It was decided. John needed a drink.

The only problem was that he didn't think he could handle being in public for long without snapping. To solve that, he rented a cheap, hole-in-the-wall motel room for a couple of nights, and headed to the nearest liquor store. When he first got back from Afghanistan, there was a dark time when he found solace at the bottom of a bottle, so he was in and out of the store in four minutes with one of their largest (and more expensive) bottles of honey whiskey, and was on his way back to the motel.

When he arrived at his room, (221, ironically) the moist smell of sweat and possibly mold slapped him in the face and made him wrinkle his nose in distaste. Well, he thought, I'm not going to be noticing much soon. Not soon enough… The doctor flipped through channel after channel of crap telly until he saw a programme that piqued his interest. It seemed to be a documentary on sociopathic behavior and other types of psychosis. John couldn't help but giggle a bit as he poured himself a tumbler. That damned bastard. Damn you straight to hell.

The narrator droned on over a highlighted diagram of a man's frontal lobe. Mildly interesting, but it was time to be drunk. Sip.

John let the fiery sweetness slip over his tongue and blaze through his throat. It really had been too long since he'd last bee in this position. The drunk one, not the 'hating-your-best-friend-because-he-faked-his-deat h' one.

He sank down onto the very creaky, very questionable mattress and continued to watch the programme and sip his drink. Watch, sip. Watch, sip. Refill. Lather, rinse, repeat. Very soon, he began to feel a warm, familiar tingling feeling that left his mind in an unintelligible muddle spread from his center to his limbs. The documentary had long-since finished, and now it was something about animals in the safari. On the small, fuzzy screen, a small pride of lions stalked a herd of gazelles grazing near a watering hole. Those lions reminded John of something, he was sure…

A pair of lionesses crept through the tall, dry grass towards an unsuspecting mother and its baby. "Noooo…" John moaned tiredly to the baby onscreen. "Ruuuuun, you majestic creature of the wild. Save yourself." BIG gulp.

The mother gazelle's head snapped to attention- but a moment to late. The two lions pounced from cover to their prey.

Aha, that was it. The lions reminded him of Sherlock. He certainly had the hair of a lion. A lion that belonged in a shampoo commercial, he giggled.

But it wasn't just the hair, he thought as the giant cats feasted. It was the primal concentration on whatever it was that he desired. Whether it was deciphering new evidence or suspects, or getting another case, or simply nabbing more cigarettes, Sherlock Holmes didn't give up willingly.

So why did he give up on me? John thought pitifully.

Why would he just… leave? Why would he let everyone believe that he was just a fake that committed suicide? It's not like anybody wouldn't have understood. Why, why, why,WHY?!

He threw his now empty glass against the wall and watched as it shattered into a thousand pieces.

"I needed you!" John shouted at nobody, tears streaking his face once more. "And you weren't there! I trusted you…" he slurred.

He sank back down to the end of the bed with 1/3 of his bottle left.

God damned bastard. I hate you.

But John knew that wasn't true. Although at times, Sherlock could indeed be a bastard, John still loved him. God help him, but he loved him. Ever since that night at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned, when John had been willing to give up his life at the slightest chance that Sherlock's might be spared, he had loved that terribly beautiful man, all angles and darkness, but it was common knowledge that the detective would never return John's feelings. It was just a fact in his mind because Sherlock wasn't more than friends with anyone.The only reason he had anyone was because they were useful, or they kept him from being bored.

And although it should've, it didn't stop John from wishing that Sherlock would come chasing after him.

He didn't know exactly when, but at some point, John fell asleep. One moment, he was watching some cheesy game show over the last of his whiskey (straight from the bottle, now that he lacked a glass,) and the next, he found himself standing on an all-too-familiar-street. Oh god, not this. Not again, not now… Over the building in front of him, he could see the great, hulking stone figure that was St. Bartholomew's Hospital. And at the top, he could see a figure toeing the edge. He didn't need to look to know who it was. Enough, please. It was like the image had been branded to the inside of his eyelids, he saw it every time he closed his eyes. Even now, he could still hear those last words echoing around him. "Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John…"

And just like every other time John had this nightmare, Sherlock jumped.

He spread his long, graceful arms as if he were unfurling a great pair of wings. Sherlock took that step off of the roof like he was about to take flight at the last moment, but like every single time, he didn't. He fell, and John watched in horror from afar, screaming his name. Sherlock was an angel that had his wings torn off the very moment he needed them by a God that had forsaken him, that thought it would be humorous to make him a fallen angel. A falling angel.

Flash-forward, John is pushing against a barricade of squirming bodies to reach the only one that mattered to him. Suddenly, there he was. Everything else melted away until it was just John and Sherlock, on the ground, turned away from him. It would almost look like he was asleep if it weren't for the blood pooling around his head. God, just stop this. Wake up. I get it, I've seen it, just please, please, WAKE UP!

A hand on his cold shoulder, turning the fallen detective over. But it wasn't him. The face that looked up at John belonged to Jim Moriarty, sitting up and grinning coldly. You've lost, Doctor." he sneered. Before John could jump away, Jim snatched him by the front of his coat lapels and yanked him forward until their faces were just inches apart. "Loser." And then he was giggling in John's face like he had remembered the punchline to some brilliant joke. "Loser, loser, loser, loser."

John tried to pull away, but Jim had a surprisingly strong grip for such a small man. John looked into his face, and for the briefest moment, it was Sherlock on that day, bloodstains and all. "John…" Flash. Jim going on like a broken record again. "Loser, loser, loser, loser, loser." Back and forth it went, from Moriarty to Sherlock and back again.

"John, help m-" "Loser, loser, lose-" "Please, John, I don't know where I-" "LOSER, LOSER, LOSER, LOSER-" "Don't go."

Until finally, John woke to find himself screaming.