Chapter Text
“This tastes like duck piss, John.” Sherlock grimaced and sat the glass down.
Why did he never have his phone close at hand when he needed it? The disgusted nose crunch coupled with the faint sputters and protruding tongue were hysterical But he wasn’t wrong. Well.
“How would you know? Have you ever… Wait. Have you ever tasted duck piss?” This was Sherlock. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
“Well, no.” Sherlock scrunched his face. “But given what they usually eat this has to be close. Very mossy, with traces of brine and seaweed and a hint of industrial pollution. A pronounced slimy finish that coats the tongue and clears the sinuses.”
John giggled. “You’d never be hired as a sommelier, but I’d love to see you be one for a day.”
Sherlock rested his head on the back of the couch and smiled over at him. “Not drunk enough if you can still say sommelier.”
“Neither are you.” He smiled back.
“Not drinking more of this. Ugh. I need a palate cleanser.” He wrenched himself off of the sofa and sashayed into the kitchen.
John grinned. Not drunk, but relaxed enough to release the iron control he had on his transportation. He didn’t usually constrain his hands, but at some point he’d learned to modify his walk. But watching Sherlock move was always enjoyable.
“Maybe don’t pour it down the sink. Who knows what it will do to the pipes?” Probably nothing worse than the goop Sherlock had managed to create a month ago, which John thought had gained sentience and was happily snacking on the scraps that made it down the drain. There were days he swore he heard quiet burps after he finished the washing up.
“True. But are we sure we want to risk Mrs. Hudson’s bins?” Sherlock closed a cabinet door, and John thought he heard a bag rustle. Were there crisps? He hoped there were crisps, but he didn’t remember any. But it sounded like crisps. Maybe there was a crisps fairy, and she’d decided to pay them a visit.
“Cheaper to replace.” He closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock rustling through the kitchen. At least this bottle of wine hadn’t killed the pleasant buzz he’d started in the restaurant.
Sherlock grunted in response.
John braved another sip. Still as awful. And Sherlock was right, the finish did make him think of pond slime. “Are you sure this wasn’t one of your experiments?”
“You watched me draw the cork.”
“Hmpf.” As if that meant anything. “Is this the only wine we have in the house?”
“There’s a suspect Chardonnay.”
“How is it suspect?” Was it lurking with ill-concealed malice? Did it have designs on the tinned beans?
“I can’t remember where it came from or how long it’s been here.”
“Can’t be as dodgy as this. What was it?”
“Dunno. Deleting. Something from a client.”
“Not Mycroft?”
“No. He might despise me most of the time, but it would pain him to give me something that inferior.”
“Shouldn’t you remember so we can avoid this?”
“No. You and I have favorites that we are likely to buy when we purchase wine, and anywhere we go will be too proud to serve that swill.”
Sherlock returned, carrying clean wineglasses and the Chardonnay. There were no crisps, and John had no idea what had made the promising crinkling that made him think there might be. No crisp fairy then, either. Oh well. It probably wasn’t the done thing to eat crisps with wine.
He sat the bottle down and removed the dirty wineglasses to the side with such as thunderous look John thought he might toss them down and break them, then sat back down on the sofa.
“I’m not sure I could have drunk that at uni and I would’ve drunk most anything then.”
“Oh, I’m sure someone would, for a dare.” He looked up at John and grinned, and John could easily imagine a younger Sherlock goading other students into drinking, partially for the experimental value and partially for the enjoyment of watching them force it down.
Sherlock fished the corkscrew out of his pocket and twisted it into the cork, the muscles of his arm flexing as he drew it out. He sniffed the cork, taking such a deep breath that his nostrils flared and John giggled.
“There is a faint miasma of enriched golden oak with prominent notes of sequestered persimmons.”
“Does what you just said actually mean anything?”
“Overall, much more promising.” He poured a sip into a glass and handed it to John.
John swirled it around, sniffed, and sipped. “So much better. Here.” He thrust his glass at Sherlock.
Sherlock filled it, then his own.
“Cheers, John.”
“Cheers.”
They clinked the glasses together and took a drink.
Sherlock turned so he was facing John, legs drawn up on the couch and his feet tucked beneath to keep warm. Pity, because that meant they were hidden and he really did have such elegant feet.
John studied the bottle, and a memory came to him. “Oh! It was a secret Chardonnay.”
“Secret! Why? It’s not good enough to remain a secret.”
“No, no. It was for telling a secret.”
“Oh?” Sherlock took a negligent sip of his wine, a lazy grin curled around his mouth. Damn if he didn’t look like the start of some of John’s better fantasies.
John smiled over at him, and Sherlock’s eyes crinkled.
“I don’t think I have any secrets from you,” John murmured.
“You’re better at keeping them than you think,” Sherlock said. He swirled the wine around in his glass. “Is this a night for telling secrets?”
John thought about it, then shook his head.
“If you can’t speak it aloud, maybe it’s not ready to be revealed.”
“No,” John said. He swiveled his finger by his head. “It’s too dark. And this needs full light.”
“I see,” Sherlock said. “Do I owe you a new bottle of secret Chardonnay?”
John shook his head, then reached out his hand, laying it palm up. An invitation, if Sherlock wanted one: an indication, as if he needed it. “No. Pretty sure I won’t need it now. Might do, though. Hopefully it’s special.”
“A special occasion secret?” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled. He transferred his glass to his left hand and placed his right into John’s waiting hand.
“Very special,” he said, smiling, and let his fingers gently curl around Sherlock’s.