When John woke up he was genuinely surprised his stomach was still attached to the rest of his body; it definitely felt like he could have very well thrown it up with the rest of its contents inside the little blue bucket that rested by the side of his bed. He knew Sherlock had put it there, because he sure as hell didn't even remember getting to the apartment. Well, at least the bloody bastard was kind enough not to let him choke on his own vomit; he had to give him that one.
The knock on the door was enough to make him truly fear his head would explode. Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock walked in with a glass of water and laid it wordlessly on John's nightstand. John sat up and took a careful sip; he was beyond thirsty, but really didn't want to get sick in front of his flat mate. Not that he would miss the bucket full of vomit two feet away, but still. He put the glass down, raising his eyebrow at Sherlock.
-Nothing stronger left from last night then? Oh, wait! That's right, you probably don't want to enable the 'alcoholic', am I right?
John thought he saw Sherlock's lip curl upwards the tiniest bit, but he couldn't have sworn on it. With a muttered curse he got out of the bed and into the toilet, where he helped himself to an aspirin and a digestive, which he washed down with the last drops of the hipflask he kept inside the cabinet. He showered to the best of his current abilities and headed back to bed, only to find a distressed looking Sherlock sitting on the edge of it.
-I just thought you should know.
John crossed his arms and leaned on the wall with a sigh.
-What are you even babbling about?
-When you are an addict you are always the last one to find out. I should know.
John simply shook his head and headed for the kitchen. If he was going to listen to Sherlock jabber, he at least needed to be much less sober. Sherlock walked in on him pouring himself the biggest glass of vodka.
-I'm not telling you to stop.
-And you shouldn't.
The noise that the liquid made as it poured distracted Sherlock for half a second.
-I'm just stating a fact, and one you've been trying to ignore for way too long. John…
He walked closer. John could see that he was fighting the urge to tear the glass out of his hand. He didn't though; he stood there, inches from John and his ridiculously big glass and stared at him, biting his lower lip.
-That's too much, that's... you are going to make yourself sick again.
John raised his eyebrows and walked away, taking another sip.
-So you don't want me to stop drinking, yet you are still talking about this. What is it that you want from me then?
He finished his glass with the next chug, and realized Sherlock had been right; his stomach hadn't been ready to handle it. He swallowed back his own sick.
-I do want you to stop; I simply know I can't force you.
John sat down on the couch and concentrated on not vomiting on the carpet. If he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he knew Sherlock was right. He knew he had been ignoring what was going with him and his drinking on for months now. And he knew he was headed down a bad path if he continued that way. He simply couldn't see another way.
-I wanted to tell you I'm sorry.
Sherlock's voice seemed to come from far, far away. John held his head in his hands, still trying to make the room stop spinning.
-I'm so sorry for the part I played in this. I really am.
John turned to him. He couldn't see tears in his eyes, his voice hadn't faded either, but John couldn't avoid seeing how bad he was hurting. Sherlock was, sometimes, readable like an open book, and as bad as John wanted to ignore it, the look on Sherlock's face was affecting him more than he thought it would.
-But you are absolutely right. I can't enable this anymore.
John tried to make sense of his words. He sat up straighter, a tinge of fear rising on his chest.
-I've cleared your debt with Mrs. Hudson, but I'll be moving out to a smaller place soon. She was… too emotional to be here and tell you this herself, but she won't be allowing you to stay here any longer. Unless, of course…
John knew what was coming. He forced himself to swallow.
-Unless?
-Unless you accept to get treatment. Then you'll have my support for as long as you need it.
John wouldn't have expected any less from Sherlock. He had been manipulating him for months now, and he knew it, but Sherlock was not an idiot. He was an addict himself, and he knew what needed to be done. Under different circumstances, John would have applauded him. This time he simply chuckled to himself.
-You really must be kidding.
The tinge of hope on Sherlock's face faded incredibly fast.
-Not in the least.
-Then you've got mad. Go on, go away and leave me, see if I care. I didn't the first time and I sure as hell won't this time.
No one said a thing for a while. Then Sherlock spoke. John could have sworn his voice did break this time.
-I'll be out of here by tomorrow.