John Watson was an alcoholic. He knew he was. Well, actually, pretty much everyone he was in talking terms with knew he was.
It had been four months since Sherlock had came back from the dead, and only two since he had returned to the apartment –John wouldn't allow it before, but money was getting a bit too tight and he did owe Mrs. Hudson about half a year's rent.
Things between them were difficult to say the least. After many long, sleepless nights in which Sherlock tried to explain himself and John would go back and forth between sitting in his chair in complete silence and yelling bloody murder at his roommate, John could see –theoretically- that Sherlock had had no other option. Faking his death was not something he had done out of choice, but complete and utter necessity. Still…
Sherlock had been gone three years give or take a few months. In that period of time, John had not only taken up drinking –which he did not usually do, since he'd really taken a dislike for alcohol since his sister first showed up drunk at their parents' house in their teens- he had also begun doing it on a regular basis. So regular, in fact, that in those three years that Sherlock was absent, he had been hospitalized once for chest pain, twice for seizures, and once because someone found him unconscious on a parking lot and decided to call an ambulance when they couldn't move their car.
John had hated alcohol for years, yes. It had caused him enough trouble for a lifetime with Harry, and even though he did go out for a beer every once in a while, he hadn't been properly drunk in such a long time he didn't even remember when that was. College, probably. Centuries. He hated alcohol because he hated what it had done to his sister, but he didn't hate being buzzed, not one bit. He liked it a bit too much, to be quite honest, and that was what had made him virtually stop drinking all those years ago; ending up like her was a very real possibility, and one he wanted to avoid at all costs. The cartoonish irony of it all brought a cynical smile to his face every time he thought about it now. Well, not that his worst nightmare was a reality it wouldn't help to deny it; he was a full blown alcoholic. He was a bit disappointed with himself at first, but it was nothing a nice warm glass of gin couldn't solve.
They were having Christmas dinner when everyone else fund out. Or, more accurately, when everyone else, who obviously already knew, heard it said aloud for the first time.
They had been drinking wine and champagne and perhaps something else, but John couldn't remember what it was at that point, and it tasted fantastic anyway. But soon his glass was empty, and the bottles on the table were empty, and he stumbled to the kitchen to fetch some more.
They were nowhere to be found. As he moved stuff around the fridge and the counters, he yelled at no one in particular.
-Does anyone know where the rest of the booze is?
-Shouldn't you know?
Sherlock's voice was clear as water above the noise of the party.
-What do you mean?
He walked back to the table, empty handed.
-Well, you live here and you are an alcoholic so it's simple math, really.
There was a sudden silence that wouldn't be concealed. John blinked twice, and then once more. Something that could be interpreted as a smile appeared on his face.
-Wow. That's a bit forward, coming from the junkie.
If there had been silence before, now there was utter stillness. Sherlock's face didn't show any signs of being affected in the least by John's words. If anything, he looked a bit confused.
-I don't see how my addiction has anything to do with this. It wouldn't help me know where the rest of the bottles are, and it certainly won't erase the fact that you are, indeed, and alcoholic.