It's been two years, well technically it'll be three in an hour, but John's not really concerned with that. He's more concerned with the bottle of whiskey he's hidden from Harry, and how he'll be able to hide the evidence in the morning.
The doctor sighs, hiccups then takes another swig of the alcohol, wincing at the burn but giggling at the rush. He knows that he shouldn't be drinking, especially while he's living with his alcoholic sister, but John doesn't care at the moment. Anyway, Harry is off with a date, so she should be behaving herself.
The shiny aluminum cane rests against the plush sitting chair, and his hand laying on top of the chair's arm is shaking ever so slightly. The limp is back and (John suspects) worse; his hands haven't stopped shaking since the funeral.
He feels pathetic and knows that he should be on a date with that nice girl from the bank; obviously she showed signs of attraction, and she even slipped him her number the week before.
But John doesn't want any companionship; he doesn't want the "Oh you're John Watson!" exclamation. They always ask if it was all a farce, and he's tired of trying to convince them that it wasn't.
Taking another swig from the bottle, John places it on the end table and runs his hands over his face. He checks his watch and doesn't cover the little sob that tumbles out of his mouth; only forty-five minutes to go.
He toasts to his best friend and to the friends he lost after the funeral. Mycroft had sent him a nice Christmas gift; an old photo album containing pictures of Sherlock in his youth that never cease to bring a smile to his face and tears to his eyes.
Lestrade tried to get him to come out for drinks the other night, but it was when he and Harry were feeling particularly pathetic together and ended up passing out on the sofa while watching reruns of Dr. Who.
John fumbles with putting the stopper back through the neck of the whiskey bottle and shuffles to his feet to grab something from the fridge.
Everything is neat, all the contents are food. The doctor grabs a readily made sandwich Harry had made hours before with a grimace, and returns to his chair.
The telly is on mute, but John eyes the screen with disinterest while mechanically chewing his food. He's not drunk, but he desperately wants to be; he can tell that he's beginning to show signs of addiction, and that it would be counterproductive for Harry if there were two alcoholics living under one roof.
John leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, swallowing the dry piece of sandwich and barely holding back the heave. He drifts and jumps awake by a pounding at the door.
The doctor checks his watch and silently groans when it reads three o'clock. So much for greeting the New Year. He stretches as the pounding gets fevered, but for some reason he knows that the person behind the door won't leave until he gets there.
John's fingers wrap around the handle, pausing for a moment as the pounding stops. His heart thuds in his chest, and he's trying to quell down the small light of hope beginning to bloom in his chest. No. Stop it. He's dead.
The cane still sits against the armchair.
John tugs open the door, releasing a breath he wasn't aware of holding. Large eyes framed by dirty hair greet him, and the street girl offers him a large smile. "Are you Dr. Watson?" John's brows furrow, and he shoves away the disappointment in order to feel curiosity.
He comes to attention instantly but feels himself sway on the spot due to the alcohol. "I am."
The girl nods and thrusts a crisp, white envelope towards him. "I was told to give this to you an' only you." John doesn't hesitate in grabbing the paper.
Still fingers rip open the parcel, and a tongue darts out to wet his lips. And Sir Boast-A-Lot found a reason to live. He frowns, the words confusing but written in a familiar scrawl that he feels his heart jump into his throat.
"I-I'm sorry, but who gave you…" He looks up and is surprised (though by now, he knows he shouldn't be) that the girl is gone.
It's a simple sentence, but it's confusing. John runs a thumb over the black ball-point ink, angry and happy tears springing to his eyes. And Sir Boast-A-Lot found a reason to live.
His hands were still, and for the first time in three years, John Watson felt the heavy weight of grief lift off his shoulders.
The doctor folded the paper neatly and placed it in his trouser pocket, running to his post to hide away the whiskey bottle and place the cane back in the closet.
Hope was burning too brightly in his heart, but as he hailed for a cab, John couldn't fight the large grin that spread over his face. "221B Baker Street, please."
()End()
I'm an emotional wreak...Just ignore me.