entrancelogs | The Adventure of the Honest Carouser

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The Adventure of the Honest Carouser

Who: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson
Where: Floor 2, Room 21
When: June 2nd
Rating: T for drinking
Summary: Things have been on a downward spiral for Sherlock for the past few weeks. He can ignore it, he can avoid it, but eventually it was going to catch up with him. And then suddenly it did.
The Story:

Depressants. Sherlock was no stranger to a glass of aged port or wine, the occasional whiskey, brandy, or dry ale, but they had never been his drug of choice. Mind altering substances that dulled the mind had little use to him. Alcohol made him slow, it clouded his mind where stimulants cleared it. Alcohol was the antithesis to his preferred state of mind. He couldn't focus through the headache, though. The pounding, the sick, sour feeling in his sinuses, the pain that distracted him from everything but the desire to be away from light and all forms stimulation. Inebriation was the lesser of the two evils, putting his body at least in peace to let his mind--disabled to some extent but still processing, still working--to idle over the things he desired to contemplate and explore.

Stupid, stupid, depressants. One slip from thoughts of viral infections and it was back in the downward spiral of doubt and fear and self-deprecation he'd been fighting since his fight with Evelyn, exasperated by Moriarty's arrival, made confused by the glimpses he'd been given during the godtier event. Clumsy hands kept him away from the violin. He hated this. Drunk and emotionally miserable or sober and physically miserable. It was a ridiculous choice to have to make. Nothing guaranteed sobering up would release him from his conflicted conscious, though. So he swirled his brandy in his tumbler before drinking from it again, keeping the headache away.

At least he wasn't the only one not enjoying this. Not that John's misery made for excellent company.

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John tried watching the detective out of the corner of his eye, but it made his temples ache.

Familial history of binge drinking aside, the use of alcohol besides a light social lubricant wasn't that appealing. He'd go down to the pub with Greg or some mates from his army days, but getting completely drunk out of his mind was never a goal or desire. In fact, the rare time he dissolved into such a state hadn't occurred since his bunking with one Sherlock Holmes, as his flatmate had seemingly little regard towards John's state when he dragged them out the door for each case and John decided the best offense in that situation was a good defense; why even bother dealing with a hangover and a demanding Sherlock? That is, until he watched the man jump off St. Bart's. Then, in the following weeks, he'd eyed the bottle with numb contemplation, recalling the way it had helped Harry and his father fumble through their sorrows.

But now, here he was, in similarly miserable states with said brilliant consulting detective. They each held their heads, pinched the bridge of their eyebrows, and hissed when the light was far too bright. But, to be honest, John wasn't sure which made the tension between them worse; the hangover, or the drinking to cure it. They hadn't properly hung out since the incident on the rooftop, even when John made a point to wander around the false 221B. And now, as they each nursed a strong drink and winced at both the awkward silence and the burn down their throats, John wished the alcohol could grant some of it's rumored liquid courage to help him bridge this wall that had built itself between them.

He leaned forward against the kitchen counter, sliding his nearly finished glass of brandy between his hands and cleared his throat with a wet catch. "Wonderland has a cruel sense of humor."

"Nn," Sherlock agreed, scowling against the pain he nursed with liquor. "Wonderland is certainly behaving unnecessarily foul this weekend. I had better things in mind than a constant state of inebriation." He tipped back his tumbler and poured another, pouring for John as well while he had the bottle in hand. "At least the closets and dining hall have seen fit to provide us with some cure at least."

He clinked his glass to John's. "Here's to headaches, nausea, and being positively boring."

"I think this is pushing it, even for any alcoholics around here."

As their glasses clinked, some of John's overfilled glass spilled onto his fingers, but he ignored it for the long swig he took following his responsive "cheers, mate" to Sherlock's toast. The brandy seared the back of his throat, but it was, unfortunately, the cure all to this annoying event.

"I'm wondering--" He started, then stopped to clear his throat, voice raw and eyes watering. "I'm wondering if there's any point in attempting any normalcy until this is over, or if everyone will just be locking themselves in their rooms to sleep and drink the days away."

Edited 2012-06-05 04:25 (UTC)

"Sane people will. It's stupid to attempt much in an inebriated state." Sherlock frowned at his glass. His head feels better, at least. Muddy and troubled but without the pounding. "It might be best if we spend this event alone as well. Alone alone, I mean. Not... alone together."

John licked his lips, tasting the stain of alcohol on them and downing the rest of his drink smoothly, reaching for the bottle of brandy between them without looking at the other man.

"So you'd like me to leave, then." He said in the same tone as one would use pondering the weather and yet his thoughts were racing against the lingering hangover sensation.

"Well.. I won't exactly be the best of company. Chatty. Emotional. Drinking does not bring out my finer traits. Much to the contrary in fact." It didn't help he hadn't eaten much. The alcohol was going straight to his head with very little to dilute it. Already he felt the too loose of lips with even that small admission.

There were so many things to keep unsaid. The last thing he needed was a tongue fit to wag.

"You might have deleted this common fact, but alcohol doesn't bring out anyone's finer traits, Sherlock." John muttered with a weak, crooked grin that was more bitter then bemused.

Truthfully, he didn't want to leave. This... awkward, tangled thing that was now weaving themselves between him needed to be either untied or at the very least acknowledged. Last time they'd had a proper conversation in here together they'd ended up laughing on the floor like school boys, and now it felt like pulling teeth to even spread a few words between the two of them.

"Yes, well, you're acclimatised to it. You enjoy beer. There is nothing about this that I enjoy." Sherlock slumped against the table, feeling very warm. It wasn't real heat. Something about capillaries and the effects of alcohol. He scowled at the cloudiness of his recall. He wouldn't be impressing anyone today with his brilliance. Fantastic.

Sherlock looked at John, oddly fascinated by the grey patch near the fringe of John's hair, maybe not even grey so much as differently blonde. Who greyed in thick patches? Was John going to turn calico? It was a stupid thought. He wasn't one hundred percent sure why he felt the need to inspect it.

John stared down at the slumped over detective, taking a long sip of his newly refilled glass without breaking his gaze from the other man.

"Well... 'this' is a bit extreme for anyone. There's a big leap from enjoying a glass of wine at dinner to having to binge to feel functional." He muttered, pushing his finger through a ring of condensation left on their island countertop. "So if you don't mind, I'd like to stick around. I'd hate to leave and find out you've injured yourself while in this state. That'd be my fault then, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock sighed, hanging his head. "You're not responsible for my well being, John. Unless I've put myself in your care, what I do to myself is my concern alone. Just how injured do you think I'd get if left alone? I'm never more than six feet away from the floor and most things I'd hit on the way down are closer than that."

He leaned down till his head rested on the table, his glass clasped in the hollow between his chest and chin.

"Knowing you, you'd probably manage to hit the most hazardous things possible on the way down." John pointed out with the slight slur and thicker accent from his hometown that always lingered in his voice when he was properly drunk. The pain finally whispered away between his temples, causing John to sigh in relief.

"...And it's not, you know." He added after a quiet moment, with just the rolling of his glass against the table filling the air. "Not just your concern. Your well being, I mean. I'm allowed to worry. As your doctor. As you friend."

"There is worry and then there is... There's a word for it, I'm sure. Oh, you know what I mean. You worry about me too much. That word. You do realize I'm not made of glass, right? And that I am not plagued with the kind of bad luck that would warrant your pessimism."

Sherlock groaned, pushing himself up to turn and lean on the table with his elbows instead, blowing stray curls from his face. "Death doesn't exactly matter here so really what is the worst that could happen?"

"Just because death doesn't matter here doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful. Neither of us know what dying here is like, nor coming back to life. It could be horrible and traumatic." John protested without bite, watching the other's curls lift up out of those bright eyes.

"...And I'm not exactly looking to be kneeling beside your dead body again, Sherlock..." He whispers like the words hurt his throat. Though that could have been the brandy. "You might not see it the same way, but the experience isn't pleasant."

Sherlock stared at him, most of his thoughts too confused to vocalize. He'd seen it all, the possibilities--the inevitabilities. He'd seen it all just a few weeks before and he'd read so much to the contrary, understood very little of what he was doing. John was something new and strange even as things stood now; his first and only true friend. Beyond that was a maze that was no longer too varied to bother considering. It was too easy, really. So very easy and always one bow short of breaking.

Sherlock looked down at the table, frowning. "Near death is far more traumatic than death. Death is easy. Death is closure." He rolled his eyes up to John, looking at him through his lashes. "Isn't it? Wouldn't you say the dead are the lucky ones? Why should I fear death? Or you for that matter. You've seen enough of it in a lifetime. I'm surprised mine is what haunts you. You were concussed. Can you really even claim to remember anything clearly or in focus?"

In his confusion, a frown tugged on the corners of John's lips, making his eyebrows furrow. What in the world was Sherlock on about? It was even harder to try and understand what was going on in his friend's head with the alcohol humming through his veins.

He's about to open his mouth, to really start a row about what Sherlock was brushing aside, why his death affected him so much and how could you say that, do you know what you meant to me when his last two comments took the doctor so off-guard his already unsure balance was compromised and his chair staggered a bit.

"In fo-- I dreamt about that day for weeks, Sherlock. I damn well know what happened and you--" Words wouldn't come. John open and closed his mouth, bit at his lower lip, breath heaving. "You think a concussion would skew my perception of my best friend smashed against the bloody cement?"

"Dreams are what we want to see. Or what we don't. They're not reality. And even what's real is... fluid."

Irene Adler with her face smashed in; dead on a slab to fool him. Sherlock Holmes with his blood on the pavement; dead on a slab to save him. Surely there were better models for how one should act in these circumstances.

"One day, John," he sighed. "One day when you've already forgotten most of me. One big lie that everyone believes because the truth is hardly comprehensible. Sherlock Holmes has a heart and a genius mind. And he can use them both to save everyone."

Sherlock wandered over to the books on the bookshelf, hand on his chair for support as he search for the book he wanted.

He wants to stay hurt with the things that Sherlock is saying, but it's hard to retain anything in this state, even concrete emotions. And it seemed like his friend was having the same trouble with his thoughts...

"What are you on about?" He muttered, staggering after the other man in an attempt to make sure Sherlock didn't stumble, even if John wasn't in a state himself to be supporting anyone.

"Sh-Sherlock, of course you have-" He slurred as he reached the bookshelf as well, pressing a hand against the small of the detective's back, but somehow instead clinging to his jacket like a child. "What're you looking for?"

Edited 2012-06-07 04:19 (UTC)

Sherlock pushes books aside to pull out a hidden volume written by Sir Arther Conan Doyle. The other books of the series are kept on another shelf--this one alone was hidden behind volumes on Chemistry and sensational literature: The Return of Sherlock Holmes. He looks at it like a holy relic, hand running over the cover in reverence.

"Answers, John. I'm looking for answers."

John's gaze runs over the title, the author's name. Once. Twice. Three times. Again and again, muddled mind not quite making the connection Arthur Conan Doyle The Return of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Conan Doyle The Return of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Cona--

And suddenly, it clicks.

The man who writes about them. The fictional characters that are the reason everyone knows them before having met them. The stories that parallel their lives.

This story is called The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock has been hiding it from him.

'Ohmigod,' He wants to say, breath, whisper, sob. 'What is that,' might be more appropriate, clinging to the naivety he is clinging to at the fringes of his consciousness but dammit Sherlock always told him to not just see but observe even if right now he isn't sure he wants to see.

Instead, John Watson is silent. His knuckles are white. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. And he stares at the cover like it's the only real thing in the room at the moment.

"I did some research, you know. About the man who wrote these things." Sherlock pushed the book to John's chest, making him take it. "You know why he killed Sherlock Holmes off? Because he didn't like him anymore. He was tired of him. So he had to die. One big, final, heroic end so he wouldn't have to write him anymore." Sherlock scowled, staring at the book now in John's hands. "The closest thing to a god I have proof of and the man doesn't like me. He wrote the book you hold grudgingly, due to popular demand."

The words blur into each other again, though this time John is sure it has nothing to do with his level of intoxication. He stares at the book with a vague incomprehension, but he's going a bit green around the edges.

"He brought you back to life." He whispered, then looked up at Sherlock, expression painted in shock.

Then he burst into a fit of giggles. It was so ridiculous and preposterous it hurt.

"Well this just proves it, right? We're not really them. The Sherlock and John in these novels. We can't be. We don't have a begrudging novelist penning our lives and no higher power that will just bring you back; pop you back to me, back into 221B having tea and solving crimes again. We don't. He couldn't. You hit the pavement. I saw you. I took your pulse."

Sherlock looks at him on the sadder side of blank.

"You saw what you were meant to see. What I wanted you to see. What you had to see in order to believe. John... I... I'm not.. dead."

John's eyes widen as he goes quite pale, but otherwise his reaction is nonexistent.

He absently notes that his thoughts aren't racing or fumbling over themselves to comprehend the bomb that has just been pushed into his hands and onto his head. No, his mind is blank with only vague hints of shapes flickering through; the stain of blood on the concrete, an empty chair, Goodbye John.

A breath escapes him, shuddering and making his lips tremble in turn as comprehension finally makes it's way from his head to his knees and knuckles and that horrible muscle between his ribs.

"I knew what Moriarty was up to. I planned ahead. I knew what the morgue attendant at St. Barts liked and used it to my advantage as Mrs. Adler had done. With the addition of Mycroft's help... I'm alive, John. As alive as you are. The only thing dead is Sherlock Holmes." He nods to the book, hands clasped behind his back. "And as you can see, he does not stay dead forever."

Not that it helped. All it did was rip away the legitimacy of John's sorrow. It made it seem as though Sherlock did not trust him, like he'd kept the lie to hurt him or was somehow unaware of what it did to him. Sherlock knew. He knew because he observed. All the revelation gave him was the ability to say that things got better. It wasn't over for them.

And also to show that some things never were, never would be, if the books continued to be the blueprints of their lives.

The room tipped, or perhaps John was just swaying over the weight of the blow of information he had just received. He didn't stagger, luckily, but he did take a small half step away from the other man.

Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive. He was alive and... had left John behind. He was alive and he had kept that from John for the entirety of his time in Wonderland, even though he was consistent to remind the doctor that their actions here held little consequence in the real world.

John knew he was happy. The relief that broke in his chest at this revelation wasn't minimal in the slightest. But it was overwrought with betrayal, hurt and anger. Yes, that was anger, bubbling up and making his hands shake as they gripped the telling novel like his life depended on it. And in some ways, it seemed, it did.

"You..." He heaved, voice caught and eyes glossed with furious tears that he refused to acknowledge. "You're alive." John barked a short, strained humorless laugh. "Just... mucking about with your puzzles and leaving me to--" He has to swallow a few times against the large lump in his throat. "I was mourning you and you didn't... what, trust me enough to let me know you were a live? And all the times here in Wonderland you could have told me... You were fine telling me you died for my sake but you couldn't even tell me you-- jesus." John felt sick. This was too many conflicting emotions at once.

Sherlock watched him. He could defend every action he'd taken in both worlds but he didn't feel inclined to. John wasn't looking for reasons. He was drunk--they both were drunk--and likely John just wanted to be angry. He had that right. Sherlock had expected him to be angry. It was everything else that he wasn't quite so sure about.

"Moriarty can't know. If he discovers I won, he could be provoked to violence."

"Wouldn't that be just lovely, then." John cried, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Violence, excitement, exactly what you wanted. Please. As if I'd just pop off and tell him that you're-- I'm not the one who has bloody tea parties with him, Sherlock!"

He lifted his free hand and cupped it over his mouth, dropping his gaze to the ground between them.

Sherlock nods stiffly, walking back towards the kitchen and the brandy.

"It warranted mention is all. I know you would never knowingly betray me."

John stares at the fireplace, listening to Sherlock leave, wander away towards the promise of the brandy nearby.

He was half tempted to sock the other man. Nose and teeth and all. But something, be it the alcohol or the relief or the hurt or the anger in general allows the moment to do so slip by. And he doesn't have the heart nor the conviction to chase after the slight slump in Sherlock's stature to lay on the physical punishment for the grieving that had consumed the doctor.

Instead, he tucks the book, that telling book, under his arm, and staggers to the door without saying a word. He grabs onto the doorknob like a grounding, the drinks making his head spin. Leaning his forehead against the door, John takes a few deep breath's through his nose and closes his eyes.

Sherlock doesn't watch John but he listens. He holds the bottle but doesn't pour anything just yet.

"At this period of my life the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as my own chronicler." Sherlock smirks to mock himself. Of all the things to muddle his mind with. Only an idiot memorizes passages from their own fairytale. "Good night, John."

John opens his mouth, wordless, perhaps to retort, but all he can do is make a small noise against the wood of the door, a gasp of overflowing emotions.

And once again wordless, he turns the door handle and leaves.

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The Adventure of the Honest Carouser

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