When Sherlock left, John turned to drinking. He'd drink himself into a stupor every night. Every morning he'd wake up with a blindingly painful headache, which he'd drink away.
The first month after Sherlock jumped, John had been haunted by the images that seemed to be etched on the inside of his eyelids. Sherlock talking to him while he watched mortified. Sherlock as he fell. And lastly, Sherlock with a halo of blood around him.
At first, John tried talking to his therapist, but she'd been no help whatsoever. His drinking had started with one of two drinks a night to numb the pain, but that soon turned into one or two bottles a night. That led to five or six bottles a night.
John had just woken up. It was exactly three years since Sherlock had jumped. It was barely noon. John rolled over in his bed and buried his face into his pillow. When he tried to sit up, his head felt like there was broken glass in it.
Then he realized what day it was. He pulled himself out of bed and, ignoring the glass in his head, went to the kitchen. Opening the first bottle of the day, he guzzled down an eighth of the dark brown liquid in one swig.
John went to the living room of 221b. He sat down in Sherlock's leather chair, curled up and began sobbing.
Sherlock smiled up at the apartment he hadn't seen in three years. He felt something close to relief when he thought about a hot cup of tea, his chair and John. He also felt something close to excitement when he thought about John.
He opened the front door, and was half way up the stairs when he figured out something was wrong. He could hear sobbing through the door to his and John's flat. He could also smell the distinct reek of alcohol.
Sherlock ran up the rest of the stairs and threw open the door to the flat. Both the sobbing and the reek of alcohol was stronger.
He looked around until his gaze finally landed on the frail, broken form of the ex-military doctor who's found (and stolen) his heart.
Sherlock ran to John's side and lightly touched his arm. Which had been covering his face.
John jumped at Sherlock's touch. His bloodshot eyes looking around wildly until they rested upon the face of a very not dead consulting detective.
"What are you doing here?" John spat.
Sherlock was silent, unsure what to say.
"You're a figment of my imagination. You're not here, you're dead. This isn't real!" John shouted and threw one of the many empty bottles that were scattered around him at the figment that had taken Sherlock's shape.
"JOHN! Please." Sherlock begged as he easily dodged the drunken attempt to harm him. The bottle smashed against the wall behind him, but he hardly cared.
"No. Get out of my head. He's never coming back." John, who had stood up now fell to his knees, "Miracles don't happen. I was a fool to believe they could." John stood up again. All the rage was gone, instead it was replaced with misery. Pure and total misery. He went to the kitchen and grabbed another bottle of alcohol.
"John. I'm sorry. Please, you have to stop drinking. I'm real. I'm here." Sherlock stared at his friend from the doorway to the kitchen.
John turned to him again. "No. You're not real." Realization dawned on John, "That means, I can tell you everything I never got a chance to tell Sherlock."
Sherlock was surprised at John's sudden realization, but did nothing to stop him.
"I loved you Sherlock. I did from the moment you opened your mouth all those years ago in the lab at Bart's. I never got the chance to tell you. You were married to your work. You never would have reciprocated my sentiment, and you would have told me to leave."
John had moved closer to Sherlock now. He'd corralled his friend against the wall and was talking in a deep, slow voice, "But you're not him. You're a figment of my imagination. That means..." He trailed off, staring intently at Sherlock's lips.
Without a second thought, John grabbed Sherlock's lapels, pulled him down and met his lips with his own. He moved his lips against Sherlock's feverishly. Trying to coax a reaction out of the taller man. Finally, Sherlock let out a little whimper and began kissing John back. Wrapping his arms around the ex-soldier, he matched his feverish movements.
When both men needed air they pulled their lips apart.
John's eyes were still closed, and he opened them slowly. They were still bloodshot and hazy, but his pupils were blown wide and there was something animal in them.
"Come on." He whispered up at the curly haired detective.
To Sherlock's surprise, John led him downstairs. John knocked curtly on Mrs. Hudson's door. She opened it with a smile, which promptly fell when she saw the consulting detective.
"How?" She whispered.
"Good." John said, "Thanks Mrs. Hudson. He'll explain tomorrow."
John then grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him back up to their flat. Slamming the door, he promptly threw Sherlock against it and started kissing his neck.
"John, stop." Sherlock said, pushing John away.
"Oh, I thought... Never mind." John muttered before he withdrew into his own room, "It's good to have you back Sherlock."
What will happen next for our dynamic duo? Who knows? ;)