Watson's face was right in front of his, the man's brows furrowed and his eyes closed tightly. In that moment, the detective finally realized what was happening. He would've instinctively pulled away from the kiss if John hadn't done so before him, leaving both men simply staring at each other in stunned silence.
Sherlock's lips parted to speak, but he was once again cut off when John moved back in, this time planting small kisses onto the detective's cheek bone. He tilted his head to the side as it happened, his eyebrows coming together with confusion. "John," the man murmured softly, finding that his breath had left him. Sherlock didn't make any recoiling movements as it all was happening. He remained completely still, much too shocked to react while, deep within his mind, he was somewhat enjoying the contact.
After trailing over Sherlock's jaw line, John locked his lips with the detective's for a second time. This time, he was much less hesitant and much more forceful with the action. Sherlock felt himself almost fall backward from the unexpected intensity of it, but kept himself upright and uncertainly joined in. The fact that Sherlock had begun to contribute only encouraged the intoxicated man even more, for his hands suddenly came together at the front of Sherlock's shirt and began to hastily unbutton it. At this point, the detective's deep brown eyes flung open.
"John," he repeated while placing his hands on his friend's shoulders and gently pushing him away. John's fingers came to a halt in their process, now simply resting on Sherlock's chest. His blue gaze met with his partner's, eyelids starting to droop with exhaustion over what his drunken state had done. He slumped over and fell into Sherlock's ready arms, who then struggled to carry him to the nearby couch.
"You aren't in your right mind, Watson," Sherlock muttered while laying the nearly unconscious man down. "I have a feeling you'll regret any continuing actions, so I'm not going to let you go any further."
John looked like he meant to respond, his mouth making subtle movements, but when his eyes closed and no other sound came from him, Sherlock assumed he was done for the night. He'd allow the man to rest (after making sure he wasn't dead, of course), and dreaded what sort of illness would come in the morning after the consumption of so much alcohol. The doctor would not be very pleasant to deal with.
An exasperated sigh slipped from Sherlock's mouth and he fell into a sitting position alongside the couch, simply staring at his unconscious partner with contemplation. He was sure that the intoxicated man would wake up with little to no memory of what had happened the night before, and was almost positive John would ask about the events. How would he even explain it? Oh, no worries, Watson. You just kissed me, that's all. That would be Sherlock's nonchalant approach on most subjects, but this particular situation was far different. But why was it so different from anything else?
The kiss and the actions following it meant nothing- John Watson was drunk and completely out of his mind. So, if it was just an occurrence that came from an intoxicated man, why was Sherlock so bewildered? When a person is drunk, they perform actions that they'd never do otherwise, then forget about it the next day. It was the same with John.
His actions, however, weren't just crazy. They were psychotic. Sherlock Holmes never let the oddity of something stop him- drunk or not. John, on the other hand, was an incredibly sensible man; he always tried to keep the best appearance amongst the public and shuddered at the thought of anything ruining his reputation. Sure, a few drinks make a person do weird things. Though, it takes a lot to turn a reasonable man into a completely senseless one. Either Dr. Watson had enough drinks to fill everyone in the pub, or there was some meaning behind the kiss.
Either way, Sherlock felt a tiny smirk tug at his lips upon thinking of how John's dear Mary would react to learning about this. She'd surely knock a few tea trays down as a response. The detective, of course, wouldn't go around announcing the news to the world for fear of getting smothered in his sleep by a mustached doctor, but in a way, he'd cherish what had happened. It was, in fact, the closest he had ever been to John and probably the last time anything of the sort would ever happen. He had received a gesture from his partner that he had wanted subconsciously for so long. Now, the moment had already come and gone.
Sherlock continued to observe his friend for long minutes before finally sinking all the way down to the floor. He rested in his side, folding one arm under his head as a pillow and staring off across the messy room. His mind would've continued to wheel with thoughts if exhaustion hadn't so abruptly come over him. Sleep pulled down at his eyelids until they were shut, and it was only moments later that his conscious mind drifted off to let dreams take over.
The next morning, the detective was rudely awakened by the unappetizing sound of vomiting from the other side of the room, and he sat upright to see his previously intoxicated friend bent over a basin. Sherlock's eyebrows met his hairline while letting out a long sigh, recollecting all that had happened in the middle of the night. It, indeed, wasn't just some twisted dream his mind had tricked him with.
"Go right ahead, Watson. It's not like I was going to use that for anything important," he called across the room and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I will very much enjoy the stench of regurgitation in that washbowl for the rest of its days."
John lifted his head enough for his face to be visible, unsteadily twisting his neck to look over at his partner with a stare that could kill. The doctor looked absolutely awful, his face completely pale and contrasting against the circles of exhaustion under his eyes. His entire body was stiff and trembling without any sign of letting up. It was, in fact, the worst Sherlock had ever seen him, though expected after how he acted earlier that morning.
"Don't be rude. I wasn't the one who told you to go out and drink more than a parched horse," he murmured and pushed himself to his feet. "What would your future fiancé say about this behavior? I don't believe she wants to marry a drunk."
The doctor's head disappeared behind the brim of the basin, again, causing Sherlock to turn away and step toward an armchair upon which his violin was resting. He snatched the instrument from the spot and took its place, now holding it on his lap and absentmindedly plucking at the strings. His gaze remained averted from John- at least until the man finally was able to speak.
"Mary-" John started, spluttering slightly in his speech, "-won't be aware of this little incident." He clutched the large bowl tightly in his hands and seemed to wince before continuing. "Even if she learns of it… it's no big deal… only a one-time thing…"
"Very well," Sherlock replied shortly. "Though, didn't you say that about gambling at one point?"
The detective chose to ignore the glare he received and instead began to play high-pitched notes on his violin with the bow. A concentrated look seemed to be on his face as he played, not noticing (more like choosing not to notice) John's discomfort with the sound until the man let out a loud groan. "Holmes," he moaned and visibly shuddered. "My headache is bad enough. For Heaven's sake, stop."
"I believe this is my room, dear Watson. Not only have you destroyed it in your drunken stupor dreadfully early this morning, but now you are emptying the contents of your stomach onto it, as well. Giving you a bigger headache isn't the worst that I can do."
"I am not throwing up all over your room," John replied firmly. "I chose to be considerate despite feeling horrible and actually went across the room to a container. I could've easily just gotten sick on you, if that's what you would've preferred."
"You might as well have," Sherlock countered and set his violin aside. "Since my room is going to have a horrible stench, anyway."
"I'm sorry to inconvenience you." John looked pathetically at his partner with furrowed brows. "It's not like you're ever an inconvenience to me."
"Good to hear, Watson. Your apology is grudgingly accepted."
Deliberate silence followed the comment in which John glared with intense irritation at Sherlock before he looked away and leaned back against a dresser behind him. He appeared almost dead in his position- chin dipped, skin still a sickly color, eyes glazed over. However, when his lips made the smallest movements, it was proof that he was still a living organism.
"What even happened last night, may I ask?"
"Technically, it was this morning. Not too long after two o'clock, actually."
"Whatever. I don't care when it happened- what happened?"
"It's not already obvious?" Sherlock raised a brow at his companion, taking a moment to light a pipe he discovered on a table beside him and puff at it gently. "You came in drunk, yelled at me for a bit, then collapsed."
"What did I yell at you for? The usual?"
"It was quite peculiar, John, but I'm not going to worry you with it. Don't want to get that brain of yours hurting with too much thought."
John's nose wrinkled slightly, whether it was over Sherlock's comment or another wave of sickness. He brought his head up and laid it back against the dresser, cringing when he set it against the wood a bit too abruptly. It took a moment for him to get over the increased ache in his head.
"What did I say to you, Holmes?"
"Tell me, Watson- do you believe what people say about the most honest people being children and those who are drunk?"
"I—what?" John squinted with confusion and lightly shook his head over the sudden question.
"Do you think when people are drunk, they are the most honest? It's a simple yes or no question, Watson. Can you not handle it in your current state?"
"I don't know," he sighed with annoyance. "Sure... I-"
"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed with the same clarity and excitement he got over solving a case. "Then your actions were meaningful."
The detective suddenly leapt to his feet and briskly walked over to John's side. "I believe I'll head out for a morning walk, dear Watson. I have, indeed, been in my room for awhile, and, as my doctor, you told me it's good to get fresh air."
"Wait-" John said groggily. "Wait, Holmes… you didn't answer my question-"
"There'll be plenty of time to talk later, don't you agree? I have far too much energy to simply sit here and watch you vomit as I explain things."
"Sherlock, you never go on walks-"
"Yes, very odd, isn't it? I guess I'm just never in the proper mood. Don't you worry, though." The detective leaned down, abruptly grabbed John's chin in his hand, then planted a kiss on his partner's cheek. "I'll get Nanny to tend to you while I'm gone. Leaving you alone would be absolutely uncivil of me."
A look of complete bewilderment was now plastered on John's face- a hint of disgust shadowing it from the kiss he had just received. When Sherlock straightened back up and headed off toward the door, he gained enough sense to call out to him. "Holmes! What on Earth did I say to you?"
"Get some rest, Watson. You won't be able to handle the truth at this point in time."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
Sherlock cast a smirk over his shoulder as he stepped out the door and caught the same confused expression on John's face as he left. The detective energetically descended the steps, still puffing lightly at his pipe. Despite the doctor's lack of knowledge over the situation that had occurred in his intoxicated state, a strange feeling of hope had filled Sherlock's veins after their conversation. Obviously, John had agreed to his suspicions concerning a person's honesty when drunk to get Sherlock to shut up, but that set up the perfect trap for the detective to meddle with.
He had performed flawless actions to leave John Watson in a puzzled mindset. Already, the doctor had been frustrated with not knowing what had happened, but by drawing it out even more, the curiosity intensified. Then, to make it even more troublesome, Sherlock had planted the most nonchalant kiss on his partner's cheek, and left without any explanation. If he knew John as well as he thought, the doctor would be sitting up there right now, contemplating what it all meant and not letting up until he found the answer. Just to mess with him even more, Sherlock was leaving the house and wasn't planning on returning anytime soon to relieve his friend of the torture. It wouldn't be fun otherwise.
Just as the clever man had thought, John Watson remained in the room as his comrade left, looking completely stunned and at loss of what to do. He raised a hand to the cheek Sherlock's lips had made contact with and held it there for the longest time. The detective's words continued to circle through his head without any faltering, his contemplation over what had all happened beginning its course. This case, however, would be one he'd have to figure out without Sherlock there to assist him. Sherlock had set the board. Now, it was up to him to move the pieces. The difficulty of the game merely depended on how much of himself John was willing to accept.