A/N: I dunno, I was just having some bad Reichenbach feels? I've also nearly finished the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and wanted to incorporate a bit of Sherlock's drug issues into the series...anyway, I came up with part one of this (with two more parts that are almost completely written). PS, I'm going to continue working on my Merlin story, I just really needed to work on this first.
Warnings: Alcohol, drugs, and attempted suicide
Setting the nearly empty whisky bottle down next to the long ago forgotten shot glass, John Watson stared at the empty chair across from his. It definitely wasn't the first time he had done this in the three years since he had lost Sherlock. The stupid arm chair began to blur. Getting angry at himself for beginning to cry over him again, John slammed a fist against his seat and stood up to find something else to drink. The kitchen was a mess; dishes were collecting dust in exactly the same spot (much against Ella's suggestions...God, he hadn't seen Ella in over two years) they had been when Sherlock had fallen—no, jumped.
John's head was pounding like a never ceasing drum; he had to scrunch his eyes closed and rest his palms and forehead against the cupboards. Much to his chargin', that salt water managed to escape his tear duct.
"Dammit!" he slammed his palm against the wood. Some solider he had been; some friend.
John remained in that position for what could have been mere seconds or several minutes—he really didn't care, until there was a timid knock at the door.
"John?" It was Ms. Hudson.
John tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling and attempt to force the tears back into his head. Pushing himself off the cupboards with great effort, he ambled towards the door and opened it. Ms. Hudson was standing there with concern written on her face and a biscuit tin.
"I heard banging—are you okay, John?"
Staring at his landlady for a moment he replied with furrowed eyebrows, "What do you think?"
"—It's been so long since you've been out...you've only eaten food from the bakery and these biscuits for the past two months."
"Thank you, by the way," John feigned a cocky smile and took the tin from her hands.
Sighing, Ms. Hudson side-stepped John and entered the flat, "At least let me help you tidy up a bit."
"What happened to 'not your housekeeper'?" John mocked.
"I'm not. Right now I'm being a friend," because you need one silently hung in the air. Scotland Yard had tried getting in contact with John several times since Moiarty's lies, and had even tried to put him on some cases, but his heart could never be in it and he knew no one could ever replace Sherlock. It made him mad that Lestrade had even tried (he hadn't of course, but this was how John perceived it). He hadn't heard from Mycroft in over a year. Just as well, John thought. And when he had been in the hospital last December for...well—Molly wouldn't look him in the eyes.
While John remained standing, Ms. Hudson bustled into the kitchen. However, the moment she picked up the last coffee mug Sherlock used before they had been forced to become fugitives together, he exploded, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" His shoulders started to shake.
"Okay, okay," Ms. Hudson held up her arms.
"I just—I just don't want his things moved," John said sullenly.
"Well then, this might be a bad time to bring it up but I got a phone call this morning from that University. They've offered a large sum of money for that chemistry set on the table over there," she gestured to the collection of chemicals and test tubes.
"I don't want that moved either. I don't want things to change." John stated slurrily yet firmly.
"But things have changed; they've been changed for a while."
John paused to open the tin he was holding to take a bite of a biscuit before asking Ms. Hudson to leave as politely as possible, "I was actually getting ready to take a bath before you came up here," he lamely provided.
With a slight incredulous look at her tenant, Ms. Hudson relented and left.
Walking back over to his chair, John picked up and downed the rest of the whiskey bottle.
No one understands this, John thought, I was Sherlock's only friend; he said so himself! And he's gone, gone and can never come back. John began tearing up again. 'Things have been changed for a while', they were never going to change for the better. He ran his fingers over the bullet wounds that the wall bore. Then John placed his hand on the skull where he had once hidden Sherlock's cigarettes. A handprint was left in the dust. Lastly, he pushed his finger into the seemingly whole varnished wood of the mantle; causing a concealed compartment to reveal itself when a quarter of the front fell open.
John reached inside and groped until he felt his hand wrap around what he was looking for.
Scotland Yard really is stupid, he thought about the "drug bust" they had performed all those years ago. Of all the little quirks and vices Sherlock had, this was the only one to John that was the ultimate kicker. Whenever Sherlock didn't have a case or experiment and found himself twiddling his thumbs, he too often reached for his syringe. He never used cocaine when he was actually working a case, nicotine patches or the occasional cigarette would suffice. But when his friend would have nothing else to give him that jolt of adrenaline his life demanded pursuit after, he'd turn to injections.
John carried all of Sherlock's supply over to his chair before sitting down. He wondered what sort of adrenaline rush Sherlock had gotten when there was nothing but a trench coat and thin air between him and the concrete—
As demure as he was, John cocked a half smile at the thought of that trench coat and cheekbones stunt his mate would always pull. John had wanted to get the coat back from the morgue, but someone had already beaten him to it (who, he could never figure out).
Picking up his beaten laptop, John opened the internet to his homepage, "The Personal Blog of: Dr. John H. Watson." He shakily clicked on the New Post button, not really knowing what to write. However, it ended up going like this,
"The last three years of waiting for a miracle have essentially proved futile. That's it I suppose, bye."
Of course the software's lovely automatic spell checker saved his last post from becoming an essentially drunk written mess.
It was without much more thought John currently fingered the syringe in his hand and after lifting his sleeve up and tapping his arm several times, pushed the needle into his flesh.
He groaned when he felt the near instantaneous reaction. Taking another syringe, John shot himself up again.
It's a rather poetic way to go, he thought through small spasms and racing a racing heart. The one thing I truly scorned Sherlock for being the way I get to greet him again. Even if I don't see him, at least I'll be out of here. Things were never going to get better.
John could hear Sherlock practically giggling like a girl when he read a poem written for his girlfriend (that was under password protection on his computer). Lastly, John took the last syringe, which was mixed with both heroine and cocaine and forced it through his skin.
Leaning his head back into the chair, he relaxed his right arm and allowed the empty vessel to fall to the floor.