"Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night. Of course, there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits..."
. . .
You yelled out a quick "Enjoy!" to the boys as you rushed out to work the morning of their stag do, almost knocking over the two graduated cylinders on the table which you had initially just brushed off as part of Sherlock's many experiments.
Apparently, they were to drink at a pub on every street where they had found a dead body.
Of course. Trust Sherlock Holmes to plan a murder themed pub-crawl.
Work that day had been tedious. You were well beyond your usual hours of work and so immersed in the case assigned to you that you jerked up in your place as a ringing phone broke the silence.
Glancing down at your phone, you frowned as you read Sherlock flash up on your screen. He always texted when he could and rarely called. Remembering that they were still supposed to be out for the night, you began to worry, hoping they weren't in some sort of trouble.
"Hey Sherlock, what's up?"
"Hi."
"Hi," you replied tentatively, wary at the unexpected greeting. He hardly ever greeted if he called, always opting to get straight to the point. When he didn't say anything further, you probed, "Is everything alright?"
"Hmm... there was s'thing... a thing I needed... to tell you?" he slurred, sounding uncertain.
Wait, was Sherlock Holmes...?
"Something... but-I-can't-rem'ber-what", he muttered, his words coming out in an incomprehensible jumble.
"Sherlock you're drunk," you said with a giggle.
Was this his version of a drunk dial? You held in a chuckle at the thought of Sherlock Holmes ever 'drunk dialling' anyone.
"Me? Drunk? No-no-no-no, not with the precautions I've taken, never," and almost as if on cue, he hiccuped. "Oh, s'cuse me... you should see John though," he said with a wheeze and continued in a whisper as if to make sure only you could hear him. "I may have miscalculated - he's absolutely hammered!"
"Right," you drawled out sarcastically.
"Why aren't you home? You're never home these days," he said, letting out a child-like huff.
You chuckled softly. You always found it amusing how needy Sherlock Holmes really was once he was comfortable around someone, contrary to his public image of being a poised, independent individual. Intoxication seemed to have amplified his neediness.
"I spent the entire evening yesterday watching you try on dress shirts in different shades of white! I do have to work to pay the rent you know."
"Rent, work... who cares?"
"Well, some of us do!"
There was a short pause after which he spoke in a quiet voice, "Y/N?"
"Yes?" you replied, your heart fluttering at the way he called out your name.
"Thank you... that's... what I wanted to say."
"Thank me? For what?"
"For... you made it so much easier... to lose John."
His voice was soft and gentle as he spoke. You froze and blinked a few times in an attempt to comprehend the full extent of his words. Him being such an ardent and enthusiastic member of the planning prior to the wedding was just a rouse, you eventually came to realise; a way to occupy his mind whilst the truth of how terrified he was with the prospect of a life without John Watson remained suppressed. Which is why you found yourself spending more and more time with him, be it bringing in more cases for him to look at or by helping him out with the wedding. Was it a means of reassuring him? Perhaps, but you also found yourself savouring the time spent in his company, missing it on the days you were occupied with something else. You never thought he would ever notice however, nevertheless admit it...
"Sherlock, you're not going to lose John," you started slowly just as he interjected with his voice barely above a whisper, "I don't want to be alone again."
Your chest tightened at his sincere confession, almost being able to hear the despair and emotion seeping through the phone. You gripped your phone tighter against your ear, almost as if doing so would somehow comfort him.
Intoxication seemed to have removed the filter which would otherwise have prevented his sober self from ever baring his soul and admitting to his deepest fear: loneliness. The man who painted himself to be the epitome of the antisocial human being was afraid of being alone. You felt a pang in your heart at the thought.
Overcoming the lump in your throat you said, "You're never going to be alone, Sherlock. I promise you."
There was so much more you wanted, you needed, to say despite the voice in your head telling you he probably wouldn't remember much, if at all, any of this. But before you could say anything else, he suddenly hissed, "Oh, that's John-! He said he was setting something up and I said I'd help, I need to go!"
You left soon after he abruptly hung up, deciding there was no point in trying to get work done when you couldn't focus on anything with the conversation you just had still plaguing your every thought.
You walked into an empty flat with no sign of either of them. For some reason, you were expecting to see John and Sherlock possibly passed out on the sofa in the living room. Two glasses of wine sat at the coffee table, not completely empty yet not full either, and bits of paper were strewn across the floor.
What the hell happened here?
Mrs Hudson must have heard you come in as you heard her footsteps coming up the stairs.
"A client came in, and then they were gone! You know how it is," she replied when you asked her about their whereabouts.
"In that state?" you asked incredulously, to which Mrs Hudson just shrugged her shoulders in response. Her face morphed into disapproval as she finally caught sight of the living room.
"One of these days I'll stop cleaning after these two. That will teach them who's in charge around here!"
______________________________
Your eyes jolted open.
You felt slightly disoriented as you stirred awake, the television which was on mute now coming into focus. You had fallen asleep on the sofa and for a second, you couldn't remember how or why.
Eventually it all came rushing back to you. Running late for work... spilling coffee on your favourite shirt... John's stag night... drunk Sherlock... drunk Sherlock calling you...
Oh God.
It all came rushing back to you and you remembered thinking it would be a good idea to wait for the boys to return only to somehow doze off on the sofa.
Grabbing your phone, you groaned as you caught sight of the time; it was 2:40 am. Checking your notifications, you saw that Lestrade had texted you a few hours ago. Opening the message, the image you laid your eyes on finally startled you awake.
It was a picture of Sherlock and John in a holding cell. Sherlock was on the bench, presumably passed out whilst John was sat on the floor with a hand towards the camera in a feeble attempt at hiding his face.
Catch of the day!
Lestrade's message read at the bottom.
Getting an inkling as to what may have happened, you sighed deeply. Your head still foggy from sleep, you didn't have the energy in you to give it much thought. Switching off the television, you shook yourself up from the awkward position on the sofa and headed to your bedroom to finally get some proper sleep.
______________________________
"Fun night, huh?" you teased, looking up from your laptop to watch their disgruntled faces trudge into the living room the next morning. Having been filled in with the details already, you couldn't help but grin at the sight.
Fortunately, it was your day off and it had been a quiet morning so far until you heard the door downstairs crack open and two pairs of sluggish footsteps coming up the stairs.
"Yeah, the best," John mumbled sarcastically in response.
Sherlock shuffled his way to the sofa without saying a word and flopped into it, burying his head in his hands.
"Er, Mrs Hudson in?" John asked you as he eyed Sherlock curiously.
"Yeah, she's downstairs."
Giving you a sheepish smile, he muttered a quick thanks as he turned around to walk back down.
You stared at Sherlock's hunched figure for a while before hesitantly asking, "You okay, Sherlock?"
He let out a low groan in response, muffled from his hands before running them through his hair as he spoke.
"A client came in last night with the most interesting case I've had for months. Months!" he cried, now looking up at you with his face scrunched up in irritation.
You hated yourself for finding him so attractive in his current state, with his face red in agitation and his hair tousled up, when that was the last thing you should be focusing on at a moment like this.
"While I was too caught up painting the crime scene with the contents of my stomach. And my head-," he let out a low growl as he pressed his palms against the side of his head with a pained expression on his face.
"Yeah, the consequences of drinking aren't the best."
He remained silent, making no attempt to move from his current position.
"You should get something for that hangover."
Sherlock bolted upright on the sofa, almost as if the word 'hangover' personally offended him.
"There's no time for that," he said with a look of determination crossing his face and sprung up from his seat. He walked towards the table in the centre of the room and began shuffling around for something.
I don't want to be alone.
"Sherlock..."
"Mmm?" he asked absentmindedly, still riffling through the contents of the table
You silently watched him as he pulled out a map of London and spread it out on the table, as snippets of the conversation from last night now echoed through your head.
"Have you seen-" he turned around to ask you but was caught off guard by a pair of arms wrapping around him in an embrace.
His shirt smelled funny, but that didn't bother you at all. He stiffened at the contact and his hands lay awkwardly at his sides as you continued to hug him.
You hugged him tighter at the memory of how vulnerable he sounded as he spoke on the phone last night, and how heartbroken you felt even after he hung up. With your head rested against his chest you could hear the increasing pace of his heart beat, and if his drunken confession wasn't proof enough, the soft thudding of his heart was a blatant reminder that he was human after all.
You let go off the embrace only to place your hands on his chest, suddenly feeling awkward at the closeness and your impulsive decision to hug him.
"What was that for?" he asked you, looking just as awkward as you felt.
"I really missed you. That's – that's all," you replied, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.
"I was gone only for a night."
"I know."
You smiled up at him sheepishly and started to let go just as Sherlock grabbed onto your arm before you could walk away.
"What did I say?" he asked you suddenly in a low voice which sent a shiver down your spine. He looked into your eyes searchingly and you gulped nervously.
"What did you say... when?" you asked slowly, your heart rate quickening at the anticipation of what you were sure he was about to say.
"I called you last night. I just-" he looked away now, almost frustrated and embarrassed of what he was going to say next. "I just don't remember what I said."
"Oh, um-" you laughed nervously, trying to appear nonchalant. "You were saying a lot of things... you know, things people say when they're drunk!" you said dismissively.
You hated the way you sounded as you spoke but you had no intention of telling him the truth, at least not right now. Just for his sake, it was better he didn't know.
"Y/N... what do people say when they're drunk?" he asked, his stare boring into your soul.
"Oh, just things like how much fun you two were having ... getting drunk and stuff. Like people do."
Getting drunk and stuff? What?
It didn't need a genius to know that you were lying, but fortunately he let go of your arm, an unreadable expression etched on his face.
You turned around and scurried back to your seat, missing the look of disbelief the Detective threw in your direction once you had your back turned on him.
You set your attention back to your laptop, only to suddenly have it ripped away from your hands.
"Hey! I was using that!"
"Not anymore. We have a ghost to catch!"