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“Are you drunk?” Wato asks from the doorway of their cramped room. She holds onto the doorframe for balance as she takes off her shoes, eyeing Sherlock where she sits on the floor, back leaned against Wato’s bed. She’s flushed and her eyes are dark and a little clouded as she gazes up at Wato, the corner of her mouth turning upwards. There’s a half-empty bottle of something suspiciously clear next to her.
“Not very,” Sherlock mumbles.
“You brought alcohol?” Wato says, as she settles on the floor next to Sherlock. She really is very flushed. And her eyes are very dark.
“You didn’t?” Sherlock snorts at the probably ridiculous look on Wato’s face. “I’m kidding, I know you’re a good kid. Almost too good.” She mutters the last bit.
“They do room checks.”
“Yes, Wato, I’m aware. I think you’re the only one in this dorm who isn’t hiding anything even remotely illegal.” She rolls her eyes, but her gaze is fond when she looks back up at Wato, full of that warmth that she gets sometimes. It’s a little heady, that someone like Sherlock would look at her like that. That there’s something in Wato that could catch Sherlock’s attention. “Which is unfortunate. You could get away with a lot. Anyway. You want some?”
“What exactly is that?” Wato eyes the bottle, dubious.
“Gin,” Sherlock says. “It tastes like rubbing alcohol, but we’re in Catholic prison, what can you do?”
“You don’t have a— a chaser?” She fumbles for the word, feeling like a dork. The sort of dork that hasn’t been to a highschool party in her life.
“Didn’t seem worth the effort to get one. Definitely paying for it now, though.”
Wato gingerly takes the bottle and takes a sip. It is strong, and abrasive, and she isn’t sure if she likes it. She tells Sherlock as much.
Sherlock huffs a laugh. “When we get out of here, I’ll take you out to get something that isn’t garbage.” She takes a swig. Wato eyes the rim of the bottle, thinking of how her lips were just on it, thinking of chasing the shadow of her lips on a bottle with the real thing, maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve kissed, but she and Sherlock have an— odd relationship. A delicate balance. Most of the time, Wato knows how to work things with Sherlock. But then they have these moments, when time seems to slow, and Wato looks at Sherlock’s (beautiful, beautiful) face, and she feels like maybe she wants to tip the balance, like she could do anything, anything—
“Oookay. Maybe you’ve had enough of that,” Wato says, taking the bottle out of Sherlock’s limp grasp just as it’s about to tip over and setting it aside.
“You’re sweet,” Sherlock says, patting Wato on the Cheek. Her hand stays on Wato’s face. She laughs a little, breathy. “Most people would’ve let me black out. Or would’ve drank half of my gin. But not you! That’s one thing I like about you.”
“That I don’t condone your alcohol abuse?”
“Mhm,” Sherlock hums in agreement, her smile going a little crooked. Her eyes never leave Wato’s. That is, until they flicker to her lips and stay there.
“Are there other things?” Wato asks. She can barely breathe.
“Sure,” Sherlock says, before she leans in, her eyes trained on Wato’s mouth.