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"No no no no no!" Sherlock yelled, gripping John's arm tightly as he clung to him for balance. "No! No...! No..."

"Sherlock... Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "Shut up!"

Sherlock groaned and leaned against John's form as his legs wobbled precariously beneath him. He had never had this problem before. Had he gotten taller? His legs were like... toothpicks.

"Toothpicks... John, I feel sick," he moaned, wincing as John slipped his arms under his armpits to keep him up.

"Sit down... Sit... Sit down, you git," John muttered, placing his hand at the small of his back, shoving him towards the padded bench.

Sherlock stumbled and fell forward, catching himself against the wall. He sighed and slipped down the few feet, resting his forehead against the bench.

John snickered. "On your bum, not your face."

Sherlock slowly transferred his weight onto first his hip and then his bottom as directed, sighing as he slumped back against the wall. "Oh, John... You..." he trailed off before perking up again. "Who am I?"

"... Well, you're not the bloody King of England," John replied, slumping to the floor.

"No, I thought... I thought I was you," Sherlock muttered, clumsily dropping his arm around his stomach. It was churning horrendously. So was the world. Like a drying machine. He wanted it to... "Stop," he mumbled, closing his eyes. "John, who am I?"

John sighed heavily. "Sh'lock Holmes."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I'm Sherlock Holmes. Who was the paper stuck to my face?"

John sighed again. "Sherlock Holmes," he repeated.

"No, John-"

"You're bloody Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock!"

Sherlock winced, his hands flying to his head. It felt like it was going to explode. The noise made it pound and the silence made it pound and, oh...

"I think I'm gon-" was all he managed before he threw up.

He did have to admit that it was rather... spectacular. He wasn't trying to make a mess, but projectile vomiting seemed to be in his repertoire. Sherlock blinked in surprise, put his fingers against his mouth, watched as John scrambled drunkenly towards the other end of the cell.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock slumped down further, hunching his shoulders. "I don't..."

"There's a toilet right there!" John protested.

"John..." Sherlock repeated, his voice coming out something disturbingly close to a whimper.

John sighed, stumbling back over to him whilst trying to sidestep his vomit. "Lay down," he muttered.

"It smells like puke," Sherlock said bluntly, struggling to control his limbs to get laid down correctly.

John sighed, pushing him down onto the bench. "I wonder why that is, genius."

"I threw up," Sherlock said, his mind actually making the deduction. He realised he sounded quite proud about it when he... probably? shouldn't have.

"Again," John said. "Just sleep."

Sherlock hummed and coughed, pain shooting through his body. "Ohh... John."

"What?" John muttered, stumbling across the cell again. "Wait a minute, I've got to get... get the guy that... that-that picks up your puke."

Sherlock groaned softly and draped his arm across his stomach, the other over his eyes. How was he so miserable? Why was he so miserable? He was... oh... hell. His head, his stomach, his mind... Where were they? He didn't even know what jail or... wherever they were. What was happening? How did he get... like this?

He had been taking care... all the limits, the schedule... meant to stay within the sweet spot but now he was failing, had failed, but why? Did he drink more than four hundred... four hundred... whatever... milli-things? Nah, he would have noticed, right? Except probably not... He needed water. Something to mainline the alcohol. Toilets! That, too. John had been; Sherlock hadn't. Filter out the... the stuff.

By the time that he had worked through these deductions, the puke-picker-upper had come and gone, leaving the floor relatively cleaner.

"John," he exclaimed, struggling with his arms and legs again. What were they, made of jelly? And why were they so damn long? "John, I've got to-to-to..." He was unconsciously repeating himself as he tried to find the correct, proper word. "... Urinate," he settled on bluntly.

John looked up at him blankly. "... I'm not helping."

Sherlock snickered, pushing himself to his feet. "Well, no, because, then, people would ta-" His feet slipped out from under him on the wet floor and he went down with a heavy thump. "Woah. Hello." He grinned at John, relatively eye-level with him now. "The floor wanted to say hello."

John's lips tugged towards a smile, but his eyes slipped closed before he could speak.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer, realising that his trousers were getting cold, wet. Reminding him to go to the toilet. He pushed himself away from the wet floor, crawling the distance to the toilet. In actuality, he ended up smacking his head against the toilet, but he got there (albeit now his head hurt worse and who knew what he'd just exposed his hair to).

Getting back to his feet was the worst part... He was starting to sway when he stood still, or walked, and the world was spinning when he didn't. He used the toilet, came to the startling conclusion that there wasn't a sink ("Why isn't there a sink? You're supposed to wash your hands after you touch your-" "Shut up, Sherlock," John muttered.), and stumbled his way back to the bench.

No more than he got there he had to turn around and run (not a good thing for a person in his condition) back to the toilet to throw up again. There was nothing but liquid - all the beer probably - and bile. It burned coming back up.

"Sh'lock...?" John mumbled, toddling up behind him. "Hey... Go back to bed, mate."

Sherlock sighed shakily, rubbing his hand across his mouth. One minute, he was standing there, the next, his legs had gone - utterly gone - and he collapsed. John caught him but they both went down, although a majority of Sherlock ended up on John's lap.

"Oww... You git," John muttered.

"... Mpphmghh."

"I don't know what you're trying to say. Get up." John prodded his side and Sherlock moaned, squirming away, to anywhere but something tickling his stomach; it already hurt enough already. "Come on, Sherlock..."

Sherlock. Sherlock; right. That was his name. He remembered. "Hmm...?"

"You need to go to bed," John mumbled, slowly hauling both of them back to their feet.

Sherlock was no help. He couldn't find his body. He was disconnected from it, floating somewhere high up in space, only aware of the headache and the stomach-ache.

Step by step, unsteady and wobbling, John guided him back to the bench and pushed him towards it again.

Sherlock tried to catch himself before he could face-plant on the padded covering, but his arms collapsed and he faceplanted anyway. He sighed heavily, breathing in the scent of plastic covering and disinfectant. Vaguely, he was aware that John was shoving his legs up onto the bench too, and then silence and still.

Sherlock, after an immeasurable amount of minutes, rolled onto his back slowly. He stared at the ceiling, shuffing his arm off the bench to reach towards where he thought John was.

"John... Hey..."

"Hmmm?"

"... Be happy."

"What?"

Snoring met John's inquiry. By the time that Greg showed up, neither of them remembered the conversation.

The question went unanswered, but the sentiment had been there. Briefly, fleetingly, but alcohol, on top of all of its destructive tendencies, had brought out the emotion in Sherlock Holmes nonetheless.

Only by design of alcohol... and only for John, of course.

Because there isn't enough of this scenario all over the fanfiction pages yet. But drunkie!lock is so adorable. (And it's been a headcanon for a long time and I think I was more excited about that than I was the wedding.) Poor dears. Interesting pub crawl idea, though. Strangely sentimental. :P Can't tell if John purposefully spiked Sherlock's drink or if he had meant to spike his own.

I don't own Sherlock. Thank you!