Sherlock Holmes had always been a man of addiction.
His greatest addiction being his mind, the second biggest addiction being cocaine.
The one thing all of his addictions had in common, the one underlying factor, is that they all came back to addiction number one. If it didn't stimulate his brain, he didn't latch on to it. He was so clever, so self-absorbed, so preoccupied with his mind that anything that could destroy it was barred from him.
At least, that's what John had thought.
After Sherlock's great return from the dead he'd been noticing a new addiction rearing it's ugly head, one that he didn't know if he could deal with.
After years of living with Sherlock he'd learned how to curb all of his addictions from smoking to cocaine, but the one addiction he'd never been able to cure...not with his father, not with Harry, not with anyone...was alcoholism.
John was sitting perfectly straight, staring at the tv but not caring what was on. He kept glancing up at the numbers on the digital clock, they read: 12:47.
There was a pit of dread forming in his stomach, he really would rather be in bed or out shopping or anything but waiting for Sherlock to come stumbling through that door.
The clock read 1:15 when Sherlock finally came reeling into the flat.
John was dismayed to see a half empty bottle of what he supposed was vodka being clutched in those pale white fingers. Fingers that dove into the pockets of a dead man to pull out a letter leading to the killer, fingers that strummed on the violin at four in the morning, fingers that held test tubes aloft, fingers that John fantasized he would someday slip a wedding ring onto...
"Where have you been?" He asked calmly, looking at Sherlock only through his peripheral vision. Sherlock gave a confused look then shook his head.
"Doesn't matter." His words barely slurred, but the slur was still there hidden by the deepness of his voice.
"You should get to bed." John stood, clicking the remote to turn off the tv. He walked up to Sherlock and helped the swaying detective out of his coat. Then he lowered his hand to try and slip the bottle out of his boyfriend's hand.
"I'll keep this." Sherlock rumbled, John could practically feel the words vibrating in Sherlock's chest.
"I think you've had enough." He replied meekly.
"I'll be the one to decide that." Sherlock sneered. "You only worry about this because of your sister. I know how to take care of myself, John."
John knew that excuse. He'd heard Harry say it so many times last Christmas.
"Johnny, I've only had three glasses so far. I can decide when it's enough, I know how to take care of myself. Stop being so anxious and fetch me some more eggnog."
"Sherlock...please." John pleaded, reaching for the bottle again.
"Why don't you go to bed?" Sherlock suggested, making his way into the kitchen where he grabbed a chair to fall into. He lifted the bottle to his pale lips, the contents of the bottle seemed to sparkle on his teeth.
"No. Sherlock, listen to me." John's voice grew angrier. In his head all he could think of was the 3 month coin sitting in his sock drawer, the one Harry had given him four weeks before she'd been back on the booze.
Sherlock ignored him, gulping greedily from the bottle and then staring him down with cold eyes.
"You absolutely cannot do this to me. I've lived through syringes and lighters and bullets for you and the last thing I want to is to do it all over again with a bottle." John growled, and that at least seemed to get Sherlock's attention.
Sherlock's eyes seemed uncertain and they lacked their usual clarity. John hated watching drunks, he hated the way they spoke too loud. He hated the way they laughed at everything. He hated coming home and finding alcoholics hanging out on his couch with lit cigarettes, and Harry asking if it was okay if they crashed at his place after the meeting.
He hated watching Sherlock being drunk. He loved watching him dash about a crime scene with so much life in him.
"Sherlock...what's wrong?" He asked, the one question that had been on his mind the first time he saw Sherlock drink. He leaned forward and finally succeeded in wresting the dratted bottle away from Sherlock, he dumped it in the sink to pour out slowly. Then he took Sherlock's face in his hands.
"...I want to turn off my mind." Sherlock replied, speaking slowly as though words confused him. His words fell clumsily off his tongue.
"Why, love?" John pressed their foreheads together, hating the smell of a thousand and one vintages on Sherlock's breath.
"...I was torn down...he burned the heart out of me..." Sherlock's eyes were nearly closed now, falling asleep most likely. His words didn't make any sense but John recognized who he was talking about.
"I had to stand up there and lie to you John...all these thoughts and not one could keep me from lying to you...not one could stop it." Sherlock slumped in John's arms, and the doctor attempted to fold the entirety of Sherlock's long limbs into his arms. He carried the detective back to their room and lay him against the white sheets, marveling at how easily the pale man blended in to the white.
"John...I don't want to think about hurting you..." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes shut.
"Then don't." John whispered, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.