The First Twenty-Five Days of December

Chapter Twenty-One: Snowman

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Not good.

Not good.

Not good.

Christ.

Not good.

John stared at the quickly retreating back of his girlfriend as she nearly ran from him. He was weakly recalling what just transpired on the platform.

He went to work. He shouldn't have done it, but the clinic needed him. He had an endless supply of patients, with an unhealthy mixture of reporters, paparazzi, and people wanting his statement added to the mix. He worked another fifteen hour shift. Mary met him on the tube, not wanting him to ride it alone after a stressful day.

And suddenly he felt like he was suffocating. Why wouldn't anyone leave him alone for one minute to catch his breath?

Then he remembered rowing on the platform. He was screaming, yelling, his anger rolling in his gut. People stared. Mary cried and for a moment she tried to placate him, as if she knew this meltdown was coming. God! He would have liked a little warning from someone that this was happening.

And then he said hurtful, terrible things, and in a matter of seconds, she was turning away and then she was gone.

Not fucking good.

It wasn't hard for John to stomp his way to an off license on his journey back to his flat and purchase a cheap bottle of whiskey. His mind was numb as he fumbled his way into his flat, slamming the door behind him.

He drank the whiskey straight from the bottle, relishing in the burn that went down his throat and spread across his chest. He sat down heavily on his sofa, not bothering to turn on his lamp. If he was going to get pissed out of his misery, he wanted to do it in the dark.

Halfway through the bottle, John found himself wishing Sherlock was with him, if only so he could yell at him for ruining everything.

It started with becoming his friend. He just wanted to live in London and try and survive after Afghanistan, but no, he was introduced to Sherlock Holmes, who had the perfect concoction of madness and adrenaline that John needed in his life.

In his drunken state, John found himself wobbling around his flat without his cane, pacing and babbling out loud. "Then the idiot gave me a purpose after wandering around lost for so long. My limp went away. My tremor went away, and I was happy. THEN HE TOOK IT ALL AWAY BY KILLING HIMSELF. He left me alone and broken and then I HAD TO REBUILD MYSELF PIECE BY PIECE WITH GLUE THAT WAS HARDLY ENOUGH. Then I met Mary. Oh God, Mary. She is perfect, you know? Brilliant and perfect and I screwed it up because you came back and ruined everything! I WISH YOU WOULD HAVE JUST STAYED AWAY FOREVER. LET ME LIVE MY LIFE IN PEACE. I deserve it, don't I? I got invalided for the Queen and I deserve some peace and quiet and a beautiful woman and children and a damn dog…"

He took a huge swig of whiskey before he suddenly let go of the bottle, relishing as it smashed against his hard wood floors. He didn't care. There were only a few sips of the terrible liquid anyway. He stepped over the mess and rummaged through his cupboards, looking for something—anything!—else to drink.

He moved to his fridge and found a bottle of wine.

He never drank wine straight from the bottle before.

"Come on Johnny, put the bottle down."

"Har'?" John opened his eyes blearily and saw his sister crouching down in front of him. It was completely dark in his flat. Why? Is it nighttime? John blinked slowly and then slowly relinquished his hold on the second bottle of wine of the evening. "I'm drunk."

"I know. Can you stand? How long have you been sitting here?"

"Who called you?"

"You called me."

"Not okay."

"What? You want me to leave?"

"No." John shook his head and tried to focus his swimming vision on his sister. "I'm not okay. I'm drunk. I'm fucking drunk." He tried pushing her out of his way as he struggled to his feet. Harry was right there with him, her arm wrapped around him for support.

"You've had a bit of a day," Harry said, guiding him to his bedroom. "I'd be drunk too."

"No, no, no," he moaned piteously, shaking his head. "He can't ruin you too."

"What?" John groaned as Harry eased him to his bed. He feebly began kicking off his shoes and socks.

"You're sober. Don't let him ruin it. He already ruined me. Ruined fucking everything. Fuck."

"Stop swearing so much," Harry admonished, kneeling down at his feet and removing his left shoe and sock that he was struggling with. He started to get into bed, but Harry grabbed his ankle. "Get into your pajamas, Johnny. Where do you keep them?"

John pointed to his wardrobe and Harry stood to her feet, first turning on his overhead light and then going to his wardrobe. He stared at her blearily as she rummaged through his drawers until she found his sleep trousers and a shirt. She returned to his side with the folded clothing and placed it beside him. "Can you dress by yourself?"

John took the clothes wordlessly and fumbled with pulling his jumper over his head. Harry left the room, giving him privacy. It took John a while to coordinate his hands, but he eventually removed the trousers and jumper he wore to the clinic that day and put on his sleep clothes. By the time he rearranged himself into bed, Harry was back with a tall glass of water. "Drink," she ordered.

John obediently followed her directions.

"Now sleep."

John lowered his head to his pillow, and within moments he succumbed to his alcohol induced sleep.

The first thing John thought when he opened his eyes was that he was dying. His entire body ached, his stomach was cramping, his eyes hurt, his mouth was dry and sandy, and he was moments away from throwing up.

It was still dark in his bedroom, but there was enough light peaking in through his window to see there was a rubbish bin beside him. He knew he wasn't going to make it to his bathroom, so he leaned over and wretched painfully.

He couldn't even remember the last time he ate.

"It's alright, Johnny."

Suddenly Harry was sitting down beside him on the bed, rubbing between his shoulder blades as he vomited. As he was dry heaving, he glanced up to see a small nest of blankets and pillows on the floor of his bedroom.

His sister slept on the floor to make sure he made it through the night. His sister, who was a recovering alcoholic, slept on the floor of her drunken brother's bedroom to make sure he made it through the night, and probably fought all kinds of temptations in doing so.

I am a terrible person.

"Can you go back to sleep?"

"Sweaty," John complained, flopping back down to his bed when he felt like he couldn't vomit anymore.

"Shower, then? It's a bit early, only seven."

"Shower, yeah."

Harry helped John up and to his bathroom. Between dizziness and not having his cane, he could hardly stay on his feet. Harry deposited him on his toilet, and instructed him not to undress yet. Then she left and returned a moment later with another pair of pajamas, a towel, flannel, and his cane. "Try a bath. I don't think you'll be able to shower without assistance, and I love you little brother, but that's asking for too much."

John cracked a smile, even though his head was throbbing. "Get out."

She smiled at him and stepped out of the bathroom, leaving him alone to bathe in solitude.

John stayed in the bath, soaking and trying not to fall asleep in the water. After he washed up and managed to get to his feet and to the sink, he dressed carefully and then brushed his teeth. He leaned down and drank straight from the tap for several long moments, the water helping his hangover minutely.

He left his clothes on the floor since he could clean them up later, and limped his way out of the bathroom and to his kitchen. He distinctly remembered breaking two bottles the night before, but the mess was gone. Another wave of gratitude and guilt swept through him for his sister, and he looked up to see her sitting at the table, a heaping plate of eggs and bacon, toast, apple juice, and water surrounding her.

"You're a doctor, so you know what happens to the human body when someone imbibes too much alcohol. You also know that all of these foods will help fight that wretched hangover, so try and eat and drink a little bit, and then you're going right back to bed, alright? I'll handle any visitors or phone calls in the meantime."

"I'm so sorry, Harry—"

"Listen here, Jonathan Watson," Harry said, leaning across the table. "You are my big brother, and you have taken care of me in horrendously worse situations. Your sodding best friend who was dead for one and a half years just returned, and you're having a crisis, which should be expected. You have PTSD and don't do well in stressful situations, and this is a bloody stressful situation in my opinion, so don't bother apologizing, alright? Just eat, drink, get some rest, and try and sort through your thoughts when you're completely sober and hangover free. I'll probably accept your apology in two days."

John stared wide eyed at his sister for a moment, and then he croaked, "You should have been in the military." Her serious expression dropped and she smiled softly at him.

"Eat."

"Do you remember when we were little, I mean like when I was four, and we went outside and built that snowman? He was huge; taller than the both of us! I don't even know how we stacked him together, to be honest."

John laughed and nodded his head, that particular childhood memory one of his favorites. "And Mum and Gran made us drink near boiling hot chocolate to warm us back up."

"I still have the burns on my tongue, actually."

Harry and John giggled softly.

John hadn't been awake very long, only ten minutes or so. He was having a nightmare when Harry woke him and helped him out of his bedroom and to the sofa. After drinking peppermint tea (it soothes the stomach, Johnny!) and getting his breath back, Harry immediately launched into her favorite childhood memories of the two of them to calm his racing mind.

His sister deserved a medal.

After lapsing into silence for a few minutes, John felt himself drifting off again. His hangover was no longer debilitating, the breakfast, bath, and nap had helped a great deal in that respect. He snuggled into the sofa and he felt his sister reach over and tap his knee.

"You've had a few phone calls, and I took messages." He heard the distinct rustling of paper, and he knew his sister was procuring a notebook where she wrote said messages. "Greg really wants to talk to you. I told him you'd ring him tonight if you were feeling up to it. I personally think you should talk to him, because he sounded terrible." John nodded his head, making a promise that he would call his friend; one of the very few he had left. "Mrs. Hudson checked in and wanted to make sure you were alright. I told her I was going to be here a few days. She wants to pop around for tea in a couple days. I told her you'd also call her in a bit." John nodded his head again. "And a bunch of papers called. I told them to sod off…politely, of course."

"Right. I'm sure that's exactly what you did."

"And also," Harry added, "Sherlock called. I may or may not have told him to also sod off…more or less. I probably used a few expletives before hanging up on him. I guess your anger is living vicariously through me."

John stiffened on the sofa, but refused to open his eyes. "I told him to leave you alone. I made it quite clear that if there was any contact, you would initiate it. In no uncertain terms did I say you would contact him though." Harry patted his leg soothingly. "And that's all. No texts or other phone calls. And people have been hovering outside your flat, but your neighbors called the police and took care of that. I gave them some gingerbread, by the way. Since your freezer is overflowing with desserts."

"Thanks Harry," John murmured, finally opening his eyes. "Thank you very much."

"No problem. Like I said, you've helped me out too many times to count."

"And…" he hesitated a moment and stared blankly ahead. "Mary Morstan didn't call or leave a message or anything?"

"No…" Harry heaved a huge sigh and sunk into the sofa. "You did something stupid, didn't you?"

"Very, very, very stupid."

"Will you tell me what you did? I might be able to help." He heard his sister take a shuddering breath and shift around beside him. "I've done my fair share of very, very, very stupid things to Clara, and I've learned a few things."

With a sigh, John reluctantly shared his heated words from his row with Mary, feeling worse with every second that passed, because that woman did not deserve what he said to her.

Hopefully Harry would be able to give him some advice to fix it.

A/N: I got weepy writing this chapter. I cried writing parts of the next chapter. Just a bit of foreshadowing for you ladies and gentlemen who have been keeping up with The First Twenty-Five Days of December.

Thank you for reading, reviewing, and being so kind!

-Janet