Title: Maintain Consciousness

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended

Warnings for heavy drinking, mild language, and drug usage.

Chapter 1

John sat by Sherlock's grave. In one hand, he held a bottle of whiskey, in the other hand, he held his Sig Sauer P226R. The whiskey was popped open and half had already been either drunk by John or poured on Sherlock's grave as a tribute. John was toying with the safety on the Sig, carelessly pointing it vaguely in his direction.

The graveside visits had quickly become routine after Sherlock's death, taking up all the spare time that sprinkled John's already busy schedule. He still worked at the nearest surgery, although lately he had proven near useless due to his grief. He still consulted with Lestrade sometimes, but John knew it was only because the DI felt sorry for him. He didn't actually provide any useful information or deductions like Sherlock had.

When John wasn't working or being consulted or sitting like a vegetable in the flat, he was at Sherlock's grave. The whiskey and gun, however, were celebratory. He usually just sat, empty-handed or with a book or his laptop, blog open, by the grave. Then he would go hang out at a pub and drink until he couldn't think straight and wander home only to stare at the gun on the table.

This time, he had brought the gun. He set the whiskey down and shifted the gun from his right hand into his left. Hand shaking, he brought the gun up so that the tip of the muzzle pressed into his temple. He breathed heavily and stared at the tombstone in front of him.

There was the name of the idiot who had betrayed him: SHERLOCK HOLMES. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. He was still the only one in the world, either because no one else was smart enough, or because the only person who had been 'trained' in the profession was too distraught to even consider continuing the practice.

Licking his lips and grimacing, John tightened his finger on the trigger of the Sig. 'Happy Anniversary, Sherlock.' He muttered. His finger tightened, squeezed, strained.

He let out the breath he had been holding and lowered the gun, back slumping and eyes drooping out of exhaustion and discouragement. He had dragged himself here, he'd been planning this day since Sherlock's death, and now, he couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to end the pathetic excuse for a life he had and join Sherlock in – wherever it was he had ended up. John was pretty damn sure he'd end up there as well.

He sighed and looked down at the bottle of whiskey. Glencoe. The syrup-colored liquid shined up at him, offering release from his pain. John gritted his teeth before obliging, drowning his sorrows in alcohol. The alcohol didn't give him anything back, just took his sanity, but he was content with letting his mind drift away from him and not caring what was on the telly or where he was supposed to be. He wondered if this was what Sherlock took the drugs for all those years ago. Maybe he'd have to try that someday. Then again, today would be optimal.

He made up his mind to look for drug dealers when he took his nightly trip down to the pub tonight. If he found any, great, he'd try them out. If he didn't, he'd just lean on more whisky. With that decision, he picked up his gun, clicked the safety back on, finished off the whisky, already feeling a bit woozy, and stood. He brushed the dirt and grass off of his back end and took a step back, still facing the ugly and familiar gravestone. SHERLOCK HOLMES.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock.' He said before heading to the entrance of the graveyard. Around him, the other graves were decorated lavishly with peonies, daffodils, crudely picked dandelions that practically gave off childish naivety, roses, and the occasional daisy.

John picked up a random flower bouquet tied with a skimpy ribbon off of a nearby grave marked 'Stephen Dalton' and carried it the short way back to Sherlock's grave. He dropped it on the bare ground before the stone and continued back to the street.

The street was bare, no cars in sight, and John groaned to no one and began picking his way back up the road. He glanced around, half-hoping to see at least one person, familiar or not, that he could offer a wave to. He flinched when the view around him yielded no such friend. The scenery instead was pale, boring, and bare. Only old buildings loomed over his head, shedding shadows and gloom onto him. These buildings created a border that didn't dare come near the penumbra of the graveyard, so there was a strip of lonely and odd-looking grass that ran between the two worlds; one filled with life and company, the other filled with death and emptiness. Yet, as John crossed the border into the street between buildings, he didn't fit into the life. He belonged in the company of the dead, speaking to the ghosts of the loose souls around him. He didn't belong where there was joy offered to him, for he had no joy to offer, nor did he care to take that joy which was offered to him.

~xxx~

Once he was back at 221b, John regretted it. The flat always gave him a sense of despair. He wanted to give up all hope in life. That's why he went to the pubs. That's why he vacated the flat exactly when he entered it.

So tonight, like ever night, John Watson vacated his own flat to go drink himself into oblivion. The nearest pub, and the most visited by John, was The World's End pub. Once inside, he took a seat at the bar and ordered a Guinness. The bartender, a younger pretty girl, nodded and pulled the tap to present him with a tall glass of beer. He took a huge gulp and sighed. God, that tastes wonderful, he thought.

Some sports channel was plastered on the screen above him, and he found himself watching blankly, not even registering who was playing or what the score was or even what sport it was. He'd already had beer that day, so his mind was already pleasantly foggy, but he didn't mind drinking more. After all, it wouldn't do any harm, would it?

~xxx~

Six hours and four glasses of beer later, John was properly woozy. He couldn't see straight, his vision kept blurring, and his brain felt like a scrambled egg. He had watched as the people had poured in and trickled out slowly and had watched with even greater interest as the barista had served each and every customer. Every time she leaned over the counter to hand a glass to a customer, her just-low-enough shirt moved just enough for John to see the side of her breast. He was so drunk that his brain didn't work enough to tell him it was rude to stare, so he found his gaze glued to the small, yet very suggestive patch of skin.

The barista noticed his stare only after most of the customers had left. She leaned over to hand another Margarita to a female customer, obviously on a date, John noticed, and he began to stare. His glass was nearly empty, so when she looked over at him, it was only to ask if he needed a refill, but he took it entirely differently. She noticed his stare and where he was staring, and immediately straightened up. She stepped over, a bit cautious now, and smiled timidly.

'Can I get you another glass?' she asked, almost too quiet for John to hear.

John looked at his glass, then back at her. 'Yes, you can. And I'll take one hot night with the barista as well.' He let the words tumble out, not caring whether or not they made sense.

The girl gave him a half-confused, half-shocked look. 'Excuse me?' She said, this time louder, attracting the attention of her most recent customers.

'You, me, a couple of glasses of wine, maybe a warm bed waiting for us afterwards?' John scooted his glass off to the side and scooted his butt forward on the bar stool, shrinking the distance between him and the girl. 'Whadya say?' He gave her a seductive wink. She stepped back just in time for a taller and broader male employee to stand beside her.

'What's wrong 'Lisha?' He asked.

'This bloke's trying to chat me up,' the barista, 'Lisha, said.

The male bartender turned to John. 'That true?' When John gave a drunken noise as if to say, 'what's it to you?' the bartender rolled up his long black sleeves and clenched his fists, moving around the end of the bar to move to the floor where John was now standing, his empty glass forgotten.

The bartender was very tall. 'Now look,' John slurred. But he never finished his sentence because the bartender grabbed his jumper by the front and pulled him up so his feet didn't touch the floor. He struggled, grasping the bartender's arms, feet waving in the air.

'This'll teach you to chat up my girl,' the bartender practically growled in John's face. He dragged John outside and threw him out the door. 'Don't come back you drunken idiot!' He yelled after him.

'Fuck you!' John yelled back before stumbling away. He felt his way along the walls of the dark street with his hands. He tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and cursed again. He leaned down to press his fingers against the forming bruise. When he looked up, he saw a woman on the other side of the street. She was standing, barely dressed it seemed, like she was waiting for someone. John ducked into the shadow of the building behind him to watch her.

Sure enough, a man passed by the woman and John caught just a glimpse of them trading off something from hand to hand. The woman immediately stuck her hand back in her pocket. The man, still walking away, checked whatever the traded item was. Obviously satisfied, he stuck it in his pocket: drugs.

John remembered the debate he'd had with himself before. He checked the street before crossing and approaching the woman himself. He wasn't familiar with any chatter exchanged between dealers, so he pulled a few rumpled bills out of his pocket and held them out to her. 'How much will this buy?' He stuttered.

The woman glared at him and yanked the money out of his hand. 'Keep your voice down!' she hissed. John looked down in his hand to see a small packet of white powder left in his palm.

He nodded and stuffed the packet in his pocket, beginning to walk away.

'Hey!' The woman's voice caused him to stop and turn around. Her hand was extended, a tenner hanging out of her loose grip. John took the bill back. 'You gave me too much,' she said.

John nodded his thanks and turned again, but she spoke up again. 'And if you ever need any more,' the implication was clear; she was willing to give him whatever he wanted.

John nodded again and turned. The walk back to 221b seemed short and effortless. In no time at all, he was standing in front of the door, trying to remember which pocket he had stuck his key in. Maybe it had been the beer, maybe the exhaustion, John didn't know. He found his key and struggled to hold his hand steady and get the key in the lock. The knob was already really scraped up from his other drunken nights coming home. He returned his key to his pocket and shoved open the door, ignoring Ms. Hudson's chattering from the kitchen. She seemed to be on the phone.

He ascended the stairs. The living room was cold and John pulled his jumper tighter around him. He plopped down in his chair and sat, still and silent. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the packet of what looked like cocaine he had scored from the woman earlier. The packet was small, only about two ounces, and he began to wonder just how much he had paid for it. It must have been a lot if she had given him back some. No matter. He stared at the cocaine for quite a while, debating whether to actually go through with this at all.

Eventually, he decided what the heck and headed to the kitchen. One of his mates from the army had smuggled in a small load of drugs and John had watched him shoot up a couple of times. He grabbed a spoon and a bottle of water from the fridge, which lacked body parts. Usually, John would notice, but this time, he was much too eager to get this over with.

A couple of minutes later, John sat in his chair again, pouring water into a metal spoon with shaky hands, spilling little droplets of the liquid on the carpet. He filled the spoon and pinched a tiny amount of the cocaine into the water. He then took a cotton ball, which he had found in the darkest corners of the cupboards in the bathroom, and soaked up the fluid in the spoon. This was then soaked up by a syringe.

Discarding the cotton ball and spoon, John held up the syringe and squirted out all of the air. He took a moment to look at the foggy liquid and then, without hesitation, loosened the belt he had placed around his right bicep and stuck the needle in the vein on the inside of his elbow. He pulled back, allowing some blood to sneak into the syringe before depressing the plunger and sinking into the chair, barely having enough time to cap the syringe and throw it to the side before the high hit him.

He gasped. Pleasure raced through his body and coursed through his veins. He allowed the feeling to take over his body and mind. It felt amazing, like he could think completely clearly, when just a second ago, he wouldn't have been able to spell his own name if he'd been asked. Now, he could tell you everything you'd ever want to know.

The only lasted around 20 minutes, but when it was over, John collapsed out of exhaustion. He had never felt this way, and he definitely wanted to do it again, but he didn't have the strength.

His eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.

For added clarity, I have never done drugs, I don't plan to anytime in the future, I have never been to a pub in my life. I cannot legally drink, and therefore never have. Thank you for reading! Reviews are always nice, and please stay tuned for the next installment!