Summary: John and Sebastian meet in a bar after the Reichenbach Fall. War-torn and heartbroken, they find friendship in each other, even if only for one night.

Rated: T

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John didn't know why he'd chosen this particular bar; the whole point of going out was to get his mind off Sherlock Holmes, off his own pain. Yet, he managed to choose a bar where war vets commonly came to hang out and drink their sorrow away. Everywhere he looked, a man was hanging his head into his drink. Fists were clenching around the thick fabric of their clothes. Groups of men sat and drank in silence, the only sound floating through their small group being the occasional long-suffering sigh.

Everything, from the lonely men to the dimly lit walls and the strong alcohol, reminded John why he had come. He would never forget the sound of Sherlock's body colliding with the pavement, that sickening crack that meant that he was gone, taken away from this world before John could even make it to his side. This man who meant so much to him died alone, probably afraid, certainly lost and confused, and what had John done?

Nothing. There was nothing he could do.

He swallowed half the shot of vodka, wincing as it burned his throat. He just wanted to get shit-face drunk and forget, forget for one night that he'd lost the most important person in the world to him.

"Gimme your strongest drink," a man said as he slid in the seat next to John. His blond hair stood up in all different directions as if he'd been running his fingers through it all day long. He was clearly older, going by the sure-fire signs of a military past as a Colonel, but he looked younger than John; about Sherlock's age, more or less.

No, stop that! Stop doing that!

John snatched his glass up and downed the last of the vodka. His throat burned and his eyes stung. Images of the raven-haired man filled his head: his obvious youth, his energetic determination, his charisma, all yanked away by one fall. John dragged his hands sharply through his hair and bit his lip, determined to push the tears away.

"You alright?" John lifted his head up and looked at the man next to him. His blue eyes were stormy and sad, just like every other poor sod in this bar, but the pain was fresh. The rims of his eyes were tinted red and tight.

"Yeah, yeah, of course." John pushed his glass toward the bartender, who refilled it without question and slid it back to him. He took a sip and did his best not to grimace. Really, vodka truly was an atrocious drink.

"You sure?"

The man was biting the edges of his cup, dragging his lips along it slowly as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to drink it or throw it. Maybe both. Maybe he'd down the liquid and hurl the cup at the mirror behind the bar. John almost wished the stranger would, just so he didn't have to look at his own grieving face.

He shook his head and gave the man a forced smile. "Is anyone in here okay?"

"No, but I figured it's be more polite to not assume you were a train wreck like the rest of us." He rotated the cup in his hands and stared down the liquid as if it held all the answers, and maybe it did. Maybe John just wasn't drunk enough yet. "Wanna talk about it?"

"What, and be like every other miserable bugger in this place, spilling my sad little life for some stranger to pass judgement?" He hadn't meant to sound so bitter, but he couldn't help it. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to remember.

"Why not?" The blond shrugged and set his glass down, holding his hand out to John. "Sebastian."

"John," he said slowly as he shook the man's hand. His grip was weak, but so was John's.

"I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but..." He raised an eyebrow and waved his hand round the bar. John laughed humorlessly.

"No, I understand. I completely understand. So what brings you here, Colonel?" He downed the rest of his drink and pushed it back to the bartender once more. Sebastian raised his eyebrows in curiosity and John could practically see the question on the tip of his tongue: How did you know? But he shook his head slowly.

"I, uh...I lost someone today. Someone special." His lips were on his cup again, dragging slowly along the rim as his eyes became unfocused. He still hadn't taken even a sip.

"Someone special?" John asked, voice tight.

"Not someone," he said barely over a whisper. "The one."

"The one?"

"The only one that mattered." The pain in his voice was right on the surface, so plain and obvious that it hit John like a punch in the stomach. He was here for the same reason John was. He was lost.

"Yeah...me too," John muttered. His newly-filled glass was set in front of him and he touched the edge of it with his fingertip.

"How?"

"Suicide."

"Same." Sebastian licked the edge of the cup, pressed his lips to it and tipped it slightly. Before the liquid reached his tongue, however, he pulled it back and scratched his neck nervously. "His name was Jimmy. Well, I called him Jimmy. Didn't much like it when anyone else did it."

"And was he...?" John tilted his head knowingly. Sebastian nodded and set his glass down.

"His was my boyfriend of sorts. It was...complicated. He had some issues."

"Don't we all," John muttered thickly. He downed another shot and coughed, set the glass down and pushed it away. Maybe he'd had enough for one day.

"And your person?"

"A boyfriend of sorts." John smiled tightly at Sebastian. "It was complicated."

Sebastian laughed, bitter and slightly hysterical, and faced John. He leaned over the bar just enough that his shirt pulled up at the end, revealing a jagged scar. John's eyes zeroed in on it automatically, assessing it, not quite able to stop the doctor in him. Sebastian followed his eyes and sighed.

"Look at us," he said softly. "Two war vets, beaten up by the battle, sent home just to face a whole new kind of war."

"Enlighten me, Sebastian. What kind of war are we facing?" John was pretty sure he knew already, but he wanted someone else to say it. He wanted to know that he wasn't as alone as he felt.

"The worst kind. The kind that haunts you no matter where you go, feeds on your deepest fears. Love."

"Does it ever stop hurting?" John could feel the tears running down his cheeks but he couldn't stop them. He took deep, gasping breaths, and he didn't realize until now how little he'd let himself breathe today. His lungs were pulling the air in as fast as they could. Sebastian reached out his hand and grasped John's, held his hand on the table tight. It wasn't sweet or friendly; it was the grip of a soldier, a man who'd watched people die, held their hand as they were dying.

They were both dying. Their hands squeezed together too tight, painful even, but they needed to hang on or they'd fall.

"No," Sebastian said harshly, his eyes, too, filling and spilling over with tears. "We both know, Captain, that the battle may be won, but the war never ends. The only thing left to do is fight."

He let go of John's hand, picked his glass up, and downed the liquid in two seconds. He clapped John on the shoulder.

"Until we meet again, John."

As Sebastian left the bar, John pushed his empty glass away and stood up slowly. His leg was acting up again and he ran the back of his hand over his eyes, wiping the tears away. Sebastian was right; all John could do was fight. Fight for Sherlock.

They would meet again someday. Granted, they didn't realize they would be holding guns to each other's heads, but they would meet again.

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