It was eight months after Sherlock's death that John finally succumbed to the vodka in the cupboard. Up until that point, he'd been able to resist, sticking to lager, wine, even champagne. Because those weren't hard drinks. He wasn't Harry, after all, wasn't a drunk.

But then, the swarm of reporters outside his flat nearly knocked him down as he tried to unlock his door, and he didn't give a thought to his actions once he got inside until he felt the burn of the liquor down his throat.

He put the bottle away after he poured each glass after that, each shot, each finger of amber liquid. He wasn't a drunk. He wasn't. He was a grown man, having a few controlled drinks in his own home, for stress relief. That didn't make him a drunk. John was completely capable of controlling it. He could stop at anytime.

It was Harry who finally found him, Harry and her wife (Anita) and their toddler son, Jonathan, coming to visit for New Year's. Harry, who cornered him when he'd had his fifth tumbler of celebratory whiskey, Harry who'd rummaged in his hamper for shirts smelling of drink, and Harry who'd given him one chance. Harry who told him to get dry, or they wouldn't be coming to visit anymore, and he wouldn't see Jonathan again.

John weaned himself. Three cups, shots, glasses of any kind, was his absolute limit. Two on weeknights. He couldn't afford to lose the one semi-good thing in his life, and he couldn't lose himself in missing Sherlock. It had been almost thirteen months, it was time to move on.

That isn't to say that John never overfilled his glass, or drank "for two" some nights, when three simply wasn't enough, and the ghost of Sherlock haunted every aspect of his life.

Eventually, Harry stopped calling.


A/N: For the day before the premiere of Season 3, and because the thought of John sharing Harry's drinking problem won't leave me alone. Enjoy!