smallhobbit

Stanley Hopkins sipped his pint and looked around the bar. He had chosen a table on one side, away from the majority of the patrons, who were greeting each other and generally seemed to be enjoying their Friday night together. Stanley thought about Sherlock, and wondered what he’d say about the bar; not that it was likely they’d ever come there together.

He was about a third of the way through his pint when a man smiled at him and said, “You look like someone who isn’t used to drinking alone. Would you like some company?”

Stanley smiled back. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m not in a sociable mood.”

“Fair enough. There are times when all a man wants to do is take solace in his pint.”

Stanley watched as the man wandered over and joined a couple of others. They welcomed him in, and all three were soon engaged in animated conversation. Stanley returned to his silent drink.

A little later another man approached and lent on the table. “Hi. I don’t think I’ve met you before,” he said.

At the same moment Stanley felt a hand brush his shoulder from behind. Stanley’s hand moved further down his glass, and somehow it slipped, because he managed to pour half a pint of beer over the legs of a second man who had come up behind him.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Stanley said. “Can I do something to help?”

“No, it’s okay.” The unfortunate man left rather faster than might have been expected, and when Stanley turned back the other man had disappeared too.

Ruefully, Stanley looked at his empty glass and took it up to the bar, where he asked for another pint. The bartender nodded and moved down the bar to pour it, before returning to give Stanley his drink. Stanley went back to his table and was not surprised to find he was quickly joined by a third man.

This one pulled up a chair and lent in towards Stanley. He lifted his own glass and said, “Cheers!”

Stanley, in his turn, raised his glass, but put it down again without drinking from it.

“What’s the matter with you?” the other asked. “Here, come on, have a drink.”

Tentatively Stanley lifted up his glass again, and the man leaned further forward, “Go on have a good draught.” Stanley felt as if he was about to be forced to drink.

At that moment, a burly man stepped up and slapped a warrant card onto the table. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir.”

There was a commotion at the bar, and the bartender who had last served Stanley was being led away by another police officer. Stanley’s potential assailant looked as if he was thinking of running, but was no match for the officer beside him.

Stanley watched in satisfaction as the man was led away. He heard someone else sit down beside him, and turned to face Sherlock. “That went well,” Stanley said. “And even the pickpocket isn’t going to be keen to pursue his occupation now he’s got beer soaked trousers.”

“So what do you want to do now?” Sherlock asked. “I can get you another drink if you want.”

“I need to wait for SOCO to collect my pint for analysis. It will be interesting to see exactly what the bartender added to my beer. And then I suggest we head back to my flat. I have had quite enough of trying to drink alone and would much prefer to share some wine with you.”