Chapter 1

John woke up with a terrible headache. It was already bright outside, sunshine flooding the room. He was disorientated for a moment. The headache was one he was familiar with from a long time ago. He was hungover.

Damn, after staying sober against all odds for nearly two years now! John groaned. Why had he let it slip? There had been a reason, or something that seemed to be one, for opening that bottle on the sideboard. What had it been?

He rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and heavy. With a sigh he sat up and his glance fell onto the newspaper that was lying open next to his bed. And instantly he remembered what had caused last night's drinking.

"Elgin axe murderer caught in London" a smallish headline at the beginning of the local part reads. Beneath it, in black and white, a photograph of Sherlock.

John closed his eyes. Yes, that had been the reason.

He silent cursed himself while getting up. Two years. Almost two years he had resisted the siren's call of whiskey. And all it took to lose it was taking a look at Sherlock's picture in the newspaper.

In the kitchen, he prepared himself coffee and some dry bread. Hungover breakfast. Last night, with his brain swimming in alcohol, he had been able to push away all thoughts of that rotten photograph, and of the man on it, to fall asleep. Now that he was (mainly) sober again, it was not easy to stop thinking about the past.

Sherlock had looked odd in that picture, by the way. Older. Like he had aged during those two years. Gracefully. Well, maybe not older, like in wrinkles and grey hair, but more mature. Not unhappy, but not beaming with joy either. There was no hint of the old arrogance, the smugness caused by the knowledge that he was better than all of the police. The picture showed a man John would surely like.

He refused to have another shot of whiskey right away but just barely so. Better drown the rest of the alcohol in the sink right away, he told himself, and remained sitting on the table.

His eyes were only burning because he had had too much whiskey and way too little sleep, John told himself. And he would surely stand up soon to mow the lawn like he had planned. He would definitely not get stuck in dark thoughts about the past and where he would be now if that god forsaken night hadn't happened. He would not spiral down into another wave of feeling guilty. He was done with that.

Four hours later, he realized that he was still sitting at the table, unable to rise, and that the bottle of whiskey was unmistakeably more empty than when he woke up.

Okay, no mowing the lawn this Saturday, then. But he would go down to the village to get himself food for the rest of the weekend, and definitely no more alcohol.

On Monday morning, he called in sick at the clinic for the rest of the week.

On Wednesday, he kicked the newspaper away. It landed with another page open, which was good. With half-hearted interest, John looked at that page. It was the one where you can leave birthday greetings and congratulate your son on his driving licence. Right in the middle of it was a wedding announcement. The advert was decorated with hearts and doves and roses. In the middle of it, there was a poem, short but supposedly touching.

In that book which is

My memory …

On the first page

That is the chapter when

I first met you

Appear the words

Here begins a new life

~ Dante Alighieri

John could not help but snort bitterly. He had felt like this once, a long time ago. Memories of lazy Sundays and easy banter came up instantly, the smell of tea and some obscure chemicals, the expectation of the next case that just has not come to their flat yet.

He closed his eyes briefly. A new life. That was how he had felt at 221b, before Sherlock had secretly decided to bring Moriarty and all of his network to the fall. Before there needed to be Mary to keep John going, before Sherlock killed Magnussen, before Sherlock had dragged his pregnant wife along to …

Yes, a new life. That was what John had now. An empty, meaningless life, built upon loss and pain.

On Thursday, the newspaper was still lying in the corner of his bedroom. There were three empty bottles of whiskey in the kitchen. The lawn was still not mown.

It was only a little hiatus from getting over it all, John told himself. He had allowed himself to get drunk for a few nights, and would forbid himself to do so soon. Maybe tomorrow.

On Friday, he was a little more sober than on Thursday. In that lucid moment, he thought how he had not get drunk even once after it had happened. Not when he was spending the first night alone in their empty house, not after the funeral, and not when he sold the crib on Ebay. Not when he had left London.

Never.

It was simply not right that taking one look at the face of Sherlock Holmes made him lose it all. No, he would not allow that man to drag him into drinking like he did. No, that would not continue. He would stop drinking right now and get on with his life or what was left of it like he did before.

On Sunday John woke up and realized that he had no memory of Saturday whatsoever, and that he was not feeling hungover despite the whole bottle he must have drowned the day before.

He went into the bathroom and took a close look at himself in the mirror. Deep dark circles underneath the swollen eyes, chin not shaved, skin grey. John closed his eyes for a moment. This could not go on like that. Using the disgust he felt over his mirror image as motivator, John went into the kitchen and emptied the two remaining bottles of whiskey into the sink. There, done.

But nothing was done, right? He had to admit it. He finally had to admit that he was not over the past the way he had made himself believe lately. He sighed. Deeply. There was only one way to stop himself from spiralling deeper and deeper into self-loathing and despair and alcoholism: He had to return to London.

He had to return, and face Sherlock, and …

And what? John had no idea. Forgiving Sherlock seemed impossible. Break with him for good? That was already done, and had not prevented John from falling last week. Talk about it all to get over it? John had to laugh at that. Sounds like a naïve idea from American movies. But one thing was clear, he could not go on like that.

So the soldier inside him took over once more. He bought a train ticket back to London, booked a holiday home close but not too close to Baker Street, and packed his luggage. He would be away for a few weeks, so he asked the neighbours to take a look at the garden and stuff, and then he left.