Three knocks. Door. Go? Nah.

John was drunk. Not the kind of drunk where you giggle a bit too much and allow some small secret (that wasn't really all that well kept) to escape. It was the drunk where the wall and the floor merge together and you forget your own name.

"John? It's me… Just thought I'd check in"

Greg? Answer? Can't walk. No.

John sat on the old couch, slumped against the edge. Various bottles were littered on the table, some were tipped over, empty, on the floor.

"You aren't drunk, are you? You probably are." The grey-haired man sighed, running his fingertips down his stubble. "I'm coming in, John."

Click, click. Hah. Like that gun. I shot the cabbie. Heh.

Lestrade unlocked the chipped, blue door to 221B. Up the stairs. Found the man sprawled out on the frayed couch. "There you are."

"Mmmemrg."

"Come on. Let's get you to bed. It's been a…" He swallowed, blinking rapidly. No tears. He had to be there for John because even though Greg was a sputtering machine, John was broken.

Or near to breaking, anyway.

"It's been a long day, John."

Am I falling? Sherlock.

Greg lifted his broken friend easily.

Far too easily. Is he eating? Greg thought about the times John had come in, leaning against the cane that John used to leave behind. How he wobbled. How his laugh had a chilled edge, like frost upon frozen glass. I'll see that he at least gets a lunch tomorrow.

Lestrade found this to be adequate. It made him feel less responsible. Even though he considered everything his own bloody fault, anyway.

I'm floating. Float. Fall, hah. Sherlock.

He softly tapped the door to John's room open with his foot.

I can fall. Sherlock.

Setting the man down, Lestrade rummaged through the slightly messy room and found a blanket. He draped it over his friend, watching as John's eyes fluttered open and shut. Open. Shut.

"You bloody idiot."

Fell. Sherlock.

Greg turned and exited the room, calling back a 'Goodnight, John' and leaving. God help him. Sherlock… Greg left the flat that once held two brilliant men, but now only cradled one beaten one.

"Come back."

Fall, fell.

Heh. John felt sleep, but his mind was so soaked in alcohol he couldn't really tell anymore.

I'll fall just like Sherlock.