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[logicals]

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[logicals]

Not yet. By my calculations, you're roughly a third of the way through your rum and although you might well be contemplating moving onto my scotch, you've yet to commit to the action out of some misguided sense of honour.

<sub>[ Lestrade is, understandably, very drunk. Three quarters of the way through (estimated, yes, but it's the sort of estimation that relies on several factors, both about the man himself and the habits he falls into - a guess, but an informed one, which is slightly better as far as guestimation tends to go). Drowning his sorrows, and realistically, Sherlock can't blame him. If he had the option, he'd be doing the exact same thing: except his choice of poison has been restricted, and his other options seem lacklustre in the droll confines of nighttime. The come down always hits hardest when he's alone and the hours seem to stretch. The thought of taking more is honestly seems harrowing when the high doesn't seem to do what it once did.

He's been trying to come up with options. Trying to find new things to fall into, new habits to cheat his mind out of falling into the static that's always so hellish to escape from once his mind reverts back. It's getting a bit desperate. The drugs were always a short term solution: they could never mask everything completely forever, he knows that, he's always known that. But the relief is too good to pass up, even if it's short lived. Short lived is better than nothing.

Meanwhile, Lestrade is chasing after his work because he's unsatisfied in other areas and there's really nothing Sherlock can do beyond watch from the sidelines and perhaps this is how he feels, as he watches Sherlock repeatedly try and fail to find ways of dealing with the problems that seemingly have no reliable answer in sight. It's sort of hopeless, isn't it?

They're both sort of hopeless and they're both struggling, and aside from remaining within one another's orbit, there's not much that can be done. Sherlock has no emotional wisdom to reach out with, whereas Lestrade has no surefire way to chase the mental ghosts Sherlock has clogging up his afterlife: they're stuck in a feedback loop of stagnant uncertainty, and there's not much that can be done aside from trying to break through it entirely.

To do something different. To try something different. Lestrade has already begun that: set the wheels in motion, in attempting to get Sherlock's attention as opposed to wallowing alone. He may not realise it consciously, but he's vying for change, and Sherlock can see that pattern for what it is: an attempt at socialisation.

So slowly but surely, Sherlock finds his way to his feet. And then he finds his way downstairs, determined to look considerably better than he feels - if only for show. When he happens upon Lestrade, it's more or less exactly as he suspected: except actually, the bottle of scotch is out. It just hasn't been touched (yet). So it was on the menu, then? He does so hate to be wrong. With a freshly lit cigarette hanging from his lips, Sherlock stalks his way towards this sorry state of affairs with a cocked eyebrow and a tilt of the head. ]</sub>

At least let me open it before you deny me the pleasure of drinking my brother's incredibly expensive scotch in front of him.

[dadstrade]

[ Sherlock would be mostly correct in his deductions regarding Lestrade's current situation, not that the detective is bothering to pick up his phone to look at that last text. Even while slipping steadily into a reasonable level of distraction, he doesn't doubt that Sherlock knows, and is pointing it out with some measure of his usual lack of tact. He honestly feels pathetic, figures that he looks much the same, and probably deserves to have someone come along and point that out in no uncertain terms. He can pull himself together. He can. He should. He's fine.

He's not surprised to hear Sherlock coming down the stairs, or when Princess jumps down from his lap to have a go at getting more attention from a new target, which more or less amounts to hopefully shadowing Sherlock's steps, since she's a bit too tired to bounce much. She's not used to staying up late, and is probably a bit confused by this abrupt change in routine. It's understandable. No one else likes it, either.

Lestrade does attempt to straighten himself into less of a slouch when Sherlock's gaze lands fully on him, inexplicably feeling even more as if he's a terrible sight to look at right now and not feeling very pleased to be made even more aware of it. He'll attempt to shrug it off, regardless, studying Sherlock's face for a long moment before his eyes slide back down to the bottle of scotch in question. ]

I wasn't actually going to drink it.

[ But now he's a bit curious, since if even Sherlock is calling it incredibly expensive, then it's got to be ridiculous. He shrugs his shoulders fractionally and tilts his head slightly toward the couch, which clearly has a reasonable amount of space on it for someone else to sit. ]

Not without you, at least.

[logicals]

The fact that it's here at all proves intent. <sub>[ Just saying, bro.

Sherlock hums once, his eyes scanning Lestrade's crumpled form and taking in far too many details to actively fixate on. Too much data, all confirming his suspicions of a man slowly being squashed under the weight of the world lying heavily upon his shoulders. He can relate. His indecision to join Lestrade weighs on him for a moment: alcohol is not his poison, especially when coupled with the very damning fact that he barely ever eats. It'll go straight to his head, and he knows it.

Still, that's what people do, isn't it? Commiserate. The whole point of drinking alcohol is to get drunk, (or, worse still, the point is to escape one's reality and the tedium of one's mind - a noble effort, but alcohol surely can't offer that much solace in that department? It's very disjointed, yes, but still a depressant. There's only one way to go, and it certainly isn't up). He could say all of this. He really could, but pointing out the obvious seems rather disingenuous when he's already here and already stepping his way over the furniture towards his side of the sofa, Princess quick on his heels. His mind had made up the second he'd placed the soles of his feet down onto the carpeted floor upstairs: this is just an extension of that decision. Socialisation is on the cards, even if that means getting through an awkward rendition of being human on Sherlock's part. He reaches out towards his scotch and mercilessly rips it open, casting Lestrade a sideways glance as he ponders the validity of conjuring a glass out of thin air (alas, if only his studies in magical lore had lead him that far), and he finds he doesn't care enough to actually go and get a glass from the kitchen - and so he swigs straight from the bottle, and it's honestly incredibly satisfying and it's not just the alcohol that causes it. A nostalgic wave of devouring books dedicated to pirates and the way they'd drink their rum straight from the bottle by the flickering flames of a makeshift fire. Companionable.

And considerably cooler than the image he portrays now, with his hair a mess and his pyjamas rumpled from the over-exertive amount of fuck all he's done today (or, at least, that's how it would appear: mental mapping is an arduous affair, but it seems relaxing from an outsider's perspective). The ball of fluff (affectionately titled Dog, as Sherlock refuses to call her Princess) has settled in between them after excitedly running from one lap to the next, with the detective offering a quick and lazy ruffle before returning his hand to his lap. ]</sub>

I'm certainly not your first choice of companion.

_{[ Or anyone's, for that matter. ]}

[dadstrade]

[ Lestrade knows all about Sherlock's opinion on alcohol. He's heard it all before. That's why it honestly surprises him a little that Sherlock has decided to join him, not just for the sake of companionship and some of that commiseration, but in drinking, as well. He watches Sherlock reach for the scotch, eyebrows raising slightly, but not in derision. It's just sometimes strange to see Sherlock in such a... well, human light. Of course he's always had faith in the humanity underneath his 'high-functioning sociopath' exterior, but it's one thing to believe in it and another to see it manifest in such obvious ways.

He thinks briefly to the medicine that was left in his bedroom. Of course there was never any shadow of a doubt in his mind as to who left it. He's sure that John would have managed to dig something up, and quite insistently if he had let on that he needed it, but he'd been trying to hide that. Such efforts are fairly pointless around Sherlock, obviously. Even if he's been spending even more time than usual boarded up in his room, he doesn't miss much when he finally does emerge from it.

His expression turns to a frown at Sherlock's statement, and he pauses on his next drink. It's true, broadly speaking, he can't deny that, but it's not really fair to suggest that it's the kind of choice that he made because Sherlock is somehow unworthy of his time or attention. There are plenty of reasons that things are... the way they are. Sherlock knows that, doesn't he? Of course he does. He has to. ]

I'm not yours, either.

[ He downs the rest of that drink after that and immediately busies himself with pouring another. He's not being dramatic, honestly, it's just truth. He accepted that a long time ago.

Still, it's an even more uncomfortably depressing train of thought than the ones that he's already been entertaining, so he decides to move on from it before he can give it too much consideration. He'll gesture vaguely with his glass as he speaks, almost to the point of spilling his drink. ]

I guess I don't need to explain anything to you, do I? You've got this one all figured out already, right?

[ Seeing the liquid sloshing about dangerously in his glass, he decides to drink some of it before he does spill it. ]