It was with a long and weary sigh that John came down from Rosie's room and walked into the kitchen. The clock showed 19:30 – dinner time, John thought, despite his lack of appetite. Rubbing his neck, he dragged himself to the fridge and opened it.

Baby food, opened tins of various kinds, leftovers from the night before… Everything inside looked terribly unappealing. But he had to eat something. And something healthy, so far as possible. He was trying to stay fit after all.

Letting out another sigh, he grabbed the last of the ready-cooked dishes – some roasted chicken with pasta and seasonal vegetables – closed the fridge's door and headed for the microwave. While his dinner heated up, he stopped by the wine rack and, without much hesitation, took out a bottle of white that he brought back to the table where the corkscrew was already waiting, picking up a glass from the dish drainer on his way. His gestures swift and self-assured, he opened the bottle and poured himself a generous measure, watching as the golden liquid gurgled out.

The sound had something soothing about it. Whether it be iced whiskey after a long day, fresh soda on a heated afternoon, or hot tea on a cold winter evening, it always was synonymous with comfort and enjoyment. Granted, he preferred his drink harder and darker, but he appreciated them all; as long as they achieved the desired effect. Tonight, he wanted to relax. And wine was the perfect remedy for that.

Swishing his choice of beverage around the glass, he took the time to sniff it and taste it, multiple times, until the 'ding' of the microwave brought his mind back to his dinner. Shooting an uninterested glance at it, he drank another gulp and, pouting in satisfaction, went to get his food. When he finally sat down, he turned on the radio to make up for the deafening silence in the room and began to eat, only half-listening to the evening news.

His mind was elsewhere and nowhere at the same time, and had been for several weeks now. He felt numb, like in a limbo state, where nothing could reach him. It was rather nice, actually; not feeling anything. Not caring about anything, at least. Well, only about Rosie. And even then… he knew he could do better, way better.

With a sniff, he took a good sip of his wine and let his gaze wander around the kitchen, then across the living room, where his eyes fell on the coffee table and the laptop sitting on it with its screen down.

John didn't even take a look at it when he got home. In fact, he had ignored it completely for the past three days. He didn't want to know where she was. And he didn't want to bother to find out. She could be near, hundreds of miles away or on another continent… it didn't matter. She obviously knew what she was doing. She always did. And whatever he had to say never came under consideration. Hence her letter. That bloody letter…

Before any dark thought could nag at him, John brought his attention back to his plate and finished it in a few mouthfuls, between two gulps of his wine. When he was done, he turned off the radio, pushed back his chair, and began to clear the table. As he came back for the wine and his glass, he mechanically looked up at the clock and pulled a face.

Christ… he muttered to himself. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he'd checked. This is going to be a long night, he thought. Again.

Resting his hands on his hips in jaded disbelief, he stared back down at the opened bottle, his brain empty and blank, and eventually reached for it along with his glass to bring them both to the living room. With a muffled grunt, he sat down in the middle of the couch, turned on the TV to a random channel, and poured himself another round before leaning back.

For a while, John lost track of time and became blissfully oblivious to the world around him – helped in that by the alcohol flowing through his system. But soon, a ring at the door made him snap back into reality.

What the hell…

On the lookout, he squinted at the other end of the room and checked his watch: it was 20:30.

A quarter past eight only?! he cried out to himself after a double take. Good god…

Running a hand over his face, he put down his glass and reluctantly got to his feet. Whoever it was, they were going to be disappointed: he wasn't in the mood to be neighbourly tonight. Or ever, for that matter.

That last thought made him snort at his own expense. What a jerk... He'd hate to have himself as a neighbour. Always grumpy, never happy… Well, in social settings that is. He never liked those. Not really. Greeting people as if he was glad to see them, wearing a fake smile all night, asking about what's-his-name's family when he couldn't care less, sitting through the telling of X's last vacation in Bermuda or Y's inescapable small talk about the weather… God, what a pain in the arse. It was so boring. But then, he was used to a more 'stimulating' environment – war zones, emergency units, explosions; investigations, chases around London, severed heads in fridges...

As he stopped by the door to unbolt it, he wondered if there was a polite way to tell someone to bugger off. Probably not, but he could try his best to make it clear without sounding like an utter prick. If there was any chance he wasn't considered one already.

Swinging the door open, he was just about to mumble an annoyed "Yes?" when the sight of a familiar dark-coated figure cut him short and made his eyes go wide.

"Sherlock?... Wh–what are you doing here?..."

The smile that the detective had been showing until now faded away, his brows furrowing in confusion. "We… agreed last week to meet at your place tonight, to check on Mary?... Don't you remember?..."

"Oh shit…" John breathed out, squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head low. They did agree. After that last case Sherlock had asked John to assist him with; a series of poisoning attempts in the West End theatre district. He remembered now. Shit.

"I'm sorry, I… I completely forgot," he said, looking back up at Sherlock whose expression had changed from bewilderment to concern.

"Are you alright?..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just… It's been a rough week."

Sherlock bit his lips. "Do you… want to postpone—"

"No, no," John butted in. "You're here now, so… let's get the hell on with it."

His reply had come out a bit more drily than intended, and John didn't need to see Sherlock's face as he let him inside to know that he had made him uneasy, and anxious. He could tell his brain was working around questions, gathering data and trying to come up with answers.

"Where's Rosie?"

"Mmm? Oh, um, in bed."

"Already? Is she okay?..."

"Yeah, yeah. She was just tired."

"Oh. Right."

Sherlock hadn't dared to move and was still standing a few steps from the door, hands behind his back. Clenching his own, John walked past him, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

"Would you like something to drink or…?" he asked, avoiding eye contact.

"No, I'm— fine, thank you..."

Sherlock's voice had paused in the middle and trailed off on the last words, and it took John a quick glance at him to see that he was staring at the coffee table – and the almost empty bottle of wine on it. He gritted his teeth.

"Please don't."

Sherlock's eyes shifted to John. "I… I didn't say anything."

"You did. With a look," John retorted, his jaw clamped shut, heading straight for the table to grab his glass. "And the answer is yes – I opened it tonight." He checked his watch. "An hour ago, actually," he quipped before taking a sip, looking anywhere but in Sherlock's direction.

"John…"

"No, no. I know what you're going to say and I don't need you, of all people, to lecture me about substance abuse, thank you very much."

He gulped the rest of his wine and started pacing the farthest side of the room, shaking his head. His chest was burning with anger.

"Bloody hell – my ex-killer wife lied to me again, took off without a word, left me alone with our baby daughter to roam the fucking planet, and for what? To protect us from a bloke that used to be 'family', and who now wants her dead because he believes she betrayed him, which by the way wouldn't be remotely impossible given the things she's done since?…"

He gave a bitter chuckle and bit his lower lip.

"Yeah, sorry, but I think I'm allowed a drink or two. Or three or four, whatever."

Scoffing at his own words, he continued to walk back and forth for a while, clammy fingers drumming on the edges of his glass, until everything he'd just said echoed in his head – and crept in his heart.

Gradually, his steps shortened, and with them every inch of willpower he had drawn on during the past two weeks. And soon, he found himself unable to move at all; like a fly caught in a web; crippled by all the feelings he had tried very hard to push aside: guilt, loathing, remorse, regret... The aching in his chest spread to his throat, then to his eyes, and he couldn't help but let it go.

In a quiet sob, he lowered his head and covered his grimacing face with a trembling hand, while the other loosened its grip on the glass. How did it all come to this? How could he let everything come to this? This joke of a life? God, he hated it. He hated what he had become. A pitiful ghost of himself, of the man he used to be, the man he used to like, at least a bit more than he did now. How could things have gone so wrong? Why was it happening to him? What had he done to deserve—

The soft touch of a hand on John's shoulder cut his thoughts short and he sucked in a startled breath. God, Sherlock… He had almost forgotten he was there, that he'd been watching him, in forced silence, witnessing the poor spectacle he had just made of himself. Jesus, what a useless piece of shit he was.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, feeling worse than ever.

He felt Sherlock's fingers squeeze his shoulder in response. "It's okay…"

John choke back another sob, shaking his head. "No, it's really not. I'm– I'm not–" He didn't even know where that sentence was supposed to go, but he didn't try to fill in the blanks. He felt lost, and ashamed. He'd never wanted Sherlock to see him like this. He was never meant to know.

Once again, Sherlock made John come back to the reality of the moment as his hand slowly moved across his shoulder blades and settled between them, his whole body shifting in front of John to invite him into his arms.

Drained from any ounce of energy he had left, John offered no resistance and let himself be pulled against Sherlock's chest, face still hidden behind his hand. He immediately felt at home, relieved, as if all the weight of the past weeks had been lifted off his shoulders. Sherlock's breathing was calm and deep, but John could sense the strong drums of his heart beneath, which, oddly enough, appeased him.

"I'm so tired, Sherlock… so tired…"

A tentative arm wrapped around him while warm and gentle fingers landed on his nape over his shirt collar. "You're not alone. I'm here for you, always."

His voice sounded even deeper when it resonated through his body, and the sensation was soothing. Just as much as Sherlock's words. John gave a loud sigh, hand leaving his face to rest on Sherlock's coat lapel, stroking it slightly with his thumb. "I know… Thank you…"

He couldn't even begin to describe how grateful he was to have him by his side right now. He could have left, called it quits, especially after the way John had treated him since he'd arrived. But he didn't. He stayed, for him. How could he put up with him, John didn't know. All he knew was that he felt incredibly lucky. And he wasn't ready to let go of that feeling yet.

Lifting his head a bit, he grabbed onto the tail of Sherlock's Belstaff and nestled his nose into the crook of his scarfed neck, his glass-holding hand finding its way up to Sherlock's hip. God, he smelled so nice… Was it perfume? Or the faint remnant of his after-shave? He couldn't tell. But he liked it. It was heady, exhilarating… just like him. With a smile, he buried his nose deeper in the cashmere of Sherlock's scarf and pressed himself closer.

He was beginning to feel sleepy from the wine – a bit giddy too – and the heat of Sherlock's body didn't help. How long had they been standing there? One minute? More? He didn't have the slightest idea. And he didn't care, really. He felt good, relaxed, at peace for the first time in weeks. And he just wanted to enjoy it as much as he could, for as long as he would be allowed to.

"I really don't deserve you…" he muttered into Sherlock's scarf after a while, more as a statement than anything else. He could almost hear Sherlock's brow furrow at his words.

"Of course you do."

"I really don't," John smiled, hooking his chin over Sherlock's shoulder. "But I'm glad you're here."

This time, he didn't need to guess the expression on his face – Sherlock's arm tightening around him was enough of an answer. His chest filled with warmth, John nudged his head at Sherlock's, pulling him even closer.

"Sorry about earlier. For… the things I've said to you."

"It's alright."

"No, no. It was… mean, inconsiderate, and absolutely uncalled-for. I… was being a dick. For a change…"

Sherlock's stomach shook and rumbled against John as a low chuckle rose from his throat. John's smile widened.

"What?... You're agreeing with this, aren't you?"

"Just a little."

"Oh, well done!... I wasn't throwing you a line, you know?"

"Weren't you?" Sherlock teased in a higher-pitched voice, his smirk perfectly audible.

Once again, John couldn't remain unfazed and cracked a laugh into Sherlock's shoulder, hearing him respond in kind. "You sod," he joked, and Sherlock giggled some more.

For a moment, it seemed as if they had gone back in time, when everything was simple – when they would chortle like kids on crime scenes, play board games on rainy Sundays (just not Cluedo), or spend their free evenings at home watching crap telly. And the feeling was wonderful.

With a last round of laughter, John slowly broke their embrace and let go of Sherlock's coat, his grin meeting his friend's. God, he was so beautiful when he smiled. The way his whole face lightened up and his eyes crinkled at the edges… It made him look ten years younger, if not more. Such a lovely sight. The loveliest John had ever seen, really.

"Thank you," he whispered, brushing the wool of the Belstaff with the tip of his fingers.

Sherlock's grin turned into a gentle smile and he gave a long, almost solemn nod. "You're welcome."

In the dim light of the room, John gazed at the features of his ridiculously gorgeous face, the dark and luscious curls surrounding it like the finely-crafted frame of a painting, the tender glow in his pale green eyes, the soft stretch of his generous lips, his oh-so kissable lips… Before he knew it, he was reaching for them; and before he could stop, he was pressing his mouth to Sherlock's. He lingered just enough to feel how firm and plump it was, and how warm too – just the way he had imagined it to be – and then pulled away.

As he opened his eyes, John saw that Sherlock's were still closed, and his lips parted. He looked frozen in place. John couldn't tell if that was a good or a bad thing, so he waited. When Sherlock's lids fluttered up, it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus. A hazy veil was hanging over them, as if he'd just woken up, and he had to blink several times to clear it away. But once he did, the sheer incomprehension that John read in them made his heart sink.

"Oh God, I'm– I'm sorry, I—" He took a quick step back and turned the other way, his head pounding. What he had done?... "I… I didn't want to— God…"

A hand on his guilty mouth, he ran off to the other side of the room, eyes darting around the place in utter panic. Why did he do this? What had gotten into him? What was Sherlock going to think?... Feeling dizzier by the minute, he stopped in his frantic pacing and dared a look in Sherlock's direction… who was still rooted to his spot in shock and confusion. John swallowed hard.

"Please, say something."

Sherlock's throat moved up and down. "I… I think I should leave…"

John felt the world crashing down around him. "N–no, please d—" His voice trailed off and he shook his head with a grimace, fists clenched in pain and anger. "Why, WHY do I have to ruin EVERYTHING!?" he roared, throwing his glass to the floor where it shattered at his feet.

A tense silence fell over the room, but John couldn't hear it. His ears were ringing, buzzing with nagging voices – his own. How could you think he'd feel the same way? Of course he doesn't. Why would he? And why would he love YOU, anyway? Don't be ridiculous. You were never up to it. You were never WORTHY of it. You should have known better. Now you've lost the only friend you had, the only person you loved. And you're all alone. You're a failure. A FAILURE.

"John…"

Sherlock's call seemed to come from far away, drowned in the noise of John's inner turmoil. He could barely see his tall silhouette approaching out of the corner of his eye.

"John, y–your hand…" Sherlock's voice continued, clearer, but low and shaken. "You're bleeding…"

The last word rang like an alarm in John's head and he came back to his senses, glancing down at both his hands to see a small stream of dark red blood dripping down his left palm.

"Shit..." he breathed out, staring wearily at the cut.

For a handful of seconds, everything went blank. No pain, no feeling… only numbness and quiet. But as he began to think that things couldn't possibly get any worse, a sudden cry came from above; a baby's cry: Rosie.

"Oh G—"

John closed his eyes and threw his head backwards, face contorted in desperation.

When was it going to STOP?... He couldn't take it anymore. He just wanted to scream, cry, and collapse to the floor never to get up again. He just wanted to be left in peace. In PEACE. Why couldn't he have this? Why wasn't he ALLOWED this? WHY?...

"Don't worry," Sherlock said quickly, "I'll– I'll take care of her. Just… treat that wound, okay?... I'll be right back. Alright?..."

John felt cautious fingers touch his shoulder and he forced himself to open his eyes.

Sherlock looked agitated but resolved, and with a nod, he offered John his reassurance again. Looking down in shame, John gave a faint nod in return, then watched as Sherlock's thin legs flashed by to run upstairs.