Unconscious Disgust

John wasn't sure how, or why, but, somehow, Sherlock had ended up getting drunk. Okay, to be fair, it was probably for some case that Sherlock hadn't bothered to mention all the details on, but Greg had brought him home and now Sherlock was hunched over on the sofa, mug resting on his knees as he stared into the depths of the black coffee with two sugars.

"Are you happy that you're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow?" John asked bluntly, crossing his arms.

Sherlock blinked once, then twice, without looking up. Everything he did seemed to be in slow motion. He slowly raised his mug and took a sip. "... For a case," he muttered.

"Yeah, I figured as much, but I reiterate: a hell of a hangover." John sighed. "Did you go anywhere while you were like this? I hope you didn't drunk deduce anyone."

Sherlock frowned at his coffee, eyebrows drawing together, like it was personally offending him with its presence. "... You know what I hate?"

John sighed; Sherlock hadn't answered his question, but John would humour him. "What?"

"Friends."

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, thanks a lot there."

Sherlock raised his head, looking across the room at John. "I'm serious. I mean..." He leaned back against the couch. "You meet someone, and they seem like they know you, like they get you, you know? But no one ever really does. And then they all leave."

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Uni friends. People. Those types."

"Friends from university?" John echoed. "You?" That came out sounding a bit more harsh than he intended, but... honesty.

"You just think that they're the best thing and you want to be with them all the time. You trust them... im...plicity, yeah?" He was stumbling over his words; John wondered how much he'd had to drink for both that reason and the subject matter. "But they find someone else, something else... and you don't mean anything to them anymore."

"That's not true," John replied. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was talking from experience, but he was going to take it as well. "Well, it's not if you have good friends. If your friends leave for something else, they weren't really friends to begin with."

Sherlock looked up again, smiling wryly. "John. You and I. We both have trust issues. Don't spout therapy on me."

John shrugged. "I'm not. Look at me and Mike, Bill. I didn't see them for years and we go out for drinks at least once a month now. People come and go, but friends stick around no matter what. You might not talk to them for years, but the great thing is that they're always there when you go back. Real friends never desert each other."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a moment before smiling blindingly. "You were there when I came back."

John smiled in spite of himself. "Yeah, well, I've been left behind enough to know who my true friends are. I guess I grew up from high school."

Sherlock's smile twisted into a smirk. "I guess I never grew up. People still backstab me. I never thought I'd be able to come back to you, have to admit." He took another drink of his coffee, robotically. "... I was an arse."

This was definitely a different side to Sherlock. "You were," John agreed, "but I'm not stupid enough to think that I was ever going to be okay after you died. There was a huge part missing, maybe-"

"Agreed," Sherlock interrupted. "I was miserable. I'm never miserable when a 'friendship'-" he hooked his fingers into air quotes- "goes off. I stopped bothering to be miserable because I knew no one cared. But you...?" He narrowed his eyes. "It's different. You've always been different."

"Of course I am. Someone has to be crazy enough to put up with you," John joked.

Sherlock seemed contemplative. "... So, in other words, this is true friendship?" he asked shortly.

John shrugged. "I don't know. Who ever knows? But..." he trailed off for a moment. It wasn't like he was the drunk one here, but Sherlock probably wouldn't remember any of this conversation, anyway. "I have my friends, and then I have you," he continued quietly. "You're family to me, Sherlock. So, maybe... 'friends' desert people. But family doesn't, yeah?"

Sherlock was quiet. His blue eyes met John's and John could tell that he was being searched, that same look that the detective used to deduce everyone or everything.

But then Sherlock smiled again, like a kid in a candy store. "Brother John," he drawled, and his drunken smile proved that it was apparently the most hilarious thing on earth.

John rolled his eyes but couldn't help but grin, getting to his feet. "Yeah, sure, Father Holmes." He took the mug away from Sherlock. "Come on. Let's get you into bed before you can start talking philosophy, yeah?"

Sherlock sighed, but stumbled to his feet as John helped him up. It was a painstaking process, but John managed to get the drunken genius into his own bed, tucked under the blankets to push off what John was sure would become a hell of a hangover.

"Night, Sherlock." John was just about to turn away when Sherlock's fingers locked around his wrist, preventing him from moving. "Sher-"

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupted. His eyes had a strange sense of clarity about them for a drunk person. "Really," he said seriously.

John blinked. "You're welcome." He wasn't sure what they were talking about, to be honest. The getting him into bed thing? Taking care of him after Greg had brought him home? The friend thing?

Sherlock just released his wrist and pulled the blankets closer, closing his eyes.

John watched him for a second longer before shaking his head quickly, turning away. He hit the light on his way out and closed the door behind him.