Summary: John thinks about a certain consulting detective, and remembers him for what he was, and will always be. (mostly a drabble)
Pairing: John W. / Sherlock H. (established relationship)
Rating: 12+
Comments: Based off Halestorms song 'Here's To Us.'
Numb, Johns' whole body was, in a simple word, numb. Every fiber, every muscle was stiff, numb, unfeeling. His body protested to everything, movement. But this didn't stop the doctor from drinking a few more pints. And with each, his body grew warmer, and more immovable. A few more pints, the doctor thinks, and he could poison himself. He knew there wouldn't be a point though, if he killed himself right now, who would then remember Sherlock Holmes if not him?
Sherlock Holmes, the name felt like poison itself to even think about. The man was mad, quite insane in his own way, but had a way of leaving his own scars on others. John took one more last drink of his beer before leaning his head back against the chair he rescinded in inside the bar. He let out a shuddering sigh, inhaling as much air as he could get.
John just felt dead. Inside he was hollow, and that left his body as an empty shell. John then thought back to the man he had lost only a few days ago. The man he had loved, and who loved him as equally. John looked down at the empty glass in his fingers. He remembered when Sherlock had thrown a similar piece at John.
It had been a slow evening, and Sherlock had been very irritable. John, not knowing it, stepped onto a minefield. He had stepped on the wrong keys and the wrong time. Sherlock hadn't seen a murder in at least a week, so when the doctor had asked Sherlock a question he was given a flying glass cup in response. Sherlock of course apologized to John once he had recovered from his blind anger and annoyance. John was left to pick up the pieces and had cut himself numerous times doing so.
John smiled, it wasn't a terrible memory, but it wasn't the best he had shared with the other man. John rubbed his fingers on the smooth glass. Another memory of Sherlock came to mind, the sweetest of the many shared memories.
John, though he doesn't remember when, he been shot four times. All that John really remembers is waking up with Sherlock Holmes holding his hand next to him. Sherlock was asleep but still had a strong grip on John's hand. John had tried sitting up, but his wounds forbade it. Sherlock woke up to the shuffling of John but keeping his hands tightly attached to Johns'. Neither of them spoke, they didn't have to, that's what made them so connected.
Then without warning, the detective kissed the army doctor. Up until that moment he and Sherlock had only been flat mates, colleagues and friends. But that was the farthest thing from his mind as he responded to the kiss.
John still stared at his empty bottle, and felt a few strand of tears make their way down his chin. He knew it was pathetic, this night and the nights before, but that didn't stop him from letting his over filled heart pour. John knew this had to stop though; he couldn't keep doing this to himself. John knew he would end up like Harry if he didn't. So he made a promise as he ordered another round of pints. He promised himself he'd stop getting pissed, and wouldn't relent so much on the past.
John didn't want to forget Sherlock, how could he? Sherlock brought him back to life; he had saved him from his own downfall. John grimaced, not the right choice of words. John promised to never die, at least not now, he had a job still. He believed in Sherlock Holmes, he just needed the world to do the same.
John drank one last pint, he drank half of it away already before he raised it and softly said to himself, "Here's to us, here's to our love Sherlock," John whimpered Sherlocks' name slightly before carrying on. "And here's to you, you god awful, lovable, sod." John drank the remainder of his drink, and a few more strands of tears left his eyes.