So when Detective Inspector Lestrade invited him to his birthday party at the police club, Sherlock naturally said no. Apologies Inspector. I don't do parties. Those were his exact words.
But Lestrade was persistant. Infuriatingly so. He nagged and pestered him at every crime scene. 'Come on Sherlock. Come to the party.' Sherlock was quite sure the Inspector didn't want him to attend that badly. It had just become a bit of an injoke with the Scotland Yard crew to ask him about it constantly. Finally he resorted to begging.
"Please Sherlock. Come on. All things I've done for you. All the cases I've put your way and you can't do this one thing for me. Come on. Please."
"But you've never invited me before," Sherlock had replied with a shrug.
"Well I've never had a party before have I? Come on! It'll be fun."
Sherlock distinctly remembered rolling his eyes at that point.
Yet one week later he found himself sat in a lonely corner of the police club nursing the same pint of lager he'd had for the past two hours. Drinking wasn't really his thing. Shame he couldn't say that for the rest of the force, by this time most of them outrageously drunk. Donovan and Anderson dancing shamelessly together to some trashy pop song.
Sherlock took a sip of his pint and sighed, wishing he was back at his flat in Montague Street. He checked the time on his watch. He'd made an appearance, gave his wishes to Lestrade and spoken to a couple of people. Surely no one would notice if he just slipped off. Besides he was gasping for a fag and smoking indoors was one of those law thingys. God this was tedious.