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The inspector had not only woken Watson from slumber by calling in the middle of the night, he also had Sherlock Holmes with him, drunk as a bat and grinning like a cat who had fallen into the cream jug. It wasn’t usually his nature to shout, at least he didn’t think so, but now he roared at Inspector Lestrade in sheer anger.
“You got him drunk?” he shouted even as he caught Holmes, who was in danger of toppling over as soon as Lestrade loosened his grip on him.
“I beg your pardon?” Lestrade shouted back. “I didn’t get him drunk! I found him like this!”
“Poppycock!” Watson growled. “He went out to meet you!”
“Fiddlesticks!” Lestrade replied, way beyond being mature and reasonable now. “The pub called me to come and pick him up because he was misbehaving.”
Holmes wrapped every limb he had around Watson, nearly making them both fall down. He then bestowed a sloppy kiss on Watson’s neck.
“Oh, the nerve of you!” Watson growled, a little less angry already, because he could see Holmes was alright, although probably hungover tomorrow.
“He’s beautiful when he’s angry,” Holmes informed them helpfully.
“I’m not angry,” Watson tried to explain. “I’m worried – retrospectively!” Which was a queer thing to say and feel.
“I’m telling you!” Lestrade tried again, a little calmer now, because Mrs. Hudson was suddenly standing in the hallway staring them all down. He tried again even softer, “I’m telling you. He was at the ‘Sailor with a Cat on his Head’, blind drunk, causing a terrible fuss, and when they said they’d call the police, the rascal gave them my number and told them to tell me to come and pick him up.”
“I love you,” Holmes chipped in and started toying with Watson’s moustache.
“But he told me he was going to meet up with you,” Watson tried to reason – which was a tough thing to try and attempt with a tipsy detective gently stroking his cheek and muttering terms of endearment in his ear.
“Well, he did meet up with me, but it wasn’t pleasant I tell you. And anyway, I have to go back now and interrogate the suspect Holmes managed to round up.”
“What?”
“You’re my favourite, bestest, loveliest friend, and I love you for ever and ever and… even evererer.”
Lestrade seemed to happily ignore Holmes’ amorous outbursts and explained the situation as best as he could. Watson wasn’t sure if he got it all, because the amorous outbursts were very distracting, and one of Holmes’ hands was now stroking his buttocks. But what it apparently boiled down to was that Holmes had tracked down the killer in the Cunningham murder, had proceeded to drink the man under the table to get a confession out of him that at least seven people had witnessed. Then he had antagonised the other patrons, caused a fight, and made the pub’s proprietor call Lestrade.
The entire scheme sounded utterly insane, so it was probably exactly what had happened.
Watson managed to thank Lestrade with gritted teeth for taking care of everything. Then he closed the door to their flat and gently dragged Holmes towards his bedroom.
“Are you naked under that nightshirt, my good doctor?” Holmes giggled.
“That is none of your concern tonight,” Watson snapped. “Look at the state you’re in. It’s deplorable! You were lucky Lestrade picked you up; all manner of mischief could have happened to you – or been caused by you!”
Holmes fell into his arms and tried to kiss him, but Watson moved his head away in frustration.
“Anyway, why did you call Lestrade and not me? I would have picked you up! Blast it all, Holmes, I would have joined you in the first place!”
Holmes’ arms wrapped around his neck tightly, weakening Watson’s resolve to remain angry.
“You would have worried,” Holmes confessed.
“Well, I’m worrying now!”
“Oh, don’t fuss, dear. I caught a killer, after all,” Holmes breathed against Watson’s ear, sounding much less inebriated now. It took Watson a full minute to grasp the fact that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t drunk at all; had, in fact, never been drunk.
“But then why did you pick a fight and have Lestrade get you out of it? And why did you make a spectacle of yourself in front of the inspector just now?”
“Why not?”
“You really are the limit, you know.”
“But you are my favourite, bestest, loveliest friend, and I do love you for ever and ever, so can we get to the part where we end up in bed together, yet?”
Watson took a long, patient breath in. And a long, patient breath out. And then he said, “Off to my bed then, you nuisance of a man.”
“But you love me?”
“If I didn’t, I’d have moved out a long time ago.”
Then he finally allowed Holmes to kiss him.