A/N: Thanks to Rockinjanelle and Knowledgeiscake for coming up with this brilliant idea. We've all decided to write about John being an alcoholic post-Reichenbach. Each starting off with the same two lines, we have different stories with different endings. Please take a look at their stories as well.
This is a John/Sherlock fic, with allusions to sex and alcohol abuse.
It starts as "just one". That's how it always starts. Just one beer to soothe the bitter roil of emotions that threatened to burst out of him at any moment. But that one bottle of beer – the gottle o'geer, and that is a memory he promised himself he'd never revisit – seems to only highlight the jagged wound inside him, making it glow and fluoresce like that damn rabbit (and he promised himself he wouldn't think about that either) until he is sure that everyone can tell that he is a broken man. His soul – or rather, the tatters that are left of it – is bared to the world, but maybe, just maybe, he can hide behind the dull translucent brown of empty beer bottles. And so one bottle leads to two, and soon the steady stream of alcohol is all that soothes the burning ache in his chest, a reminder of the promise he couldn't keep.
He stops showing up to work. He claims that he's found another job, that he no longer wants to work at the clinic, but he hears the truth every night as empty bottles tremble and clink in his shaking hands. He never allows himself to miss being the healer, the doctor, the one who always fixed what was broken. Sometimes he catches himself staring at his hands, laced with cuts from jagged bottle fragments thrown against the wall, and he is disgusted with himself. The deft fingers that once stitched up wounds, caressed soft pale skin, tangled in dark curls – but he promised himself he wouldn't think about that, and so he grabs the nearest bottle and tries to forget.
Even Mrs Hudson can't afford to keep a tenant who doesn't pay the rent. John knows this, even if she would never admit it herself. He begins to clear out the flat slowly, selling the furniture at the nearby pawn store in order to scrape up enough money to pay for one more month's rent. Room after room empties, until the only things left in the flat (other than the now-constant debris of broken bottles) are the memories, stifling in both their power and proximity. Their first kiss was in that corner, and that was where they patched each other up after the Greek case, and over there was where John discovered Sherlock was ticklish, and – no, no, stop. He needs to leave the flat, but he can't, not yet; there is still one room that needs to be emptied. He grabs a bottle of cheap wine for courage and opens the door to Sherlock's room – or rather, what was Sherlock's room. It's still exactly as it was six months ago, and John is paralyzed. For a second, he can almost feel Sherlock kissing his neck, murmuring in his ear, arching and writhing against him. But Sherlock is dead and John is alone, clinging to broken bottles and shattered promises in a feeble attempt to fill the hole where his heart once was. The thought of having to pack the periodic table, the riding crop, the damn shirts and suits that Sherlock took such pride in… he can't do it. It would open up a wound so deep not even all the alcohol in the world would be able to soothe it, and John can't lose his last solace. So he leaves in the middle of the night, and he feels the jagged edges of his soul start to rip and tear again. His only home is the one in the bottle now – but when you can't keep your promises, that's all you deserve.
The streets of London are no longer a battlefield, with adventures to be found on rooftops and fire escapes. Now John stumbles along on the ground, tripping along dark alleys as he looks for his next supplier. His cane's gone now too, sold at a pawn shop in order to pay for the now-empty bottle of cheap liquor in his hand. It's not like he needs the damn thing anymore; he spends his days sitting in dark alleys and drowning his memories in illegal alcohol that he knows will kill him. Even now, he can see his vision feathering at the corners, and he's glad. He's glad that this damn moonshine will turn him blind because then, maybe then, he'll stop seeing long coats and sharp cheekbones wherever he goes. Maybe then, he can finally forget that vow, whispered in the middle of the night, among sheets and moonlight and kisses: "I promise I will always protect you. I am your soldier, your doctor, your lover. I promise I will spend the rest of my life with you. I promise, I promise, I promise…"
The promises ring in his ears even as he feels his body breaking down. His joints swell painfully, and his heart stutters and stumbles. His right eye has become completely blind (he's disfigured on both sides of his body, and he takes a perverse satisfaction in that fact) and spots constantly dance through what remains of his vision. Every night, he shivers less and less, malnourished body slowly giving up the fight for survival. He is rarely ever sober and that suits him just fine. He pours more of the dark poison into himself, trying to fill up the hole where his heart once was, and waits for the inevitable.
Death comes in due time for Dr John H. Watson, but it is accompanied by another figure, tall and gaunt and completely unexpected. All John can see are glimpses, but since when has he ever needed anything more? Red buttonhole. Gloved hands. And those eyes, shining so much brighter than the dull bottles that littered the alley. Those eyes, glowing with intelligence and tears and-maybe-love. But John promised himself that he wouldn't think about that. So, in the middle of the night, among cobblestones and starlight and tears, he whispers "I promised…"
He never hears Sherlock's response.