Of Pubs, And Not So Peaceful Tuesdays

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC.

Notes: I call this 'that ridiculous pub fic'. There's a reason for that, but I'm not going into it. I'm sharing it here because ... just because.

All concrit is appreciated though :)

"John, I'm bored," Sherlock proclaims on a rainy Tuesday afternoon.

John doesn't respond at once, just shifts on his chair, and lets his gaze wander over to the window – seeing nothing but dark clouds and grey, drab buildings. Still, he likes it: it's peaceful and quiet – even the rain pattering onto the roof sounds nice, soothing to his ears. Better than bombs strapped to his chest, better than the quiet ticking of his heartbeat when a gun is pressed against his forehead, better than –

"You're not paying any attention," Sherlock cuts in, sounding surprisingly miffed, and John looks up, catching that expression of displeasure on Sherlock's face: his eyebrows furrowed, his mouth stretching to a thin line …If he doesn't comply, John knows that there will just be more heads in the fridge and toes in the microwave. Another piece of disturbance he doesn't need.

He sighs. Greg was right. Sherlock really is a child. "Fine," John finally says, rising on to his feet, ignoring the mild crick-crack of his bad leg, and trying not to wince when he has trouble standing straight for a minute or two. It'll always be bad during rainy weather, his medical knowledge tells him. And yet – as it often happens – John doesn't find his expertise very soothing at all.

But Sherlock, though John is sure can read every wince and groan of his, doesn't say anything, just shrugs out of his nightgown, tossing it onto the sofa before he leaves for his bedroom.

He doesn't say anything either when he returns ten minutes later, dressed in his elegant suit (which costs more than John's monthly salary at the surgery), and merely nods, indicating that John get ready as he puts on his coat and throws his scarf over his neck.

Not that it's necessary. John is already at the door, in his outdoor clothes and going along with it, even though he knows his plans of spending a peaceful evening are slowly, but certainly going exactly nowhere.

But then again, life with Sherlock is rarely peaceful, and John hasn't moved out yet. If things go well – John hopes – he won't be for a long time coming.

John has always liked pubs: especially the Irish ones. There's always cheerful Irish beats playing in the background, and the mates here aren't gits like the ones you meet in some posh, fancy restaurants, but some stuck in the same boat as John: single, unemployed and yet a good enough chap to not talk about it all the time. Yet, the reason why John likes Stamford, even though he is employed and married, is because he's never made John feel like a poor sod for not being either of those.

So, when John needs to de-stress, he often goes to a pub, sits down by one of the wooden tables in a corner, orders a beer and drinks until he's merry, but not wrecked. Ever since Harry got diagnosed as an alcoholic, John knows where to draw the line.

But a little drinking has never harmed anyone, and pubs are a good place to go to if he needs some peace of his mind. Or, better said, if he needs some distance from Sherlock – John knows that a pub is one of the few places Sherlock won't follow him to ('nothing but a waste of time' Sherlock says, 'alcohol dulls the senses –').

And yet, on this Tuesday, Sherlock is at his side, hovering beside him like an overgrown bat, and John – though he usually doesn't attract any attention at all – feels all eyes on him. He flushes, feeling small and insignificant next to Sherlock. Especially when the barmaid, whom he's been trying to chat up since God knows when, winks at Sherlock while polishing a glass – her efforts most certainly wasted because John doesn't even think that Sherlock wanks.

Sometimes, John thinks, life really is nothing but some a track that just keeps on running, despite all attempts to keep it on stand-by.

As a doctor – a very good one even – John knows that not drinking a lot leads to one not possessing a high tolerance for alcohol. Predictably, although John is sure that Sherlock has dabbled in cocaine, is wrecked after a few shots of scotch. To Sherlock's defence, he takes it quite well: not obviously drunk, but his cheeks only slightly flushed, and his eyes only a little dilated. He does talk funny though.

"And, as I told Mycroft that one time," Sherlock says quicker than usual, gesticulating wildly, "I was going to prove that jumping out of the window from a height of 1,5 metres doesn't break bones, but merely causes a few scratches and a dizzy head – so I jumped and … well, I did miscalculateand spent the next few weeks in bed with a fractured shoulder …" And then he smiles, shaking his head at the memory as if he hasn't thought about it for a long time.

It's a bit cute and sad, John thinks, because it reminds him how Sherlock can be human if he wants to, and how – when he does show emotions – he's nearly vulnerable, and how his eyes – usually only expressive when a new case shows up – seem a bit lost, and how oddly something he looks when he runs his tongue over his lower lip ... But John shakes that thought away; it's not like Sherlock is telling him all this because he expects anything out of John. He dispels his odd impulse too. It's not like he finds Sherlock attractive (absolutely not…).

Sherlock is just drunk. He's just nothing but a drunken flatmate, and it's not like John wants to be the one to bring Sherlock's defences down, to be the person who's closest to Sherlock, and see more to him than just the extraordinarily crazy genius who gets off on crime cases (and he's sure Sally was wrong, he saw that Sherlock cared, saw it when Moriarty talked about hearts being burnt out -).

No, he just Sherlock's friend– and that's what's friends do: wanting to be closer to someone, wanting to lean forward, and trace a finger against those lips, just to see whether Sherlock's breath would hitch …

"John, let's go – it's stuffy in here," Sherlock suddenly exclaims, taking John's hand into his (warm) one, and – even though he's being pulled out of the pub like this, and Sherlock doesn't drop his hand while they start walking through the streets – John feels grateful.

Because that last thread of thought certainly wasn't feasible.

John can tell that Sherlock is drunk by the time they reach home because he's wobbling, and it took John several attempts to not have Sherlock running against a pole.

Which sounds funny, but really isn't because there's no fun in dragging around a man who's about a head taller than you and just as strong as any regular soldier. John has a few bruises already from where he collided against a brick wall after trying to drag Sherlock away from what he thought was – he doesn't even want to think about it, only that a plastered Sherlock seems to see criminals and clues everywhere. Even in a life-size poster of Elton John.

Right. John is more than happy when they reach 221 B Baker Street.

But it doesn't get better when they reach their floor. John is grateful they didn't stumble upon Mrs Hudson – uncomfortable, seeing how John basically dragged Sherlock up the staircase.

"You're …surprisingly heavy," John says, panting, dropping Sherlock at the sofa, and shaking his head as he takes off his leather coat. "You shouldn't have gone to a pub."

Sherlock merely snorts, stretching out like a lazy cat on the sofa – his long legs already occupying most of the space, and leaving John no other choice but to sit at his usual spot. Selfish prat, John thinks, and rubs his temples, letting out a deep breath when he realises that Sherlock is sulky. And a sulky Sherlock translates to a room filled with the sound of silence.

John doesn't mind the silence, is even grateful because rarely do drunk people have anything good to say: he knows it from his father, he knows it from his ex-army mates, he knows it from Harry. He knows far too much about it to care for conversation or small talk right now. So he gets up and decides to watch telly. Watching telly on a Tuesday evening is good, peaceful.

Yet, it's exactly then that Sherlock decides to speak. "I wanted to …understand you."

John pauses, frowning as he turns around to face Sherlock. "Pardon?" He doesn't turn on the TV, just stands there, waiting.

And, for once, Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, just shifts on the couch, until he finally sits up a bit, apparently feeling hot because he undoes the buttons of his coat, letting it fall off his shoulders. Like this, and with his hair tousled, John is yet again reminded how young Sherlock can look.

"I said I wanted to understand," Sherlock groans, brushing away a loose curl that keeps falling against his forehead, "how your brain works. So I dulled it with alcohol, and –indeed – my ability for deduction and observation has dropped to at least … fifty percent."

John just raises an eyebrow. "Sure didn't seem that way to me." Considering that Sherlock suddenly saw traces of crime on every crook and hidden alley on their way home.

Sherlock just snaps. "Don't doubt me, John. It's frightening how little I'm thinking right now. And yet, how clearly I see things. In fact, right now –" and he suddenly gets up, and walks towards John - surprisingly graceful though he does still wobble a bit – until they are face to face, and John can feel the smell of alcohol coming from Sherlock.

He takes a step back. "…Right now?" He swallows. "What is with right now?"

"You want me," Sherlock says unceremoniously, taking another step forward and then tracing a long, thin finger down John's cheek. "You've been looking at me all evening –"

"…That's a bit sudden," John interrupts, trying not to react to that caress or the way Sherlock's gaze makes his heartbeat quicken. "And random. I don't understand what makes you suddenly think that." And he really doesn't. Certainly, he did look at Sherlock a bit, but that was just … well, it was nothing that Sherlock thought it was. Besides, who cares what Sherlock thinks – he's like a robot half of the time and …

John's thoughts die a sudden death when Sherlock just leans forward and kisses him. It's hardly romantic, what with the touch of scotch mingled with the natural taste that is Sherlock, but it's not shy either: Sherlock kisses like he does everything else: directly and not holding back. He might not be the most experienced kisser, but John does find himself groaning and opening his mouth, letting Sherlock dip his tongue inside, and John also moves in closer, digging his fingers into the material of Sherlock's coat as –

"You do want me. I was right – I was right," Sherlock says – his eyes shining with glee, and his smile as wide as the cat's who caught the canary - before he pulls away, and practically stumbles back against the couch, falling asleep in a matter of minutes.

And John?

John stands there, dumb-struck as he touches his lips and wonders just what the bloody hell happened, and why he didn't stop Sherlock, why he kissed back -

(He already knows he's never taking Sherlock to a pub again.

But, deep down, he also knows he'll let Sherlock kiss him again, if he ever feels like it.)

...