Hi! Just a quick little note here to say thank you everyone who's read/is reading this. Hope you like it so far. I know it's not to exciting right now but things are about to pick up, I promise. :)

Also, am I updating this often enough? I mean, I could try to write faster or something if a few days is too long in between, or I could slow down if it's not long enough. If you see this, please let me know what you think! Again, thanks for reading!

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Despite the fact that Sherlock was incredibly thin and underweight, John still struggled to support his weight as they left the tiki bar. Sherlock had downed four more of those drinks and as a result was now completely hammered. It was strange to see Sherlock drunk. He was still himself, arrogant and everything, but his words were incredibly slurred and he went off on tangents about the most random things. While John was trying to get him to leave the tiki bar he had tried to convince a group of tourists that he was a native citizen of Guatemala. He rattled off facts and information that no one other than a native would know, and even in his obviously drunken state the tourists seemed to believe him. Then when they made it back to the hotel he went on an hour long rant about how room service contributes to obesity. Then he began complaining about some book he'd read recently. He wouldn't tell John anything about the novel except that the ending was atrocious. John wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that Sherlock had then spent an hour listing synonyms for the word atrocious, or the fact that he'd actually sat silently and listened to them all.

John sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock as he stumbled around the room, mumbling to himself about how he should write a book. When he heard this, John found himself laughing quite loudly. Sherlock sent him a harsh glare, and he immediately shut up.

"Sorry Sherlock," he said standing up. He took a few steps towards the detective. "I'm sure your book would be phenomenal."

"Of course it would," Sherlock said, walking away from him. He ran his hands over his face and let out a breath. When he opened his eyes, he looked around like he'd never seen the inside of a hotel room before. "Why is the room spinning?"

"Because you're pissed drunk."

"I'm what?"

"Drunk. Intoxicated. Inebriated. Need I go on?" John smiled to himself when he saw the look on Sherlock's face when he said this. He looked like he couldn't believe John actually had those words in his vocabulary. After a while a slow smile spread across his face.

"I see what you've done," he said, wagging a finger at John. The movement of his hand seemed to throw Sherlock a bit off balance, as he stumbled around a bit before finding a wall to lean on. He folded his arms across his chest and gave John a knowing look. John just stared back, completely confused by the way Sherlock was looking at him.

"What, have I done, exactly?" Sherlock took in a deep breath, and laughed. The deep rumbling of his voice could be felt in John's chest. It was a strange sensation, but he almost liked it.

"You planned this." Sherlock attempted to push himself off of the wall, but after wobbling a bit on his feet he leaned against it once again. "You took me to that bar to get me drunk, so you could finally be the most intelligent one in the room." He laughed and shook his head. "Good one."

"Sherlock, I have no idea what you're talking about." John walked over to where Sherlock was standing and grabbed his arm, putting it around his own shoulders. He placed his arm around his waist and pulled him away from the wall.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock asked.

"You need to be laying down." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder while they walked across the room, and when they reached the bed he wouldn't let go of him. "Sherlock…"

"I get it now," he said, "You had to have gotten me drunk for a reason. If it's not to be smarter than me because face it, who could be, you must have done it to get me into bed. That's what people do isn't it?"

"What?!" John asked, trying to pull away from Sherlock. The detective only tightened the grip he had on John's shoulder, and wrapped his other arm around John's waist. John began to feel quite uncomfortable, and for some reason the room now felt to be about a thousand degrees at least. Sherlock's fingers began fiddling with the hem of John's trousers, and John had no idea what to do. He stood frozen in place while Sherlock's other hand moved from his shoulder to his neck and he brought his mouth to John's ear.

"Just for the record, if you wanted to have your way with me, there would be no need for alcohol." John turned his head to look at Sherlock, who was giving him a look that could only be described as 'seductive'. John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat while the two of them stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart. The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up, forming a lopsided grin, but the smile was soon replaced by a look of shock and worry and Sherlock clasped a hand over his mouth. He immediately released his hold on John and ran to the bathroom. The scene that came next John wished he could forever erase from his memory.

He stood beside Sherlock and rubbed his back while he emptied the contents of his stomach into the porcelain throne before him. He could feel Sherlock's spine even through the shirt he was wearing, but said nothing. At that moment Sherlock needed a friend, not a critic, so that's what John would be.

John helped Sherlock brush his teeth, and allowed him to rest his complete body weight on him as he carried him to the bed. Sherlock flopped down face first onto the mattress, and was asleep within minutes. John stood back and watched the sleeping detective for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he remembered that they were leaving for home the next day and he hadn't finished packing. Once he got all of his things together he packed up Sherlock's stuff as well. While he did this he thought back to what Sherlock had said before he'd run into the bathroom, and his confusion grew. What had he meant by that?

As John dressed for bed he tried to get all thoughts of Sherlock's drunken words out of his head, but as he looked beside him at the detective's sleeping face, he knew he never would be able to.

The next morning was a bit hectic for John. When he woke up Sherlock was still very much asleep, and they were behind schedule, as the alarm John set hadn't gone off for some reason. He tried to rouse Sherlock, but the hungover detective refused to get up. Not even when John told him that they would miss their flight if he didn't move did he wake. John had to actually pick him up and help him get dressed so they could check out and get a cab to the airport.

John practically dragged Sherlock along behind him as they made their way into the airport. Luckily they arrived just in time to get everything squared away and got on the plane with only a few minutes to spare.

"That was a close one," John said when they finally sat down in their seats. Sherlock didn't respond. He hadn't said a word since he'd woken up. He sat in his seat with his eyes closed, massaging his temples. He'd been doing that in the cab as well. His head must've been killing him. John called for one of the flight attendants and asked for a coffee to give Sherlock. He had heard somewhere that coffee was good for hangovers. When she brought him the cup he handed it to Sherlock, who refused.

"Listen Sherlock it'll help."

"No it won't."

"You won't know until you try it." Sherlock glared at him, then grabbed the cup and drank it all in one gulp, seemingly unfazed by how hot it must've been. Sherlock gave John the cup back and stared out the window. John caught himself staring at him while he did so, and forced himself to look away. His mind became flooded with memories of the previous night, and he was overcome with an urge to ask Sherlock about it. Then again, Sherlock probably didn't even remember what he'd said. John would never know if he didn't ask though, so he lightly tapped Sherlock on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Um, Sherlock?" He didn't speak, but Sherlock did glance sideways at John, letting him know he had his attention. "Do you… do you remember anything from yesterday?"

"Not a thing." Sherlock turned his entire body towards the window and somehow managed to fold himself up in the seat so that his knees were under his chin. After a moment of silence he spun around to face John with a slightly worried expression on his face. "Why?" he asked. "What happened?" John shook his head. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Then why ask if I remember last night?"

"I was just curious."

"John." When he turned to look at Sherlock and saw the expression on his face, a mix of so many different emotions, he knew he couldn't not tell him. Yet, as he opened his mouth he immediately regretted his decision.

"Um…you kept saying…you kept saying that I had planned to get you drunk." Sherlock didn't say anything. He sat quietly, most likely waiting to see if John would say anything else. "You said that I wanted to be smarter than you. That's why I got you drunk." Sherlock stared at John for a moment longer, then turned to look out the window again.

"Is that all?" he asked. John debated whether or not he should tell Sherlock about what else he'd said, wondering if it was better to be honest, or to avoid what would undoubtedly be an awkward conversation.

"Yeah, that was all." Sherlock glanced at him briefly, eyebrows furrowed. John began to think that Sherlock knew he was lying. He could feel his heart rate speeding up, and he fought hard to keep an even face as he stared back at Sherlock. Then Sherlock dropped his gaze momentarily, and looked out the window once more.

"Good," he said quietly.