The smell of alcohol and cigarettes filled the living room of 221B Baker Street all day every day for almost three years now. John was not a man to fall for weakness, he was not even a man who smoked nor was he a man who consumed alcohol more than once a month. But after his best friend died this is what he turned to. He turned to drink to help him forget about his companion, he turned to cigarettes after he found a packet belonging to him and decided to try it. "What harm will it do?" he would tell himself.

He didn't socialise much anymore. Mrs. Hudson only came up every now and then, probably just to make sure he hadn't passed away. Since he started drinking he'd gotten violent - "Just like every other Watson." he remind himself - and she was afraid of him. People believed he was getting his anger out over the loss of his closest friend, John however knew otherwise. Lestrade stopped calling too. For a while after Sherlock died, John would be called in. He was the next closest thing. He wasn't as talented as Sherlock no, but he was good. Harry tried to get him off the drink. She knew what he was going through. But he wouldn't let her, calling her a hypocrite and told her off so many times that she had just decided not to call anymore. He'd hear from her every no and again, much like Mrs. Hudson, she just wanted to make sure he was alive. Mycroft called once a year. Usually around the time of Sherlock's anniversary. He too probably wanted to make sure the ex army doctor was still breathing.

And now here he was, completely intoxicated and sprawled out on the floor. A bottle of vodka in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A picture of Sherlock sat across the room on the television. The only picture Sherlock bothered to take. Apart from those in the newspaper. He said that they were a waste. "Who needs pictures to remind you of the good times? There's a reason you have a memory." he often mumble. But he said he'd take one picture by himself this time. John had memorised the picture off by heart. It was the only thing left in the living room that was any way associated with Sherlock. Everything belonging to him was put into boxes and locked in his room. The door hadn't been open for about two years.

The picture was from Christmas Day 2010. He was standing in front of the fire place, the skull on the mantelpiece just in the corner of the picture. John wanted to take it out as it drew attention, but Sherlock said to keep it. It was only a picture after all. He was wearing the purple shirt he liked wearing so much along with his simple black suit. His hair was it's usual unruly self and his smile. Oh that smile. That smile that John hated but loved so much.

John slowly raised himself from his position on the floor and crossed the room to retrieve the picture. He sighed and threw it on the ground. Up close you could see the wrinkles on the picture from the countless times it had been crumpled up but straightened out again once John had sobered up. He sat down once again, his throat sore from trying to stop the tears from coming.

"You…bastard." he groaned under his breath as though he thought someone was listening to him. "You just go an die on me. I ask you to come back but you don't." he stood up and stood staring at the smiley face Sherlock had painted on the wall. "I tell you that I need you. But you don't listen." his breathing was heavy. "You selfish prick." John punched the smiley face and slid down the wall, tears now falling from his face. Every time John got drunk - which was nearly everyday - this role played out. He gave out about Sherlock and cried to the empty room. He missed him so much, that much was obvious.

The drunken man stood up and went to the kitchen in search for drink. Anything he could get his hands on. He trashed the small kitchen for something, absolutely anything he could drink. Anything that would make the hole that was still in his heart feel numb. He hated when he was sober. He hated feeling something for Sherlock. He never felt anything for him. Why should he care for him so much? Once he realised that there was nothing in the presses he stood at the sink and splashed his face with water. He'd need to sober out at least a small bit if he was going to be served drink. But most people knew to just serve him by now. Drunk or sober. He slipped on a pair of shoes and grabbed a jacket off the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He looked like shit, he knew it, but he was only popping out for a bit, nobody would see him. He found some money in his jacket pocket and smiled to himself. Enough to buy a few cans and some vodka. Enough to keep him going for the rest of the week at least. The doctor approached to door that separated the living room with the landing, the freshness of the stair way hitting him harshly. He took a deep breath, oxygen finally filling his lungs. He felt quite light headed, he hadn't experienced so much air in quite a while and it hit him like a brick. He made his way down the stairs, the railings being his friend and helping him make his way down the stairs. He heard the door to Mrs. Hudson's shut quickly. He eyed the door. "I'm just popping out for a bit Mrs. Hudson, be back in a bit." he mumbled, his words coming out a bit slurred. Once there was no reply he rolled his eyes and walked slowly to the door. He knew it would be bright out, he knew it would hurt. Just as he reached for the door handle he heard his phone beep from inside his jacket pocet. He had gotten a message, nobody sent him messages anymore. If someone wanted him, they usually rang him. He only sent messages to one person. And that one person never replied.

He reached into his pocket with caution in case he was just imagining this noise. Once he felt the phone in his hand he removed it from his pocket, reluctant to take it out. What did they want with him anyway? John flipped the phone over in his hand before unlocking it and clicking into the message. His eyes adjusted to the screen and he carefully read the message. Once, twice, three times before letting it sink in.

I'm back, John.

-SH

He threw the phone on the ground in a fit of rage. Who was this, who would dare mess with him like that? He picked up the phone again, his hands trembling. He looked at who the sender was.

Received: June 16th 2014

From: Sherlock

"Shit," John muttered, "It's his anniversary." his breathing was heavier as he turned his attention back to the message. John couldn't believe it, wouldn't believe it. His hands trembled as he opened the door. He held it closed just before he opened it. His face was sour, he could tell. Once the door was opened he looked down to the ground. The daylight was too bright for him. He saw black shoes, simple black shoes. As he continued to examine the person from bottom to top he noticed simple black trousers, probably from suit, a purple shirt, and yes a suit jacket, matching the trousers. He noticed the person was wearing a long black jacket and a navy blue scarf. He didn't want to look at the persons face, he knew it would hurt too much. But he did and what he knew was true. It hurt, way too much. The same unruly dark brown hair and his large blue eyes. His breath was taken away. He had forgotten how beautiful he was. No wait, he wasn't beautiful. A handsome man, yes, beautiful. Well no. They weren't like that.

Tears started to form in the mans eyes. He suddenly felt a lot less drunk and his locked eyes with those of the world's only consulting detective. He wanted to slap him, he really did, how dare he leave him for so long. Three years to the date. He watched Sherlock as he put his phone back in his pocket. His face looked sad. John had never seen him sad, not really. He always looked happy around him. Why was he sad? He was still alive.

"I'm back John." Sherlock said, breaking the long silence. Tears formed in both of the men's eyes. "I'm back."