Pain radiated through his skull when John woke up from his drunken haze. The sound of heavy, rapid footfalls coming up the stairs to his flat were no doubt what had alerted him, but now that he knew, he didn't give a damn and just wished he could fall back to sleep. He knew who those steps belonged to by a simple process of elimination: it wasn't Mrs Hudson (no heels, too fast) and there was only one other person who bothered to come around to visit anymore.
He also knew why he had a visitor.
"Not this again," John muttered from the couch which had become his bed of late.
He covered his eyes with a cushion, knowing his unwanted guest would yank the curtains open the first chance he got. He might even be cruel enough to throw the windows open to let in the dubiously fresh air of London. John didn't bother to get up to greet his old friend, even though he knew that if he had ran all the way up after discreetly letting himself in to bypass Mrs Hudson, that could only mean he was worried about what state he'd find him in. Not dead, as it turned out, and not drunk either, well, not too much, but terribly hung-over and certainly not in the mood to entertain.
John could easily guess who had given Greg a spare key to sneak about, and he cursed Mycroft under his breath for his meddling. John couldn't even muster the strength to rise from his horizontal slouch. He might just fall over again. It wasn't worth the bother. So he merely glared at Greg over the cushion, before deciding even that was too much work, not to mention too painful for his bloodshot eyes. He shut them tight again and slurred a snide remark he hoped would suffice to send Greg on his way and leave him alone.
"No, Greg, I still haven't offed myself, as you can see, so you can bugger right off already."
His voice was gruff, but it had the benefit of highlighting how very annoyed he was.
"Aww, come on, John. Don't be like that," Greg chided, and John opened one baleful eye just in time to see him flash a bright smile. "And you've got to admit I had reasons to be suspicious last time around. You hadn't come out for a whole week."
"You mean when bloody Mycroft couldn't spot me on his damn CCTVs and sent you in as his sniffer dog?"
"Can't blame us for being worried, mate. And Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister, so…" Greg huffed, sounding troubled now, so John decided he would make the effort to open both eyes and pretend to listen. Maybe it would make him go away faster.
"You haven't exactly been yourself since... That day," Greg added, looking pointedly at the half-empty whisky bottle on the floor that John was hypnotically rolling back and forth with the tip of his fingers, the slosh of the liquid inside calling to him like a siren's song. John let it roll under the couch, out of view, and crossed his arms over his chest.
"I'm perfectly fine," he said, fighting every little telltale sign that he was actually sporting a massive hangover and felt like dying the longer he had to keep on with this pointless conversation, which was, as far as he could tell, only meant to irritate him.
"Perfectly fine?" Greg mocked as he perched himself on the couch's armrest at his feet, his deep voice grating on John's nerves and tender brain. "You're still in your pajamas for crying out loud!"
"Piss off. It's early."
"It's past noon."
"It's Sunday. Leave me alone."
"Its Tuesday, John. Tuesday!"
"Alright, alright," John growled, covering his ears in self-defense. "No need to be so loud."
"I think it's about bloody time someone got loud with you, John. You're wallowing about in the middle of a weekday in your pajamas, half drunk, and it looks like you've neither eaten nor washed for days. And you certainly haven't shaved."
"Yeah? Well, fuck you. I'm not drunk, I'm sobering up, and at lightning speed thanks to your nagging. And just be glad I'm wearing any clothes at all. Now you can run back to Mycroft like a good boy and tell him to just piss off already. He's not my keeper and he's certainly not my brother!"
Greg's face pinched with displeasure. He jumped back on his feet, inexplicably took off his vest, then rolled up his sleeves and squared his shoulders.
"Alright, that does it," he announced to no one in particular, then hurled John out of the couch with surprising ease, ignoring his protests and curses while he was manhandled into the nearby bathroom and under the showerhead. Without warning, Greg turned the taps full on, apparently not caring that the first spray was freezing cold.
"Augh! Greg! No! Don't-" John spluttered, spitting out water and flailing against Greg's arms while his so-called friend attempted to drown him, enjoying himself way too much. "Stop it! Damn it! Stop it, Greg!"
Greg did not relent though, but John did after a while and just fell in a heap at the bottom of the shower with the spray hitting the top of his head and back. It didn't feel half bad after a while. The stiff muscles in his body relaxed now that the shock of cold water had worn off, replaced by a steady, steamy hot stream that seemed to wash down the drain some of his self-loathing along with the grime. It would be even nicer if his clothes didn't stick uncomfortably to his skin and weigh him down.
"Better?" Greg asked and turned the taps off, before drying his arms with a threadbare towel.
John sighed, still feeling like he wanted to shout and cry and kick a puppy or something, but he nodded, because he was feeling marginally better, all things considered. More human and less like something that had been scraped off the bottom of his shoes after a walk through the less savoury parts of London.
"Good. Now… listen carefully, John. I'll make you the same offer I made Sherlock a long time ago and I'll only make it once: I'll give you twenty minutes to make yourself presentable while I go fix myself some coffee. If you're not ready by then, I'll leave you be and won't bother you ever again."
John glowered at the man for both using Sherlock's memory and for the emotional blackmail. Do as I say or the only friend you have left in the world will abandon you? Seriously? He had wanted to be left alone lately, that was true enough, but he knew he'd always have Mrs Hudson and Greg there, waiting for him if he wanted to reach out. To have that possibility taken away… John shuddered, and pushed away images of losing someone else again.
"And if I am ready by then?" John asked reluctantly while he used the tiled wall to help himself up.
"An interesting case just came up. A weird one from what I've heard. You'll like it. You might even be able to help. God knows you've studied Sherlock's methods long enough."
John blinked. A case? He hadn't been on a case, or thought he'd ever be again, since Sherlock's disappearance. Did he miss it? Sure… but he missed Sherlock more. Still, it could be a step in the right direction, and it had to be better than drinking himself into an early grave, although he did like forgetting…. But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to get his mind off things, replace some of the guilt and grief that crushed him day after day. But more than anything, he couldn't resist the promise of a case: the mystery and the unravelling and the chase… What did he have to lose anyway?
"Okay," John said in a flat tone
He started peeling off his sodden clothes while Greg smiled smugly and left him to it. In short order, John washed, shampooed, brushed, shaved and toweled until the man staring back at him from the mirror looked more familiar than it had in awhile. His eyes were still a bit bloodshot and sunken, and he desperately needed a haircut. Had he really not cut his hair since that day? It had to be true, they were certainly long enough for that. He snorted at his reflection. He'd never grown out his hair before. Ever. Not even as a teenager in a futile attempt at rebellion against his parents or society, as most of his friends had, but John had always imagined that if he did, his hair would be straight and fall flat around him, like Harry's did, but it turned out his hair was... fluffy, and flopped around him like light featherdown, defying all gravity. He looked like a washed out chick, he decided - of the baby chicken variety, not the lady sort of chick. John turned around to look in the shower and glared at the shampoo bottle he had grabbed at random, wondering what they put in that stuff to make him look so ridiculous. Well, nothing to be done about it now. If he tried hacking his hair off himself, he knew he would only make it worse. Not to mention he didn't have much time left if he didn't want Greg to make good on his threat and leave him without a word, never to return.
And now, John realized he had no clothes to change into. Not even a dressing gown. Great. Thanks a lot, Greg. Wrapping a towel around his waist, John stomped out of the bathroom and all the way up to his bedroom, ignoring his visitor who was sipping from his steaming mug in John's armchair. If he didn't want to see half naked men parading in front of him first thing in the morning, he shouldn't have tried to drown him fully clothed, and so, only had himself to blame for it.
A few minutes later, neatly dressed, buttoned up and jumpered down, John felt even better, more like his old self. Maybe he could make a fresh start out of this... But even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn't be that easy. The temptation of just forgetting everything, drowning his guilt, anger, loneliness and despair in a bottle was still there, lurking behind his momentary boost in confidence, just waiting for the darker hours to pull him down again. He understood Harry a whole lot better now. The struggle, the ups and downs...
But no… He had a stronger will than Harry. He'd always had. He could do this. It was time to stop wallowing in his own pitiful misery and become John Watson again.