It Happened One Night...Or Did It?: 1/?
Title: It Happened One Night...Or Did It?
Chapter Title: Then the Morning Comes
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: ~1100
Rating: T
Fic Summary: Homage to "The Hangover." John and Sherlock wake up together in John's bed after a crazy night of celebrating. Since neither can remember how they got there or what actually happened, the duo are forced on a madcap adventure around London to retrace their steps and solve the mystery of their missing night. But are they ready to accept the consequences of solving this particular mystery?
Chapter Summary: When he wakes up hungover after a night of partying, the last thing John expects to find is a nearly naked Sherlock in his bed, let alone one with no memory of how he got there.
The first thing John registered was a tiny drummer playing a percussive staccato against the inside of his skull. As he became more awake, however, John was forced to admit that this was perhaps a slightly far-fetched conclusion, and that his symptoms did seem equally consistent with an ordinary, albeit intense headache.
He very reluctantly opened his eyes a crack, and once the light no longer seemed to be sending knives straight into his brain, he was relieved to be able to make out the familiar, if blurry, shape of his bureau. Well, made it back to my own room, at least, John thought with a sigh, that has to count for something.
His attempt to get out of the bed with a modicum of grace failed completely, and John soon found himself face to face with the floorboards. A groan escaped his lips as he crawled on his hands and knees toward the bureau, gripping it tightly as he slowly got to his feet.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath as he got a look at his reflection in the mirror. His physician’s mind automatically catalogued his visual symptoms: pupils, glassy; complexion, distinctly pallid; eyes, bloodshot; skin, clammy. Yep, thought John grimly, just as I suspected; definitely a hangover.
With his diagnosis complete, John was just about to go about filling his usual prescription of a couple of aspirin, plenty of water, and the greasiest English breakfast he could find when he looked past his own reflection in the mirror and caught sight of someone moving about in the bed behind him.
The part of him that reacted this time was not the doctor, but the soldier, and John instinctively grabbed the first vaguely threatening object in easy reach - in this case, a hairbrush - before whirling around to face the intruder in his bed.
The occupant of the bed, meanwhile, gave a little groan of his own and turned over, presumably to get away from the light streaming through the window adjacent to the bed. This movement let John get a good look at him, and one glimpse at his visitor’s tangle of curly hair and slim, pale torso caused waves of emotion to wash over him in quick succession: first recognition, then relief, then utter horror.
“Sherlock?!” John shouted, still brandishing the hairbrush. “What in God’s name are you doing in my bed?”
“John,” Sherlock said, his voice pained and impatient, “Our shared affliction cannot have escaped even your notice, and I am going out on a limb and presuming you have at least a cursory knowledge of its symptoms. Consequently, I am quite surprised that I have to even ask that you please be so good as not to shout at me!”
“Sorry,” John mumbled automatically, before remembering there were far more pressing matters to be discussed. “No, hang on, you didn’t answer my question - why are you in my bed? And, good God,” John exclaimed, though he made an effort to keep his vocal volume low, as an infinitely more disturbing question occurred to him mid-sentence, “why are you naked?!”
“The answer to the former shall undoubtedly prove more complicated than that to the latter, so I shall pass by it for the moment,” Sherlock began, locking his fingers together and folding them over his chest, as was so often his custom when making deductions, but which looked distinctly odd in this particular context.
“Now, as to your second question, I’m afraid that it is unanswerable; once again you have failed to gather all the relevant data before reaching your conclusion, and said conclusion is consequently based on a supposition that is incorrect.”
“English, Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth, his battered brain in no condition to sift through Sherlock’s typical deductive jargon. “Plain English, if you please.”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open just enough to fix John with a glare that seemed to be saying, “I cannot believe I have to deal with such pitiful mortals at this hour of the morning,” before continuing with an impatient sigh, “Simply put, I cannot tell you why I am naked, John, because I am not naked. On the contrary, a cursory self-examination some minutes ago revealed that, while I am far less...clothed than I am accustomed to being, I am currently wearing my usual undergarments, as well a single sock. In fact, in the realm of attire, I am technically more dressed than you are, my dear doctor.”
John’s eyes instinctively flew down to his own person, and he was dismayed to discover that, as he was only wearing a pair of knickers, Sherlock had indeed beaten him in that arena, albeit only by a sock. He let out a groan, frustratedly raked a hand through his hair, and asked, though he was not sure if he really wanted an answer, “And as to why you’re in my bed...?”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open, all the way this time, his brow furrowed, and he said, “Unfortunately, the evidence at my disposal is insufficient for me to answer that question to my personal standard of satisfaction. I have a few working theories - seven, in fact - but I cannot deem any of them to be the final solution until I have more specifics.”
“But surely - I mean, you of all people have to remember what happened last night.”
“You obviously don’t,” Sherlock shot back a bit defensively, “Why should I?”
“Well, yes, I don’t,” John conceded, “But with your super-brain, I just assumed...”
“My brain is only superior in its cognitive functions and deductive abilities,” Sherlock retorted. “It has no superior predisposition for processing an excess of alcohol in such a way as to impede the customary memory loss.”
John was prevented from replying by the sound of a pleasant, female voice echoing in from the stairwell, followed by the opening of the bedroom door.
“John, dear? I thought you might like a spot of tea. Just this once, mind you; I’m not your houseke - oh my stars!”
Such was the shock she received upon seeing her two tenants together and in such an advanced state of undress - Sherlock in the bed and John by the dresser - that Mrs. Hudson dropped the tray of tea and biscuits she was carrying; it landed on the floor with a crash jarring enough for Sherlock to call out “Mrs. Hudson, please!”
John was too preoccupied with finding something - anything - with which to cover himself to react, and after he had quickly grabbed a discarded pillow from the floor and placed it strategically in front of his midsection, he exclaimed, “Really, I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson!”
“I figured you boys would be in bits this morning after the ruckus you made coming in last night - or should I say this morning -” she accompanied this addendum with a maternal glare which made John want to apologize all over again - “but I must say, I wasn’t expecting this! What on earth did you two get up to last night?”
“That, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, dragging himself into a sitting position and leaning against the headboard of John’s bed, “Is the very thing we are endeavoring to ascertain."
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Chapter Title: Then the Morning Comes
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: ~1100
Rating: T
Fic Summary: Homage to "The Hangover." John and Sherlock wake up together in John's bed after a crazy night of celebrating. Since neither can remember how they got there or what actually happened, the duo are forced on a madcap adventure around London to retrace their steps and solve the mystery of their missing night. But are they ready to accept the consequences of solving this particular mystery?
Chapter Summary: When he wakes up hungover after a night of partying, the last thing John expects to find is a nearly naked Sherlock in his bed, let alone one with no memory of how he got there.
The first thing John registered was a tiny drummer playing a percussive staccato against the inside of his skull. As he became more awake, however, John was forced to admit that this was perhaps a slightly far-fetched conclusion, and that his symptoms did seem equally consistent with an ordinary, albeit intense headache.
He very reluctantly opened his eyes a crack, and once the light no longer seemed to be sending knives straight into his brain, he was relieved to be able to make out the familiar, if blurry, shape of his bureau. Well, made it back to my own room, at least, John thought with a sigh, that has to count for something.
His attempt to get out of the bed with a modicum of grace failed completely, and John soon found himself face to face with the floorboards. A groan escaped his lips as he crawled on his hands and knees toward the bureau, gripping it tightly as he slowly got to his feet.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath as he got a look at his reflection in the mirror. His physician’s mind automatically catalogued his visual symptoms: pupils, glassy; complexion, distinctly pallid; eyes, bloodshot; skin, clammy. Yep, thought John grimly, just as I suspected; definitely a hangover.
With his diagnosis complete, John was just about to go about filling his usual prescription of a couple of aspirin, plenty of water, and the greasiest English breakfast he could find when he looked past his own reflection in the mirror and caught sight of someone moving about in the bed behind him.
The part of him that reacted this time was not the doctor, but the soldier, and John instinctively grabbed the first vaguely threatening object in easy reach - in this case, a hairbrush - before whirling around to face the intruder in his bed.
The occupant of the bed, meanwhile, gave a little groan of his own and turned over, presumably to get away from the light streaming through the window adjacent to the bed. This movement let John get a good look at him, and one glimpse at his visitor’s tangle of curly hair and slim, pale torso caused waves of emotion to wash over him in quick succession: first recognition, then relief, then utter horror.
“Sherlock?!” John shouted, still brandishing the hairbrush. “What in God’s name are you doing in my bed?”
“John,” Sherlock said, his voice pained and impatient, “Our shared affliction cannot have escaped even your notice, and I am going out on a limb and presuming you have at least a cursory knowledge of its symptoms. Consequently, I am quite surprised that I have to even ask that you please be so good as not to shout at me!”
“Sorry,” John mumbled automatically, before remembering there were far more pressing matters to be discussed. “No, hang on, you didn’t answer my question - why are you in my bed? And, good God,” John exclaimed, though he made an effort to keep his vocal volume low, as an infinitely more disturbing question occurred to him mid-sentence, “why are you naked?!”
“The answer to the former shall undoubtedly prove more complicated than that to the latter, so I shall pass by it for the moment,” Sherlock began, locking his fingers together and folding them over his chest, as was so often his custom when making deductions, but which looked distinctly odd in this particular context.
“Now, as to your second question, I’m afraid that it is unanswerable; once again you have failed to gather all the relevant data before reaching your conclusion, and said conclusion is consequently based on a supposition that is incorrect.”
“English, Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth, his battered brain in no condition to sift through Sherlock’s typical deductive jargon. “Plain English, if you please.”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open just enough to fix John with a glare that seemed to be saying, “I cannot believe I have to deal with such pitiful mortals at this hour of the morning,” before continuing with an impatient sigh, “Simply put, I cannot tell you why I am naked, John, because I am not naked. On the contrary, a cursory self-examination some minutes ago revealed that, while I am far less...clothed than I am accustomed to being, I am currently wearing my usual undergarments, as well a single sock. In fact, in the realm of attire, I am technically more dressed than you are, my dear doctor.”
John’s eyes instinctively flew down to his own person, and he was dismayed to discover that, as he was only wearing a pair of knickers, Sherlock had indeed beaten him in that arena, albeit only by a sock. He let out a groan, frustratedly raked a hand through his hair, and asked, though he was not sure if he really wanted an answer, “And as to why you’re in my bed...?”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open, all the way this time, his brow furrowed, and he said, “Unfortunately, the evidence at my disposal is insufficient for me to answer that question to my personal standard of satisfaction. I have a few working theories - seven, in fact - but I cannot deem any of them to be the final solution until I have more specifics.”
“But surely - I mean, you of all people have to remember what happened last night.”
“You obviously don’t,” Sherlock shot back a bit defensively, “Why should I?”
“Well, yes, I don’t,” John conceded, “But with your super-brain, I just assumed...”
“My brain is only superior in its cognitive functions and deductive abilities,” Sherlock retorted. “It has no superior predisposition for processing an excess of alcohol in such a way as to impede the customary memory loss.”
John was prevented from replying by the sound of a pleasant, female voice echoing in from the stairwell, followed by the opening of the bedroom door.
“John, dear? I thought you might like a spot of tea. Just this once, mind you; I’m not your houseke - oh my stars!”
Such was the shock she received upon seeing her two tenants together and in such an advanced state of undress - Sherlock in the bed and John by the dresser - that Mrs. Hudson dropped the tray of tea and biscuits she was carrying; it landed on the floor with a crash jarring enough for Sherlock to call out “Mrs. Hudson, please!”
John was too preoccupied with finding something - anything - with which to cover himself to react, and after he had quickly grabbed a discarded pillow from the floor and placed it strategically in front of his midsection, he exclaimed, “Really, I am so sorry, Mrs. Hudson!”
“I figured you boys would be in bits this morning after the ruckus you made coming in last night - or should I say this morning -” she accompanied this addendum with a maternal glare which made John want to apologize all over again - “but I must say, I wasn’t expecting this! What on earth did you two get up to last night?”
“That, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, dragging himself into a sitting position and leaning against the headboard of John’s bed, “Is the very thing we are endeavoring to ascertain."
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