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John hadn’t expected Sherlock to be a giggly drunk. He hadn’t really had a clue what to expect when they popped the cork on their second bottle of wine of the night, when he realised that he had never actually seen Sherlock properly drunk. But here the two were, on their fourth bottle (John had clearly been smart to stock up for Christmas), sitting side by side on the couch, hardly able to make it through a sentence without one of them breaking out in laughter.
“-And then when you said… what was it… ah,” John put on his poshest accent. “If it isn’t the blue cabaruncle... carbah… whatever,” (giggles from Sherlock), “up the ass of a goose!” John finished loudly and the two broke into fits again.
“Watson, Watson, when I… remember when I put your microphone up the-” More laughter.
“I’m seriously never forgiving you for that one, mate,” John grinned, taking a swig from the bottle. After dinner they had taken their drinks to the living room, cozying up on the couch. It was somewhere around midnight now and they had long since forfeited wine glasses, instead just passing the bottle back and forth. John felt like he was back in university, though with significantly less-shitty alcohol. He said a ‘thank you’ to Sherlock’s clients’ wallets for that.
“Y’know,” he said, “I still feel really bad I was gonna leave you alone over Christmas.”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t like Christmas for any sentimental reasons, Watson. I can see lights and colors without you.”
John shrugged and sunk deeper into the couch. He yawned and stumbled through his next words. “Yeah, I know, but it’s like… like… I don’t know, I think you deserve to have someone to… uh… experience it with. I dun even know what I’m saying, but uh, whatever. Point is, I’m glad I stayed home.”
Sherlock took the bottle away from John and drank. “Hmm. I suppose I’m glad too. ‘M Sorry I stopped you from, uh… pounding pints with the boys, or whatever it was you said to me.” John laughed.
“Well, didn’t stop me from getting all wine-drunk here at 221B, did it? A few less German ladies, but I’ve got the world’s best and only consulting detective.” He leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. “Y’know, I realised I’ve never actually seen you drunk before.”
“Yes, you have. I’ve gone out drinking with you multiple times.”
“Tch, yeah, but one or two pints doesn’t count. Like… this ‘ere counts as proper drunk.”
“Legally, a .08% blood alcohol level counts as ‘properly drunk’,” Sherlock said, his head falling onto his shoulder sleepily. John scoffed light-heartedly. They were silent for a few minutes and John looked fondly at Sherlock. Wine always made him sentimental, he thought idly.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his arms.
Sherlock looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Wanna give you a hug. You like hugs, right?”
“I suppose I do.”
“Then get over here, you idiot.” John beckoned. With a sigh, Sherlock swung his legs down from where they had been slung over the arm of the couch and scooted over to John, allowing himself to be wrapped in his arms. His head was pressed to John’s chest, and he could hear his heartbeat, and feel the loosening of his own muscles. He yawned deeply again, and John’s answering yawn ruffled his hair. He felt him rest his chin on top of his head.
Sherlock didn’t want to move at all. The full extent of his exhaustion from the day’s activity, which he would usually be able to ignore, had been amplified by the alcohol, and he was content to remain exactly where he was all night. Evidently, John felt the same way, as he made no move to disengage with the hug.
“‘M just gonna sleep out here. Too much work to get up,” John mumbled. Sherlock answered in a grunt of assent. John repositioned so he was laying down and Sherlock remained on top of him, head tucked over his shoulder. The couch was definitely too small to accommodate two fully grown men, even stacked on top of each other, but the alcohol and the long day had made them tired enough that all they really needed to do was close their eyes and sleep came.
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John blinked his eyes open slowly, trying to figure out where he was. His head was pounding and he could feel dehydration down to his chest. He drank way too much last night. And why was it so bright? It took him a minute to fully remember, assisted by the realization of the weight on his chest, that he had fallen asleep in the living room, with the curtains open, with Sherlock Holmes on top of him.
“Good morning,” Sherlock said. He was fully awake, though John could tell he was also feeling the effects of last night. “I didn’t want to wake you up by moving.”
Waking John up had never been a concern to Sherlock when he was firing guns or causing chemical explosions at three in the morning, but he was too hung over to make a comment about it. It was fairly easy to deduce, even as a podcaster slash doctor slash not-detective, that Sherlock was just equally as unenthusiastic at the thought of getting up as John was.
“Alright,” he yawned, “up now then. I need coffee.” John pushed him lightly and Sherlock rolled off of John and unceremoniously pulled himself to his feet.
“Too bright,” Sherlock complained, yanking the curtains closed dramatically. “Get me a cup too.”
When the coffee was brewed, the two sat, silent and slouching, at the table.
“I will never understand why you like drinking so much. I feel horrible.”
“Yeah, well. It’s always a lovely time until the next day.” John refilled his mug. Another stretch of silence, during which Sherlock stood haggardly, cracked his back and neck, and flopped back down.
“It wasn’t good for my back, but you make quite a comfortable mattress, you know,” Sherlock said, looking at John over the rim of his mug. John huffed.
“You’re lucky. You’re heavier than you look, you know. I could hardly breathe all night,” he said. Sherlock shrugged.
“Don’t complain. I’m fairly certain the whole thing was your idea.”
“My idea to drink four bottles of expensive wine, my idea to sleep on the couch. I’m not very gifted in fore-sight, evidently.”
“Evidently not.”
-----
The rest of the day was spent back on the couch, with Sherlock being subjected to all the bad movies John could find. To his credit, he managed to keep some of his comments about the quality of the films to himself. Not many, though. And though John complained every time Sherlock pointed out the plot holes or the lack of realism, he wouldn’t have preferred to spend his hung over 26th any other way.