Dr. John H. Watson (perfectlysteady) wrote in dressing221b,
Dr. John H. Watson
perfectlysteady
dressing221b

I really need a drink...

"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield..."


Life seeing the true face of London can be an adventure. Sometimes, however, at the end of the day all one really wants to see is a stiff drink...



Two People Walk Into a Bar
A Glimpse into the Night Life of...






The basic idea of this scenario is that your character has finally finished a long day of deducing, detecting, policing, or organizing criminal affairs as usual. Whatever it is they do, on this particular evening, they have decided to blow off some steam in their favourite spot.

Is this place a bar in a swanky hotel? A nightclub? A corner pub?

That's for you to decide.

Choose your place and your poison and try and relax while you can.

Who knows who you'll run into...




-Post with your character, tell where they are (setting) and what they are doing there
-Prose or RP-format welcome as far as I'm concerned
-Remember the PG-15 rating rule for the overall comm (I don't want to get in trouble), but feel free to explore the effects of drinking moderate or copious amounts of alcohol and what you may or may not say to or do with whomever you bump into...

This idea struck me earlier and I'm just hoping that someone else likes it as much as I do.
Tags: meme: barhopping
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[Sherlock has refused to leave the flat for days (at least five now), and John's had enough. The smell of formaldehyde can only be tolerated for so long before a person needs some air--even a doctor.

The evening's cold out, but he's not put on his parka--he doesn't care for them much these days. No, instead he's put on a more tailored coat that he feels a bit ill-at-ease in.

Still, he thinks he's at least moderately convincing in his show of confidence as he walks into a club. The flashing lights and cloud wafting through from the fog machine and the vibration of the music seemed so foreign now--he remembered a time when drinking with friends in a pub or nightclub felt normal--now it was at best passé and foreign, especially since he'd met Sherlock at the end this past January, and he was on his own.

He takes a seat and orders a beer--not very adventurous, but at least he's out and breathing... relatively... fresh air. Though, looking down into the frozen mug, he wonders if this outside world business was for him anymore...]
"John." [Sherlock calls from his place hovering over the table, watching over his various experiments with steadily waning interest. He reluctantly tears his gaze away, wondering why John wasn't there yet.]

"Oh honestly, what-" [He begins as he moves to the sitting room, his sentence dropping off with an irritated sigh. Where was he, damn it? He remembered John complaining about the unpleasant odor given off by his experiments, and then mentioning something about a particular club. He must have left after that, when Sherlock had been completely invested in his work. He slumped his shoulders, growling as he pulled on his coat and scarf and whisked downstairs. He was in the sort of mood where he needed to talk at someone, considering he'd run through his stock of body parts to experiment with.]

[He was scowling the moment he set foot into the club. 'Really, John, here of all places?' he couldn't help but think as he pushed through the crowd. He spotted him easily and slid onto the seat next to him, arms crossed and fixing him with a glare.]

"I was talking, John. What possessed you to leave, let alone come here?" [He makes no effort to hide his distaste at his choice in venue.] "Come on, we're leaving."
[John has managed to finish two beers by the time Sherlock arrives. He is just entranced enough with watching the very last few drops of amber liquid circle around the bottom of the mug as he idly moves it that when Sherlock speaks to him, he looks up at him with a start. Five days, five days of pleading with Sherlock to just step outside, and when he'd finally had enough, he can't be alone for ten minutes.

His eyes focus on Sherlock's and he sighs a bit, making a sort of face that might be a grimace and might be a weary smile.]


"Sherlock, I've been trying to get you to converse or leave the flat for four and a half days at the very least. All my efforts are completely vain and yet you manage to find me here when I've not been gone half an hour..."

[He ignores Sherlock's demands that they leave and a bit eagerly accepts another beer, grateful for the warm relaxation it provides--it makes it easier to ignore the fact that he knows this place is a bit too young for him and actually isn't very interesting at all. He can't keep up simply brushing off Sherlock for long, though, so he decides to offer a compromise.]

"Half an hour. Outside. Away from dead people." [He takes another long, preemptive drink and clears his throat, fixing his eyes on Sherlock's again, smirking a little, perhaps a little challengingly.] "Think you can manage?"
[Sherlock frowns, already uncomfortable in his own skin in this environment. He really doesn't like the stares he's getting.]

"There was no point in leaving until I had to track you down. And there is especially no point in coming here ever"

[He bristles, looking absolutely affronted when John ignores him. He narrows his eyes to glower at him, grumbling wordlessly when John insisted they stay out for a half an hour. He looks at his watch.]

"Half an hour and that's it." [He concedes, only because he was just bored enough. He finally turns to face the bar, arms crossed and thoroughly determined not to enjoy himself.]

"I'll consider myself lucky if I do." [He mutters, though he finds himself inwardly amused at John's playfully teasing demeanor. He will never tell him, of course. He was sure that then John would defy his wishes all the time just to prove that he could bend the great Sherlock Holmes to his will with nothing but some well-placed words and a smirk.]
[John isn't quite so skilled at hiding his amusement as he watches just a bit more intently than from just the corner of his eye. He's trying not to let on, but watching Sherlock pout is enough to force him to bite his lip and finally give in to a bit of a satisfied grin and laugh, which he hardly manages to keep under his breath.]

"Thank you." [He says it, realizing that Sherlock really does believe he's making some sort of Herculean effort to agree to this. After a moment's pause and a glance at the long, thin list of the more elaborate drinks the bar offered, he looks a bit more awkwardly at Sherlock and realizes that there's something about him he doesn't know, something he'd like to ask but is afraid to know the answer to, given Sherlock's former problems.]

"Ehm... Do you... drink, at all... now?"
[Sherlock gives John a sideways glance, the barest hint of a smirk gracing his face for a moment. Damn his infectious smile. As though remembering he's supposed to be miserable, he frowns and pouts even more obviously. You will not make him have a good time doing something he didn't want to do, John. He nods stiffly to the offered thanks, sparing a not-exactly-surreptitious glance at his watch. He glances up again, scoffing at John's words while giving him his patented 'surely you aren't that thick' look.]

"No. I need to have my wits about me at all times. Why would I willingly imbibe something that decreases reasoning skills and cognitive function?"

perfectlysteady

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[The pub's smallish, a bit dingy. In the corner is a TV showing an Arsenal game with six-odd people watching and shouting at intervals. The bartender, who looks more than a bit tipsy, gives him the wrong brand of beer. It could be worse though, so John doesn't complain, and the sofa he settles on is comfy enough. If nothing else, it's a respite from the harsh lights and screaming toddlers at work...]
[Lestrade's had a long day at work--routine stuff, but straddling the line between routine tedium and finding something that his consulting detective could and would helped him sort out was something of a regular but dull feat. Every day that he didn't have to send for Sherlock Holmes was another day that his people respected him a bit more, and it usually meant that the city seemed a bit safer, at least for the moment. Still, it was damned slow and boring.]

[He steps off into a small pub on his way home from work, tense and not sure whether he's waiting for the phone to ring or dreading that it might. He doesn't come in here often, but it's on his way home and he desperately needs a drink. He downs the small glass quickly and clears his throat at the sharp taste and slight burn, and he's prepared to pay and leave when he notices something--someone--familiar in the corner of his eye. He approaches the sofa and stands before John, putting his left hand down into his coat's pocket and extending the other to shake his hand.]


"What brings you here?"
[John blinks up at the DI for a moment before remembering that Scotland Yard's not too far off. He gives himself a mental kick for the lapse, and shakes the proferred hand.]

"Nothing in particular- I work just round the corner. GP's office. The babies can get a bit much, you know?"
[Lestrade shrugs and tilts his head a bit in wordless agreement. He smirks a bit and glances at the television set for a moment, thoughtfully, not really thinking about the game at all. He turns his gaze back to John and smiles a bit more as he takes a seat by him, a comfortable distance away, sitting on the edge in case he senses that John doesn't want his company. For all the time he spends with Sherlock, Lestrade realizes that he doesn't really know much about John at all.]

"Kids, yeah. Bit of a handful. My wife's been on about it more and more often as we're getting older..."

[He trails off and makes a face somewhere between a sheepish grin and a grimace, suddenly realizing he could do with another drink. He doesn't move yet to get one, though.]

"...one child's quite enough for me, I think. And you live with him. How's that going?"
[John smirks slightly. For all the times he's bemoaned Sherlock's habit of ruining his dates, there's something nice about being single. Well, kind of. Sherlock makes enough demands on him, his time, his belongings and his life in general that he's starting to seem like a jealous partner (which he's not, of course.)

Speaking of which-]


"Alright, I guess. Well, as alright as things can be when you're living with someone who-"

[Wait, no. Mentioning the head in the fridge to a detective probably isn't the best of ideas.]

"-whose optimum time for playing the violin is two in the morning."

[And since Lestrade mentioned it, he's curious-]

"What's your wife's name, by the way?"
[Lestrade smirked a bit at the mention of Sherlock's violin playing. He'd had the... pleasure... of hearing it several times in the past, and he had sometimes wondered why Sherlock found things like that useful when he seemed so completely bent on not doing anything else considered socially pleasant. Sherlock was the source of much of--perhaps most of--the actual confusion Lestrade experience in his life.]

"Elizabeth."

[He said the name with a subtle smile on his lips, thumbing the band around his left ring finger absently. After a moment in thought, he briefly excused himself to the bar and got a pint of beer for himself and one for John, coming back over to the sofa and giving it to him with little fuss made over it.]

"On me. Would be against my civic duty to not help a man sleep through Sherlock's concerto if I'm given half a chance."
[John quirks a lip at Lestrade's obvious fondness for his wife. He's seen the man's professional side so many times that something more personal is almost unexpected. Nice, though.

The smile grows on his return from the bar, and he nods his thanks.]
You've heard his playing, then?

di_lestrade

6 years ago

[It wasn't entirely unusual for John to have a pub stop on his way home from the clinic. But to do it more than three times a week, well some might call him out on it. A doctor? With a drinking problem? Poppycock. As it is he mostly goes alone, which he's positive Sherlock wouldn't appreciate after the whole ... bomb ... thing. But he does it anyway.

Today seemed a rather fitting day to hit the pub, and hit it hard. More than a dozen screaming children had suddenly come down to visit him at work today, three of which vomited on him, forcing him to replace his lab coat all three times. Those things weren't cheap.

He needed a bloody stiff one, possibly three of them. One for each vomiting child he thought, amusing himself enough to grin. Shaking it off, he sat himself in a seat he frequented often, but wouldn't admit that it was his 'regular stool'. The bartender was already sliding him his Guinness, the dark stout making his mouth water the instant it came into view. He didn't need to order any more, it was just ... there. The bartender gave him a smile and he tucked in like a happy hobbit with his pint. He wasn't ashamed to take a desperate few gulps, giving himself that Guinness foam 'stache for but a split second before he swiped it away with his tongue. Aaah, much much better.]
[Sarah's quite liking her job at the moment- she's mostly seeing pensioners and the odd hypochondriac- but she's noticed John's mood progressively getting fouler all week, so when the office closes she spies him heading for the pub again, she follows. Waits outside for a moment, of course (she really doesn't want to make it look like she's stalking him), then heads indoors and settles herself on the barstool next to him.]

Hey. You alright?
[The very moment he heard the bar stool move next to him, he turns slightly with his eyes closed to tell Sherlock to go back home, he's tired, he'll be there soon. He didn't need a ride home, an escort or whatever. He'll be home after he finishes this pint, but the sound of the voice caught him before he could see it was, indeed, not Sherlock.]

[He sputters a little into his drink.]
"Oh-- um, Sarah. He-Hello."

[Giving a slightly tense smile at that, he swiped a hand down over his lips to make sure he wasn't still sporting a Guinny 'stache and once more glanced at her, trying to be as cordial as he could. Sarah hadn't done anything wrong, but it had been a rough day. And to make matters worse, he still had to deal with whatever was waiting for him at home. It made nights out at the bar more frequent, if only to delay the inevitable.]

"I'm fine. Just fine. Enjoying a cold one, watching bad sports telly," [He hadn't once looked up at those screens until just then, realizing it wasn't even sports, but news.] "... Or, the news. Care to join me? First one's on me." [Motioning the bartender -- his name was Jim, ironically enough -- the man motioned he'd be there in a moment.]

[Anything was better than Sherlock's company right now, shame though he was to admit it and only then to himself.]

[Her lip quirks at the slip- John must be tired if he was this unobservant (Sherlock's been rubbing off on him lately, and no wonder with the monopoly on his time he's claimed). She refrains from laughing, though. Doesn't look like it'd be welcome.] That'd be lovely, thanks.
[Getting her a drink and finding someone to talk to took the edge off of his day a little bit. When she received her pint, he offered them a cheers to the day, clanked their glasses and took a small swig. With Sarah here, he'd be less of a lush. Or so he hoped.]
[Sarah sips her beer, not entirely sure what to say at this point. She's seen very little of John since the night when he'd failed to show up at her house- he'd said something vague about a bomber the next day, and the undertone had been 'leave it at that'. A couple of times she opens her mouth to speak, but decides against it, hoping that John hasn't noticed. If he wants to talk to her, she figures, he will.]

dearjohnwatson

6 years ago

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[Lestrade has had a similarly stressful day, having found the body of the girl in question before she'd been taken to the morgue. Then he'd had to deal with Sherlock's investigational methods as they tried to find out a probably cause of death. She was entirely too young... which was likely the reason he showed up at the same bar when he did, after work.

He walks up to the bar and orders a pint of bitter, eyes losing focus as he waits until they focus on Molly. He's not sure who she is but he knows he's seen her before and he's trying to place it. He takes a seat a bit closer to her and clears his throat, trying to look friendly, though it's a bit of chore given the day he's had and the kind of day it looks like she's been having as well. Still, it's only polite and he's curious.]



Do I know you?

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"Lestrade." [He corrects her gently as he shakes her hand in turn, quite good at that and knocking on doors--two more generally applicable skills acquired in the course of his job.]

"Oh, right. Molly, isn't it? Julia Andrews--too young. I certainly admire you for it--someone's got to work in the mortuary, but I don't know how you manage it. You're so young yourself."

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Oh, no, it's quite all right. [he replies softly, offering her a reassuring smile as he accepts another pint from the bartender, wordlessly and gestures for him to get one for Molly as well--it's only polite.] 'Natter' away...

Missed a step, yes... Suppose all of us feel a bit that way. [He laughs a little before continuing, obviously not one for complimenting himself, even if jokingly, though he meets her eyes and is apparently making the effort for her sake.] Though, suppose it's the nicest people with the darkest careers, yes?

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