"Come on, stop messing about and help me would you!" I yell to Greg, desperately trying to haul the world's only consulting detective up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. Greg returns his phone quickly to his pocket and rushes to my aid, joining me in attempting to drag a stumbling Sherlock up to the flat, which is proving to be an immensely difficult task.

"Jaaawn!" Sherlock moans, slumping to the floor, refusing to move any more, he reaches up to his face touching it, like he's trying to check if it was still there, "Jawn, my face it's weird," he whines, covering his whole face in his hands. "Pointy." he tells me while poking his cheekbones. I pick him up from under his armpit, Greg does the same and we manage to get him into our living room. He stands up as if he is stable, he wobbles a bit, then collapses and falls face first onto the floor with a thump.
"Let him sleep it off, get him in his room," says Greg, chuckling at the misfortune of the detective lying at his feet. Once we'd hoisted Sherlock off the ground and into his bedroom, we dump his limp body on his bed where he curls up into a ball. "I'll leave you to sort him out," says Greg over his shoulder as he leaves the room, still chuckling. Neither me nor Sherlock move or make a sound, until I hear the final slam of the front door as Lestrade leaves the flat.

I sigh, looking at my intoxicated flatmate and perch at the end of his bed. I feel a tug at my jumper sleeve, which Sherlock is desperately clinging on, having rolled off the bed. He then proceeds to roll around on the floor mumbling nonsense to himself. "Sherlock, get up!" I say, exasperated. He comes back with a definite, "No!" Sherlock Holmes: The world's only consulting five year old. I haul his limp body back onto the bed, making him sit up and remove his suit jacket. After that, and slipping off his shoes, I get him tucked into bed after a rambling speech about his curly locks which Sherlock conducted himself.

Eventually, he quietens down on his way to sleep. As I go to head out the room, Sherlock leans up, pulling me back onto the bed. "Sherlock, what the -?" I begin, before being shushed tenaciously. Sherlock pulls me even closer, clutching my body tightly. "Sherlock—" I try again, as he nuzzles his head gently against my chest. I sigh, knowing there in no point in arguing with him. He smiles, content that he has got his own way. I allow myself to relax into the hug, quite enjoying the warmth from Sherlock's strong arms. The taller man's eyes begin to droop, and his grip loosens as Sherlock grows limp. I smile at him, easing my limbs away from where they had been entangled. Now able to move, I look towards Sherlock with a grin. He looks so…innocent, cute even, when he is asleep. Slowly, so as to not rouse him, I pull his duvet back up and tuck him in again.

I stand up and head towards the door, when I hear a little voice, "John...?" Huffing, I spin back around, "What?" I ask, annoyed now. Sherlock smiles, gazing up at me with his glorious blue eyes. "Thank you Jawn" My whole face softens, I allow myself to smile, "Anytime." I say nodding. Making my way back to the door I smirk to myself, amused. Then I hear, "Jawn!"
"Yes?" I reply, looking back around without moving back over to the bed. "We are friends aren't we John?" I roll my eyes, "Yes of course we are, the best of friends." I say in a patronising fashion, my voice monotone.

Finally, I walk away and get to the door, opening it and stepping out into the hallway. Once more I hear, "John?" shaking my head, I poke my head round the door, "What is it Sherlock?" He sits up on his forearms and says, "I love you John." before sinking back into his pillows. I have fight my impulses so I don't reply with the same. He's drugged, he doesn't mean it. What if I say the same and he remembers this whole bloody night? Things could really get awkward. I resort to, "Of course you do, good night." leaving him to sleep off this strange, drugged persona so he can return to the man who I call my best friend.

Written by Vicky and edited by Lucy

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