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The pub was full, as was expected for a Friday night. The usual patrons huddled around the bar, while the non-regulars occupied the tables that seemed to be placed haphazardly on the floor. Servers weaved around the tables, squeezing themselves through tight spaces while balancing heavy trays on their nimble fingers. It was looked almost like figure skating, at least if would if anyone paid attention to the servers. They only seemed to be noticed when they were arriving with food and drinks.
“Ta,” John said with a nod as a server replaced his empty pint with a new one. Across from him was Lestrade, nursing a pint between his hands.
“Now none of this leaves the table, got it?” Lestrade said with a cheeky grin.
John took a sip of his drink, then shook his head. “It's safe with me.” Every so often the two would get together and talk about cases. It was obvious John missed the trill of being on cases and Lestrade liked bragging about the cases he had actually solved on his own. Sherlock didn't help out with cases all the often anymore – always said he was busy with something else.
“How's the missus?” Greg asked as the previous conversation came to an end. “And little Eleanor?”
“Mary? Yeah, she's fine,” John replied as he fished his phone from his pocket and placed it on the table. On display were a number of pictures of Eleanor. In some she was sound asleep, in others she was wide awake, her bright blue eyes shimmering in the light.
Greg let out a delighted laugh as he looked at all of the pictures, taking a moment to admire each one. “Look at her. Just look at her! Getting bigger each day!” Greg's excitement was contagious and John soon found himself smiling as well. “Got a wonderful wife, and a beautiful baby girl. Things couldn't get much better for you, eh?”
John took a big gulp from his pint. “Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, sure thing.” Another mouthful. Another swallow.
Greg frowned. “Hey now, if you're that thirsty get yourself some water.”
John shook his head. “M'fine. It's fine.” The beer was starting to kick in and he felt his pulse in his ears. Soon enough he'd find everything funny and from there he'd forget all his problems. John wanted to have that feeling of weightlessness to him, see the world around him go blurry.
Getting a pint with Greg was becoming customary. Greg would have a pint or two and just unwind from a stressful week. John used to do that, but now he seemed to knock back the pints and almost always left the pub a bit wobbly.
John realised Greg was staring at him, worried. To take the attention away from him, he flashed a grin and changed the subject: “Seeing anyone lately?”
Greg seemed to instantly forget about his concerns about John when the conversation had shifted to himself. “No. No, but there's someone I'm interested in. Just can't get the guts to ask her on a date.”
“Oh?” A fresh pint appeared in front of John. “And who is she? Do I know her?”
Greg blushed and took the final gulp of his pint for courage. “Molly. It's Molly.”
John laughed at the very thought of the DI, who on a regular basis saw gruesome crimes, confronted killers as his day job, didn't have the courage to ask meek, timid, quiet Molly on a date. Although, when John took in Greg's dejected expression, he realised laughter probably wasn't the best response.
“You don't think I have a chance with her, do you?” Greg asked quietly, voicing the doubts that had been running around his mind for the past while.
“No. No, of course you have a chance with her!” John replied. “Just ask her! She'll say yes!” Greg's expression softened. John then realised Greg wasn't afraid of Molly herself, he was afraid of rejection. Being turned down in the kindest of ways still hurt. And, John supposed, even DIs who lived a dangerous and scary life could still fear rejection. “Just bloody ask her before some other bloke does!” And John was sure some other bloke would: Molly was kind and caring and sweet, but unafraid to stand up for herself. She seemed like a perfect match for Greg. They both had gruesome careers and the same interests. Greg would be an idiot to not ask her out, to just sit on the sidelines and let the fear of rejection take over.
Greg grinned, though he didn't look overly convinced.
When John finished up another pint, Greg offered to give him a ride home, preventing him from having more. John thoughtfully looked into his empty glass. “I'll take a cab.”
“You sure?” Greg frowned. “Why spend thirty quid on a cab when I can drive you for free?”
John shrugged and kept his eyes on his glass, as if hoping a fresh pint would magically appear.
“If you need me, call me,” Greg said, his tone serious. “Got that?” John didn't reply and Greg left without saying another word.
Sherlock didn't expect to find John at Baker Street at this hour. Surprised, he let his old flatmate in, taking note of his slurred speech and wobbly gait. Drinking again. John made himself comfortable in his old chair, and Sherlock sat across from him. Sherlock kept his eyes on John, taking in every detail he could. Obviously his marriage wasn't working out – why else would be spend his Friday night drinking? There was tension in his shoulders and he clenched his jaw – something important was on his mind, though Sherlock would have been more open to listening if John wasn't intoxicated.
“I've been thinking,” John said after a long pause, his cheeks red.
“Have you now?”
“Yeah. Yeah and...” John already lost his train of thought and instead just stared at Sherlock. Stared at his pale face, pronounced cheekbones, perfect lips, his curly hair. Soft hair, probably. John wanted to touch it, run his fingers through it. Get his fingers tangled in his hair. “Do you have a girlfriend?” he blurted out suddenly.
Sherlock gave John a blank stare.
“Boyfriend, then?”
“John.” Sherlock's tone was firm, clearly wanting John to change the subject.
“Because I was thinking... I was thinking and someone would snatch you up. Why hasn't anyone snatched you up?” People were interested in Sherlock – it didn't take a genius to figure that out. People stared at him, eyed him when they were out on cases. And with his added fame, Sherlock would be able to have anyone he wanted. So why have no one?
“John.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, his hand hovering over his phone. The last thing he needed was a drunk John wasting his time, and he wouldn't hesitate to call a cab and send him home.
“Why are you so alone?” John drawled on. “Why don't you just...” As John continued his ramblings, Sherlock began to dial the number of a cab service. Whatever John had on his mind could wait until he was sober. “...because who likes being alone? Who wants to be alone!”
Sherlock did his best to ignore John's comments. “We're done here. I'm calling you a cab,” he said as he held the phone to his ear and listened to the boring dial tone.
“You don't want to be alone! You act like it! You're all I'm Sherlock Holmes and I don't feel anything but it's an act, isn't it? A bloody act!” John continued on his rant, his voice getting louder and louder.
“Yes, I need a cab for 221 Baker Street,” Sherlock said pleasantly into his phone before hanging up. It'd still be a few more minutes before the cab showed up and Sherlock was finished tolerating John. “Out,” he demanded as he stood up from his chair.
John copied his motion, but instead of heading to the door, he wobbled his way over to Sherlock. “What's wrong with you? Don't you care?” John was so close Sherlock could smell the beer on his breath. “Why don't you care?” Suddenly, John's voice became soft and gentle. “What are you afraid of?”
“I'm only going to ask you to leave one more time.”
“Are you afraid?”
“John.”
“Because you don't have to be.”
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and forcefully put his hands on John's shoulders to direct him to the door. But John leaned in towards Sherlock, put his clammy hands on his cheeks and kissed him. It was sloppy, wet, and tasted of nothing but beer. Sherlock should have pulled away, taken John outside and made sure he got the cab, but he didn't. Instead he just stood there as John kissed him, as John wrapped his arms around his shoulders. They were standing chest to chest and Sherlock could feel John's heartbeat.
John pulled back the slightest. “You don't have to be afraid of me.”
Sherlock had wanted to kiss him for ages and had imagined what their kiss would be like. It was supposed to be romantic and passionate, not drunk and sloppy. This was all wrong but he still wasn't able to pull out of John's grasp. Because he accepted he'd never be able to kiss John Watson and realised he was a married man. That John wasn't gay, as he always insisted. And knowing this would be their only kiss they would share, Sherlock kissed John back and tried to memorize every detail. The bitter taste of beer, the scent of the aftershave he used, the softness of his lips, those soft gentle hands running through his curly hair.
“Don't have to be afraid of me.”
Sherlock smiled. “Not afraid of you. I was never afraid of you. I –” The headlights from the cab could be seen from the flat window. John stepped back from Sherlock and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. Even though he was still drunk, he seemed to realize what was happening: that their moment was over and he had to return to being a husband. John gave a nod as he stepped out of the flat.
Sherlock watched from the window as John went into the cab and saw it drive off. “I'm afraid of losing you.”