The Final Case: Part Two

Sherlock let the door snap shut behind him as he jogged down the stairs and out into the wind that nipped playfully at his skin and coat. Jerking his coat up to block the wind a little bit more, he started swiftly down the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction of the store. He would worry about the shopping he promised John later, for right now, he was only interested in walking and, possibly, a drink at the corner bar.

His mind was racing as he pieced together the puzzle John seemed to be subconsciously leaving for him. It was difficult, to give the doctor props, and very well thought out. He kept leaving small hints here and there, slipping them into everyday conversations and actions. He knew John thought he wasn't picking them up, but of course, he was. Problem was, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to come up with an answer. He didn't know what he was supposed to figure out; cases were easy, he knew the basic outcome. There was always the victim, and there was always the culprit, all he had to do was figure out who was who and who did what. With John, he didn't even know where to start, let alone end.

He pushed the heavy door to the corner bar open and stepped inside, his body immediately relaxing as he felt the wind be blocked out by the closing door, his body warming quickly. He lowered the coat collar and headed up to sit at the bar. He nodded at the bar tender, who started to make his usual drink quickly. Sherlock was a usual costumer here, normally only having one or two drinks to give his mind a break but not enough that he couldn't think on a moment's notice - or enough that John would catch on. The drink was placed in front of him and Sherlock sipped at it almost at once. The bitter taste of his pousse-café coating his tongue quickly, the lime juice, ameretto, peppermint schnapps, and tequila burning his throat in a sweat pain as he swallowed.

He downed his first three glasses and ordered another, his mind so focused on working John's puzzle out that he didn't pay attention to how much he actually was drinking. When he finally got up to leave, figuring he'd better go do the shopping and get back to John to see if he would drop any more clues, he staggered and felt a firm hand on his shoulder pull him back into his seat.

"Sorry, Sherlock," the bar tender, Steven, shook his head, holding Sherlock in his seat. "I can't let you go. You drank too much; it's too dangerous for you to leave."

"Oh pleash," Sherlock slurred, shocked at the difficulty to talk. "How mush did I drin'?"

"About fifteen glasses. I'm sorry, but can you call someone to pick you up?" Steven asked, pulling his hand back from Sherlock's shoulder and picking up the dishes he'd been cleaning.

"I-I can call meh flatmath," Sherlock muttered, fingering his phone out of his pocket with more difficulty than normal. He dialed John's number and raised his phone to his ear.

"Hello? Sherlock?" John's voice came over the line, his voice confused. "Where are you? Has there been a case?"

"Naaah," Sherlock shook his head, even though his hazy mind knew John couldn't see him. "Drank too much. Can't leave. T'ey won't let me."

"What? Sherlock, where are you?"

"Corner bar."

"My guess is that you didn't do the shopping?"

"Noth yet," Sherlock said, shaking his head again.

There was an auditable sigh over the line before John muttered, "I'll be right there. Don't go anywhere, Sherlock."

"Won't leth me."

The line went dead and Sherlock re-pocketed the phone, turning back to the bar tender.  "Steven? Can I hath anot'er drink, pleash?"