I'm going to keep the A/N short this time 'round! So, let's just skip right to disclaimers, shall we? I don't own anything. Not a thing... Wait... Yeah. No. Nothing. Also, a reminder that if you review you get a sneak peek(: Just make sure to do it on this chapter so I know you're caught up and everything, alright? I'd hate to spoil stuff by sending you a chapter you're not ready for.
Midterms are coming up, so I probably won't be updating TOO soon? Just because of studying, test-taking, and overall exhaustion. Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
"Observe everything," Sherlock said, his eyes scanning the pub. It was like most pubs. Dim lighting, loud, crappy music that of course Amy liked, and the air filled with the odor of smelly men and stale beer. And while Amy wrinkled her nose at some of the dirty inhabitants at the bar, Sherlock took it all in, not really caring about the lack of hygiene here.
"I don't even know what we're looking for," Amy sighed, turning around and leaning her elbows on the bar's countertop. She tried not to think about how dirty it must be and thanked her lucky stars that her leather jacket was mostly protecting her from it. "It's not like he's going to ride in here and order a pint on his bike." Sherlock rolled his eyes, not even turning to looking at her. Amy continued. "Speaking of, I think I'll have a pint myself. Oi, bartender!"
Sherlock pressed his lips into a fine line. He wasn't much of a drinker, and he never did it while he was on a case. It dulled his senses, which was vital when Sherlock was trying to observe something. Amy saw the look but chose not to care, smiling gratefully at the bartender. As she reached into her small bag to pay, a man a few seats away from her gave her what he probably thought was a charming smile, but was really just sly-looking and creepy. "Don't you worry about it, Miss," he said, giving her a wink before he turned back to the bartender, "Just put that on my tab, Tom. And anything else the lovely lady orders tonight."
Amy smiled flirtatiously. Despite the slimy smile, he wasn't that bad-looking, green eyes, blonde hair slicked back, a little bit of manly stubble. He was a tad muscular. Not a total beefcake, but not so scrawny as her Doctor or Sherlock. Not that Amy was really into him or anything. It was just rather fun to be flirted with after such a long time, and, well, who was she to turn down the free drinks? Never bite the hand that feeds. "You're going to regret that, big boy," she told him, "If you can't tell, I'm Scottish. We're born with high alcohol tolerance."
The consulting detective, who had been half-listening, half-still-trying-to-do-his-job, turned to look at Amy questioningly. "Wrong," he corrected, "Alcohol tolerance has nothing to do with nationality or genes. It depends on how much you've eaten beforehand, your size, gender, and the rate at which you consumed the alcohol."
She turned her attention away from the bloke buying her drinks and smirked at Sherlock. A plan was brewing in her mind. "Listen here, Sherly," Amy said, "Everyone knows that Scots can drink. I could drink you under the table right here, right now."
Sherlock shook his head. "Listen here, Amelia," he replied, "Based on your size, gender, and how much you've eaten today, I know right now that you'll be affected by the alcohol quickly. You'll be drinking no one under the table."
Amy cocked an eyebrow. "Prove it then, big science man."
He glared at her, more preoccupied by the new mission to prove his scientific reasoning to be true. "Get me whatever she has," Sherlock ordered to the bartender, "And make sure it is the exact amount that you gave her. This is a scientific inquiry now, and you can not mess up the variables." The bartender gave Sherlock a weird look and Amy laughed. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get that guy's spit in his drink.
"Oh, and you can put that on my tab," Amy smiled, then nodded towards the fellow that had bought her drink, "Meaning his."
Amy turned fast in her barstool, giving the man a look. "Oi, yourself!" she shot back, unable to stop laughing, "This is in the name of science. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"I ain't buying his drinks-!"
She sighed, flipping her hair as if fed up with this issue that was so obviously not worth his time. "If I win, I'll let you have a dance with me, alright? Now can we all just shut up and let the man have his drink?" They didn't know how long Amy had been waiting for this moment, to see Sherlock Holmes piss drunk. And that was going to be her new goal tonight. The case could wait another night.
The room was spinning, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much he'd drank. He'd lost count, plus he was too busy focusing on acting less drunk than Amy. Meanwhile, she sat beside him at the bar, giggling. Sherlock hiccuped, which only caused her to go from giggles to straight out laughter. "Oh my God, you're drunk," she said breathlessly through her laughs, tilting her head back, "Sherlock Holmes is drunk!"
Sherlock tried not to smile but failed, and held up a finger to his lips. He shushed her. "Shut up, will you?" he asked, "John can't find out."
Amy laughed even harder, the noise of it even louder than the music, and she tipped back further until she was almost falling off the bar stool. Luckily, her alcohol supplier caught her. She looked at Sherlock and giggled conspiratorially at him. "Gotcha," the man said from behind her, smiling wide. The word almost made Amy sober up as she was reminded of the Doctor, who she was starting to think had just abandoned her. "Now, how about that dance?"
She gave him an odd look. "I don't know if I won," Amy replied, then looked back at Sherlock, who was downing the rest of his glass. She smiled, almost fondly before looking back. "Yeah, I think I won. So fine. Lead me to the dance floor, big fella."
Sherlock set down his glass as he watched the pair head off towards where the jukebox was playing music. He felt a bit of jealousy creep up on him as he watched the pair and got up. He ordered another drink.
Meanwhile, Amy started dancing. She wasn't the type that simply swayed her hips and grinded with her partner. She wanted to jump and spin and wiggle about, but that wasn't what her partner wanted, it seemed. He grabbed her hips possessively, turning her around so that she was facing away from him, pulling her so that they were right up against each other. He started moving his hips into hers, and Amy squealed.
"Now, hold on, Mister," she said, laughing a bit as she tried to turn around, "I promised a dance with you, not to be making babies in the centre of a pub!"
The man ignored her though, and kept his grip on her hips so that she couldn't turn. He moved her hips for her. Amy started to get annoyed. Who the hell was he, thinking he could force some gross dry-humping in public? She knew there was something slimy about him, and now it made sense. Of course had to be a perv. "Oi, let go of me," she told him, getting serious. She was getting even more irritated that he was killing her buzz, "I mean it."
"Just enjoy the dance, sweetheart," he murmured into her ear, "Make it worth my money." His voice in her ear felt dirty and gross, not to mention the words making her feel like some cheap whore. Which she wasn't, no matter what people said about kissograms.
Amy tried to wriggle out of his grip again. "Get off me!" she yelled over the music. He kept ignoring her though, and she felt his wet lips on her shoulder. She was just about to kick him in the shin hard, when suddenly she felt a hand on her arm, yanking her away with a lot of force from the man. The man yelled something, but Amy was too focused on the fact that someone else was going to get punched for that too. That was definitely going to bruise.
"Hey!" Sherlock called loudly to him. Amy rolled her eyes as she watched him sway over here.. Of course it was him. Well, at least she'd feel less sad about punching the person who "saved" her.
"She owes me a dance," the man argued. Both of them were glaring at each other, their eyes boring holes into each other with their chests starting to puff out. Meaning a fight was going to happen.
"Sherlock, let's go," Amy said, pulling on his arm, but he didn't budge. The whole room was spinning a bit and the redhead decided she couldn't be around negative vibes. They were just killing her fun, all of them, and if they didn't leave, she was going to go all angry-drunk Scottish on their arses.
"Owes you?," the detective echoed the man, seeming to want to take the angry drunk role for her, "You know who this is? She knows the Doctor and they save planets together! This one too, apparently, so I think you still owe her!"
Amy watched people around her give them odd looks. But she didn't care. She ignored the sadness that came with the Doctor avoiding her and instead felt a swell of pride. "Yeah!" she said, "I could go back and make sure you were never born… Guy!"
"What's your name, mate?" the man asked, ignoring Amy, his eyes focused on Sherlock.
The detective smiled. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and I'm going to have to fight to the death with you for messing with my dear friend here."
Her eyebrow rose up at that. Sherlock was always saying he didn't have any friends. The man opposite him smirked. "Well, I'm Adam Woodley, mate," he answered, "And you best be careful. I've got friends in high places that wouldn't mind snapping you like a twig."
The bartender, hearing this, nervously came over, but Sherlock was busy thinking. Adam Woodley. Where'd he hear that name? It took him a second, the alcohol still affecting him, but then he remembered. "Oh! Adam Woodley!" He looked over at Amy, who looked confused and like she still wanted to go, her hand on his arm. "The one that Violet told us about!" he explained.
Tom seemed to stop at that. He narrowed his eyes. "What'd you say?" he asked, "You know my name? You know Violet Smith? What'd she say?"
Sherlock burst into laughter. "Oh, it makes so much sense," he sighed, "She said you were a disgusting pervert."
"I ain't no-"
"Aren't," Sherlock corrected, then laughed again, "And obviously you are. You spent almost all your money on getting Amelia and her friend, that's me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, drunk. Just so you could try to maul her on the dance floor. Honestly, I don't know what it is that keeps the women away, your brutish behavior or the small size of your-"
Sherlock wasn't able to go on making fun of Adam, his opponent's fist connecting with his nose before he was able to say much more. Amy gasped, as Sherlock reeled back. When he got back up, he didn't look quite so amused. Blood was starting to drip from his nose, but now he had his fists up in a challenge. "Oh, come on," he said, tilting his head with mock pity, "You're going to surprise attack someone while they're laughing at your lack of intelligence and possible sexual overcompensation? Not fair!"
"Let me at him!" Amy cried, lunging forward at the grown man. She'd show this Adam what happened when you messed with the great Amelia Pond and Sherlock Holmes. She was just about to pounce on him too before Sherlock turned around to face her, grabbing both of his shoulder to keep his balance.
He shushed her. "No! I want to fight him! I already told him I was going to fight to the death!"
She frowned, crossing her arms as Sherlock turned around to face his opponent, who was cracking his knuckles and looking at the pair like they were the biggest joke he'd ever seen. Amy groaned, not thinking it was fair that she had to look like some damsel-in-distress. "You can't fight him, you lean bean!"
That only bristled his feathers more, causing Sherlock to do an uppercut to Adam's jaw as he laughed at Amy making fun of her own friend. Amy groaned as Tom grabbed his mouth, clenching it tightly and tackled Sherlock to the ground. She walked away a few feet, starting to sober up very quickly. A crowd had gathered around them and were now shouting cheers. The bartender yelled over the crowd, grabbing Sherlock and Tom by their coat collars. Amy rolled her eyes and grabbed her friend, holding him back from trying to restart the brawl. "Get outta here!" the bartender shouted at Sherlock and Amy, "Before I call the cops!"
"Fine!" Sherlock yelled, "Call the cops! They love me over at Scotland Yard!"
"No they don't, you idiot!" Amy hissed, suddenly getting paranoid and pushing him with all her strength out of the doors, "We were leaving anyways! This pub is… Rubbish!"
"Yeah, complete rubbish!" Sherlock chimed in. Amy looked up at him, his bruised face and bleeding nose. She punched him in the arm. "Ow!" he whined, "What was that for!"
"I don't need you fighting for me!" she told him, "I could have taken him." They both stopped a few metres from the pub, leaning against the wall for balance as both had been swaying before. Amy linked her arm with Sherlock's for support.
"I act like myself, people get mad. I try to be a good friend, and people still get mad!" he huffed, his voice slightly drowsy. He sighed, tipping his head against the brick wall. "You're not mad at me, are you, Amelia?"
"No!" she cried, frowning, "Sherly! You're my best friend. I just wanted to kick that guy's arse myself."
He smirked, turning his head lazily to look at her. "You're my best friend too," he said, "Just don't tell John. He gets jealous… Jealous John… We should start calling him that."
Amy giggled. "The only person that gets jealous is you, Sherly," she teased, elbowing him in his side slightly. She liked this Sherlock. He was fun and less reserved with his feelings. Hell, he'd just admitted that they were best friends. Remembering John and how he was back home, how they were here on a case, Amy pouted. "Well, now we can't go back to the bar to find the bike guy…"
Sherlock waved a hand in the air nonchalantly. "We don't need to," he said easily, "I already know who it is."
"Really? Who?" she asked, genuinely curious.
"Easy. It was Adam Weathers-"
"Woodley?" Amy laughed.
"Whatever his name is, I don't like him. So it's probably him."
Amy nodded. She was trying to act serious, but she really just couldn't. It either had to do with the fact that she had just pulled Sherlock from a bar brawl or that she was still intoxicated herself. It could have been a mixture of both. "Good enough reasoning for me." She hefted herself up from the wall, regaining her balance as she walked away from Sherlock to the edge of the street, hailing a cab as it neared. "Come on, Sherly!" she said as she got into the taxi, "Let's fix your face."
As Sherlock stumbled to the cab, the redhead decided she really should have done this sooner. Next time she'd have to invite John though. The two of them honestly needed a babysitter. If both had been sober and paying attention, they probably would have noticed the man across the street snapping shots of them. But Sherlock had fallen on his way to the cab, which had caused Amy to burst into hysterical giggles.
At about 2 am, two figures burst through the door of the Carruthers home, both laughing and shushing each other. It was honestly a miracle that no one had woken up. If they had, they certainly hadn't come downstairs to tell the two to shut up and go to bed. Amy leaned her head against Sherlock's shoulder, the detective leaning back as they both tried not to fall. "We're going to break something really old and expensive," Amy whispered, laughing a bit as they reached the stairs. She frowned a bit as they reached the stairs. "Sherlock… Turn the stairs into an escalator-thingy…"
"Amelia, I can't," he whined. They both paused at the bottom step, looking at the stairs as though they were the greatest obstacle that any human being could ever face. Sherlock looked at her. "We can do this! I am a… A consulting… Detective! And you're…"
"A kissogram!" Amy cried happily. Sherlock laughed, shushing her again. She made a face, the kind a child does when they're about to be caught. "Let's go, Sherly. If I can face Daleks… I guess I can brave the stairs."
"Daleks?" Sherlock asked. They sounded… Familiar. But he couldn't exactly place why.
Amy hadn't expected him to know, even though the Doctor had acted all shocked when she couldn't recognize them. Still, she didn't know how to explain what they were. "Giant pepper-shakers with a plunger for an arm and mean-dictator aliens living inside them" just sounded like too much of a mouthful right then. Instead she just shrugged and Sherlock followed her lead as they started up the stairs. One time, Amy almost tipped back and fell back before Sherlock got her, which then in turn made him almost die before Amy grabbed the banister and saved them both.
They managed to make it to Amy's room, both heading straight to the bed, flopping onto the mattress face-down. Sherlock sighed into the blankets, both staying in complete silence for a long moment until Amy suddenly realized something. She shifted her body a bit more to his direction. "Oi, don't you have your own bed, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.
He groaned, the sound muffled. "But it's so far!" Sherlock complained. He too turned to Amy. She propped her head up on her pillow and looked at him. All the lights were off, and it had been a miracle enough that they'd managed to find the bed. Still, things were starting to set. He could see the armoire on the far wall and the floral wallpaper. Sherlock's eyes focused on Amy's face, distinguishing her eyes and lips and pale skin and light movement of her chest as she breathed from the darkness. He tried to observe her, like he always did, but nothing new came up. In this case, it was only worse. The only words he could tie to her were funny, ginger, Scottish, pretty, and different. Not at all helpful in finally solving the puzzle that was Amelia Pond. "I'll leave… In five minutes."
She smiled, settling into bed a bit more. "No, you don't have to," Amy told him, "It'll be just like old times, remember?" Back when Amy didn't want to sleep alone, couldn't. Not with that crack in her wall. "You can even tell me a story, Sherly."
"I didn't bring my chemistry book. You're the one with all the stories. Why don't you try one?"
Amy huffed, only pretending to be upset as she rolled onto her back, looking up at the ceiling. "You never wanted to hear my stories," she sniffed. Sherlock had always thought that the space stories were irrelevant, information taking up room in his mind palace. Or at least Amy thought that was his opinion on it.
"That's because you only ever talk about your Doctor when you tell them," he said, "If you talked about yourself more, I might listen more."
"Aw… Sherly, you care about what I say," Amy teased.
"I do," he replied, smiling in the dark, "I like hearing about what you're up to when you're not… With me. It's odd to think anyone can have a life outside my own, and at least yours is a little bit interesting." Though Sherlock could be blunt, he wasn't always truly honest. This time though… His mind didn't have any walls. In fact, it was almost like it was jumping at the chance to finally let out thoughts he wouldn't say otherwise. Like build-up that was finally being released. He looked at Amy for a long moment. "What if he doesn't come back?"
"He will," Amy answered instantly. She'd lived a life fighting everyone's questions about her Raggedy Man. Even in the moments where she had started to doubt him as well. "The Doctor always comes back."
"But what if he doesn't," Sherlock insisted, "What if he comes when you're all… Old. Like 90. You're not going to just jump back into the blue thingy and jet off to Mars."
Amy huffed, "When I'm 90, I'll do whatever I like, Mr. Holmes. Including some time-traveling if that's what I want."
He didn't say anything to that. He couldn't. Sherlock didn't want to think that Amy could just leave him like that. And he didn't want to think that it could affect him. But the alcohol was helping him think clearly. Not intelligently or enough to go looking for clues, but in a way that Sherlock never thought clearly. In that moment, the detective thought about Amy leaving him, and he knew what it'd do to him.
It'd absolutely destroy him.
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