Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Written in response to the prompt "Drunk." It turned out a bit darker than intended actually. Post-Reichenbach. Implied slash. Rated for sexual themes, brief language, and mentions of substance abuse.
John Watson felt like hell. He had woken up in Sherlock's bedroom, a place he had no desire to be despite having given in to Mrs. Hudson's requests to return to Baker Street. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and his voice was hoarse. What had happened the night before?
John put his head in his hands and tried to remember. The day before. The one year anniversary of the death of Sherlock Holmes.
He thought he had been prepared, thought he would be able to deal with the condolences of friends and family, the signs of "Believe in Sherlock Holmes" posted throughout the city. He had been wrong.
Now, John Watson was not the kind of man who went out and got drunk, partly because he didn't enjoy it much, and partly because the Watson family could only handle one alcoholic. But the night before was an exception. He craved it.
He had wanted to feel numb, to distract himself from the pain, from the memories. The more he drank the more silent the world became. He remembered having the brief thought that he understood why Sherlock had been an addict. The silence was beautiful.
John remembered the drinking. The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure what had happened after that or how he had gotten home.
He lifted his head from his hands and glanced around the room, hoping to find some clue to why he was there. The walls looked exactly the same as the last time he had been in the room. The window was open, an observation that struck him as odd, but he brushed it off.
Unable to see anything that would be of help, he lay back down and shut his eyes, turning his face into the pillow. He breathed in...and his eyes shot open again as bits and pieces of memories flashed through his mind.
He stumbled into the flat, a tall figure with dark hair helping him stay upright…
A kiss.
Gasps. Moans. A burning in his skin as hands trailed teasingly over his body.
"Fuck! Sherlock, please…"
"I need…"
"I know."
"God, Sherlock…"
"Let go, John."
Release.
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
John shook his head, trying to chase the fragments away. He was confused, deeply so. However, it was highly unlikely that he had simply imagined such an encounter. Not with Sherlock.
Then again, who knew what his mind was capable of these days. He knew his therapist thought he had gone crazy. Sometimes he was inclined to agree with her. After all, when someone starts thinking they've seen a dead friend at that person's grave…chances are they've gone at least slightly around the bend.
John glanced at the open window once more and the feeling that he had missed something returned. He sighed.
If Sherlock wasn't dead, chances were at least one person knew about it. Whether it was true or not, he deserved some explanations. And so, John Watson reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number.
On the other side of London, Mycroft Holmes looked from his buzzing mobile to the man sitting in front of him.
"What happened last night, Sherlock?" He asked quietly.
Sherlock looked away.
"None of your concern, brother. Do you have the files I requested?"
"They are being sent to your phone as we speak. If you require any further assistance, you know how to get in touch."
"I'm sure I won't need to."
He paused and his mask cracked momentarily.
"Thank you, Mycroft."
The older man's face softened.
"Of course. Now, as for the other matter…what should I tell Doctor Watson?"
Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes.
"Tell him whatever is going to keep him safe. That should be sufficient."
Mycroft nodded. As he watched his brother leave, he turned his attention to the missed call on his phone. He had been keeping tabs on John Watson for quite some time and for now the only thing he needed to be kept safe from was himself.
Sherlock's partner deserved the truth and the truth he would get. So with that thought in mind, he called for a car.
A/N: Review?