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Colours and movement seemed to be on some sort of satellite delay as John looked around the pub, squinting idly at the few other punters who were dotted around on tables throughout the bar. They were like blurred snapshots, distorted and wonky, leaving smears of pigments from faces, hair, clothes that stretched out around them with each motion they made. Like looking at ink in water. Animated link. Perhaps it was? Perhaps they all were? John didn't know. Didn't know much of anything for a few long moments as he sat and stared and swayed in his chair, caught up by the swell of instability. The floor slanting under his feet, walls tilting around him, and ceiling angling down, then up, then down again. It was as hypnotising as it was sickening, and John had to clumsily cover his gaze with a sticky alcohol slicked hand to cut off his line of sight and cut his focus, grunting as he did so, unsure if the semi-darkness was better or worse than the rocking reality.
He had been here, in this pub, in this seat, at this table, for – well, ages – he wasn't entirely sure how long it had been. Long enough that the light outside had dimmed. He had been surrounded by the pleasant chatter and good memories of his army squad at first, had begun drinking from around midday, then one by one they had slowly filtered out, some going on to strip-clubs, whilst the others went home, leaving John by himself and very, very drunk. Drunk and feeling incredibly sorry for himself. Sorrier the more people he saw hook up, laugh, dance, talk, and get on. The more he saw what he wanted, what he needed, for his own peace of mind. He had wanted to talk to someone, anyone, to be around people he trusted to maybe let just a little out, a slice of something, yet nothing had come, nothing had happened but more drinks, more drinks and everyone talking at him, around him, near him. Why couldn't he have opened his mouth? Why hadn't the company, the atmosphere, and the beer helped loosen his tongue?
The room spun unnaturally as he rubbed his face, blinked and widely gaped around him, and John quickly began gulping a few times to try and keep his stomach contents from raising up his throat. When that didn't work he sipped on yet more lager, the last dregs of what was left in his glass, forcing the sensation away until he was able to sit up straight and look around again without the queasy rocking in his mind, the rolling of his stomach, and the overly doubled vision. There were a couple of work groups nearby, dotted around wet tables, chatting well-natured small talk from what John could make out, from what he could understand, whilst wearing silly paper hats from their broken crackers. He wanted a hat. He wanted that small talk, to be included in that group or have one like it, untroubled and so laid back and trusting that he could believe in them, in himself. Why wasn't he more like them? Groaning, John turned his attention to an old man who was sat listening to the darts on the television in the corner and then… and then... then John saw him. A man in a red hat.
Saw him and needed to go to him.
Standing up on wobbly legs, clutching ridiculously onto a chair to try and stay upright, John then shuffled his way towards the bar, towards this man, needing to be closer, to see him better. He almost forgot he still had hold of his glass as he reached his destination, until, of course, he awkwardly tried to climb onto a stool with it. The clunk of it hitting the wooden edge shocked him into a backwards stumble, spilling droplets of what still lingered of his pint and the warm, wet, condensation that remained dribbling down its sides over himself, wetting his already sodden sleeve and a small patch on his leg. He thought he was going to go arse over tit, was going to crash down onto his arse, his back, and be unable to ever get back up, but then the man he'd gone to see, gone to stare at, and discover leaned over and assisted him back towards the bar. The man took the pint glass from his curled fingers, lifted it to the bar, onto a coaster, out of the way of destruction and offered his arm and his elbow for John. John was fine though. John didn't need that sort of help. He didn't deserve that. Yet he appreciated it through his alcohol-clogged mind, knew how it felt being on the other side, being the sober one, being the one to pick up the pieces.
Using both hands to steady himself and shooting the man a wonky, drunken smile, John nodded knowingly, slanted towards him, and reached out to poke his arm, “I know who y'are...” John announced through his drunken slur, fighting with his disobeying mouth to talk properly, to talk with purpose, and giving a narrowed unfocused ogle, “I can see through your disguise. If you can even call that a disguise... I've seen better.”
“I'm sorry?” The confused looking man asked, blinking and frowning, lips turned up in bemusement. “I think you're mistaking me for someone, mate.”
“Nahhh!” John shook his head just to show him how utterly wrong he was and almost toppled backwards, yet again forcing the other man to assist, to steady him with big, rough, warm hands. “No! I know you… I'd know you anywhere... esp-esh-especially this time of year!”
“Alright. I'll bite - Who am I then?” the man asked, seeming to be more and more amused by John's drunken shenanigans the more time that went by. "Who do you think I am?"
John squinted, just to make sure, just to see more, and leaned in, lowering his voice with a unfurling, arrogant smirk, “You're Santa.”
The accused Santa laughed a booming, shaking, warm and gruff sort of laugh, a laugh that made John laugh too, and then he shook his head, his greying beard rustling and crumpling softly like ombré coloured candy floss, moving in the air expelled from Santa's mouth and nose, “I think you're definitely mistaking me for someone else.”
“Nope!” John insisted, poking Santa's arm again and inclining closer, so close that he could see twinkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks. “You have a beard, the build, the eye colour, the... the... and a hat.”
The Santa reached up and pulled off said hat, inspecting the red beanie, pressing at the worn fabric, the frayed top, and then laughed again, “Okay, okay, you got me. I'm Santa in disguise.”
“I knew it!” John said triumphantly, slapping the bar as emphasis and then thumping at his own chest, pointing at his own face, his head, despite it being hat-less. “M' a detective… sorta.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Santa asked, finding that fact all the more entertaining and looking John up and down, brow furrowed, bushy eyebrows drawn together in disbelief. “You're a policeman?”
Confused and distracted with how silly it was that Santa didn't know who he was, John licked his lips, tried to wet his foul furred tongue and gave an uncoordinated head shake, “No!—Yes—No!” John replied with a suspicious look, “M'a doctor… but I work with the po – police.” He hiccuped, belched, and fought quickly not to vomit. “Wi' my friend.”
“Ah, like a private detective then?” Santa questioned, taking a sip of his own drink and getting frothy foam in his moustache, on his top lip, on the tip of his reddened nose as he peered at John beside him with friendly interest. “Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, or like that, uh, that one from Murder She Wrote?”
John scoffed, getting spittle down his bottom lip, “Ridiculous,” he said, channelling Sherlock as much as his drunken brain would, which was not much at all. In fact, he couldn't remember what Sherlock had thought, had said about the show, and knew, even before he opened his mouth that he would be making stuff up. “Jessica Fletcher was the one who did th'murders. She set 'em all up for the prestige. Honestly, she was a sociopath. - Always... sniffin' around, y'know? Messin' with evidence! Stalking people and listenin' in on their conversations!”
“How do you work that one out?” Santa chuckled, spitting out some of his beer. It glistening like stars from his beard, like fairy dust. “She was a little old lady!”
“Mm, but she was smart!” John stated, pointing dramatically at his own temple and then at Santa's large grin, wagging his finger. “She was cunning! Ruthless! Conniving!”
Santa shook his head in bewilderment and raised an eyebrow, “So she killed loads of people so, what? She'd make more sales as a writer?”
“Exactly!” John hissed, slapping at the bar again and almost upending his pint glass for a second time. “D'ya know how hard it is for a woman of a certain age in the mean world of Media? - It was her backup plan! Her moneymaker!”
“What other theories do you have?” Santa asked, gesturing for another drink from the barman and ordering John a pint of ice water with a knowing tip of his head, and a wink. "Not just about her, but... about other things?"
“Tuh-the Russians!” John exclaimed, “They have sharks right… or dolphins… I forget...” His mind trailed off suddenly and he found himself thinking about the time Sherlock had taken him to the aquarium. Had spent a full afternoon rambling and regaling John all about the dark side of dolphins, how they were actually quite sexually violent. To each other and to humans. “...and... uh... what was I saying?—Oh! Yeah, they have guns on them! Mafia sharks! Or dolphins...”
“Oh...really? Gosh,” Santa murmured with a mockingly serious wince, mouth hidden by his hand as he brushed at his moustache. John knew what he was doing. He wasn't stupid. Even if he was drunk. “Sounds scary.”
“Mm. It is. It really is. If the theory is correct of course... might not be... I'm not draft,” John sighed and reached for the glass of water when it was placed in front of him, downing four long, deep gulps before pulling back and wiping his face with the back of his hand. “M' mate told me that. I think. - He's a genu–geen–smart bloke.”
“Is that so?” Santa mumbled, tilting his head after a moment and giving John a soft, interested smile. “Who is your friend?”
John narrowed his eyes in suspicion again, at the thought that Santa might actually know Sherlock and that John would somehow sabotage things, make things awkward, “Er – his name is – Holm – Holmerrr – Homer,” John struggled with a stammer, trying to play it off and make it more believable with a flourish and a nod. “Yep. Homer Lock is his name. That's it. That's his name.”
Humming, Santa took a small sip, shoulders shaking as he chuckled, “I see... And is Homer a good boy or a bad boy?”
"Um. Well... well, he's... he's..." John flushed from head to toe, cheeks blazing at the connotations of the words and cleared his throat, dragging his index finger through the gathering condensation. He drew a smiley face and watched it cry, watched its upward facing smile drip down. “He's... he's a... he's a bit of both.”
“Most people are,” Santa agreed reassuringly, giving John a pat on the back. “Neither naughty nor nice. Just average. Normal. Human--”
“Not Sher—Homer!” John interrupted defensively, “He's n'average. He's – extraordbinary!” He blinked, realising slowly that he'd become tongue-tied, that he'd said it wrong. “Extraordbinary-extra-ex-extraord—Oh for God's sake, you know what I mean!”
"Yes." Santa looked at John with kindly eyes, reaching to cover John's hand for a brief moment of understanding. “Extraordinary. - He must be very important to you.”
“Mmhm.” John gave a solemn nod and a hard swallow, feeling his eyes water, his chest go tight and head hurt with flashing memories of Sherlock's face, his eyes, his smile, his snorting giggles. “S'my best friend.”
“I can see you're close with him, yes,” Santa responded. “Your eyes light up when you talk about him... and... think about him.”
“Wha?” John choked, reaching to rub his eyes and make that light disappear. Was he so obvious? “No. No he's... he's just – m'friend.”
“It doesn't seem that way to me...” Santa replied, quirking an eyebrow and giving a small shake of his head. "And you make it worse when you are protest a bit too much."
Shaking, John pushed his abruptly quivering hands through his hair and twisted to face Santa a little better, tipping with the drunken angle of the room, “Do you see everythin'?” John asked with a frightened whisper. “Because – I can explain...”
“You don't need to explain. It's alright, okay?” Santa soothed, reaching to give a friendly stroke of John's knuckles and signal to the glass. “Drink some more water,”
John grabbed clumsily for it, drenching his fingers, “No. It's not... it's not alright. - M'scared because I think... I think I'm startin' to love 'im,” he continued to whisper, eyes looking up fleetingly to meet Santa's before dropping down to the bar, to the puddle he'd made. “An- not just love, but love love. More than love. Somethin' I can't... I can't explain or... or even comp-compre-comprehend!”
Santa squirmed in his seat a little, evidently uncomfortable, “Have you spoken to him? Homer? And told him how you feel?”
“Who?” John asked in puzzlement, taking another drink, then another, and another, until everything came snapping back into place and he remembered, remembered that it was Sherlock's alias. “Oh! Him. No. I don't think I can... we can – M'not sure we are suited to have a talk about this. We don' like talking much. Gets all --” He waved his hand vaguely, almost spilling his water once again. “Messy.”
“I think you should talk to him,” Santa suggested in a soft tone, giving him a look of compassion. “Talk to him and tell him how you feel. Lay it all out there. Tell him you want more.”
Groaning, John shook his head and leaned forward against the bar, “Can't! - M'already in trouble b'cos we've been--” John lifted his hands and rubbed his two index fingers together in a clumsy representation of frottage. "Done other stuff too... other... things, you know?"
“Oh...” Santa muttered and shuffled awkwardly, coughing. Looking into his drink in thought. “And did – did he want that too?”
“What? Yes! Of course he did! - I didn't force him to rub his dick on me!” John answered, a little offended and a little too loudly so, making the barman look over and laugh.
Santa joined in, sliding a hand down his face, and then turned to look at John, “I don't know you. I don't know Homer, but I what I do know, is I know what it's like to feel like you'll never get the person of your dreams. - When I met my wife, I was scared. So scared. She was brilliant and sexy and clever. She was everything I looked for, everything I wanted, she was just my type and well out of my league, so we stayed friends." He exhaled and glanced into his drink again, tilting his head as he reminisced. "I helped her through her break-ups, through heartbreak and rejection. I held her as she cried over the death of her parents. Held her hair back when she was ill. I went to her house all the time. Watched films when she didn't feel like socialising and, when she did, I was there for that too. There when she needed me… it took some time. Years and years. Blind years. But suddenly I realised that we were already in a relationship. We were already in love, but neither of us were bright or brave enough to admit it, to put it out in the open, to talk about it...”
John nodded sluggishly, his eyes filled with alcohol sozzled tears, “Mrs Santa?”
Santa chortled and nodded, “Yes. Mrs Santa. - We talked and it was awkward and stilted and we weren't sure how to take it to the next step but… we did. And we've been together ever since. Living together, running our own business, travelling. We do everything together because we have the foundation of a friendship. Which is what you and your friend have too.”
Nodding again, this time solemnly, John processed the information and then slid from his stool, tripping over his own feet, “M'gonna go home and talk to him. Just... just say it, you know? Finally talk to him - If I can tell you, then I can... I can tell him, right?”
“I'd maybe wait until you're sober first,” Santa advised with a wince and a smile, reaching to help him get steady. “You might talk about sharks again.”
“Sharks with guns!” John corrected him with a tut. “Mafia sharks.”
“Mmhm, Mafia sharks,” Santa repeated with tickled agreement and then, after looking at John closely, paused his progress on leaving and gestured for the barman to hand him a pen. He reached for John hand once he had it and began writing a small message, which John, in his drunken state, couldn't read. Couldn't focus on. “You get home safe.” Once he had finished he slipped out of his own stool and walked John to the door, pressing up alongside him, keeping him from falling over a handbag a few steps on, a handbag that had been left hazardously near a table. “And drink more water.”
“Mm will do, Santa! - Don't forget us at Chist – Ches – the 25th!”
Hailing down a cab for John, Santa helped him inside and handed the driver a ten pound note, more than enough to get John home, “Goodnight my drunken friend,” he said through the half open window with a wave. “I hope you and Homer find forever happiness.”
“Goodnight, Santa!” John shouted against the part of the window that wasn't open, the glass fogging under his breath, giving a wave back before he slumped boneless back against the seat, letting his head fall back on the headrest. “I like y'beard...”
He fell asleep on the way there and when he was roused by the shaking hand of the cabbie, as he stumbled out onto the pavement, as he made it inside and climbed the stairs to the top, John's stomach, his body, revolted against him. He made it to the toilet just in time, skidding on his knees and banging his head on the lid as he lifted, but at least it wasn't on the floor, wasn't something he'd have to clean up later. It was horrible, yet it was for the best, and time passed him just as blearily, just as quickly as it had in the pub, until John didn't know what time it was and his stomach was clenching for what felt like the fifteen hundredth time, forcing him over the toilet bowl again.
He hated being sick, didn't know why he put himself through this pain for the sake of being intoxicated for such a short amount of time. He could barely remember the night he'd had through the pain, through the sobering up. He could have sworn he had spoken to a Santa impersonator. Hadn't he talked to Santa?
As he was brought over the toilet once more, he caught sight of his hand, of a blurry mess of black that was smudged near his wrist, and he quickly squinted at it, bringing it over as he wiped his mouth on some toilet roll. Without the bathroom light being on it was difficult to focus, to make out what the words said, but thankfully after a moment of wincing, shaking, and bringing his hand inches from his nose, he was able to read what the man had written there.
Drunk man:
Go get Homer. Talk to him.
And I'm not Santa
My name is Ian.
John groaned painfully and let his head rest on the edge of the toilet pan. He was never going to drink again.