Another six months pass and John stops even trying to hide the bottles. He stops going to work too. The only time he leaves is to make his now more than weekly trip to the cemetery. Sometimes he even just stays out there over night. The bottle comes with him too.
He masks it as drinking in Sherlock's memory when he is there but really he knows the truth and he knows that Sherlock would too. Not that any of that matters now.
He's woken up in the hospital a couple of times. Alcohol poisoning.
'It's almost funny that it has taken this long for that to happen,' he laughs before checking himself out.
Mycroft barely makes good on his slightly veiled threat, he rarely steps in. John decides that he must still have the flat bugged though, or how would he keep ending up in hospital when he has pushed it too far.
However, John still finds him invading the flat and once at Sherlock's graveside, where he just mentions how disappointed Sherlock would be if he could see him. That he didn't give John his life back after Afghanistan to use it like this.
John is always quick to point out that Sherlock didn't give him his life back at all, but they both know that is his hurt psyche talking because that is exactly what he did.
And just once, John comes to in a low security rehab facility. But he just waits until no one is paying attention and walks out.
It must be around six o'clock when John wakes to noises in the kitchen. Someone is cleaning. He hears the bottles being thrown in the bin. By the sound of it, they have been at it a while.
"Sod. Off." He mumbles, disentangling himself from Sherlock's sheets, grabs his half full rum and walks out. He has an idea of who is out there. The only person who disturbs him on purpose these days, since he has chased almost everyone else away. Even Lestrade had stopped calling.
He starts talking before he reaches the door.
"Mycroft. Get the fuck out." He practically yells.
But it isn't Mycroft in the kitchen, and he stops dead in his tracks.
"You're surprised to see me," the figure says turning around.
The bottle slips from John's hand and he collapses to the floor. The next thing John knows is grey mist swirling before his eyes and the taste of cold water on his lips. He must have fainted.
"My dearest John," says the well remembered voice, "I owe you my apologies. I had no idea you would be so affected by my leaving."
"Leaving? Sherlock, you didn't just pop off to Tesco's, you died." John doesn't even try to mask his hurt or his anger. He pushes Sherlock away from him and stands.
Still in yesterday's clothes, he does the only thing he can think to do. He leaves for the pub.
People give him a wide breadth as he comes through the door, looking more like a homeless vet than a doctor. The last three years have not been kind to John. He orders a pint and then goes to sit at the booth in the corner, planning on keeping to himself.
The drinks keep coming and John remembers all the trips to the cemetery, begging for just two more minutes with Sherlock. Now he is here, and John has run away.
After a few hours someone slips into the booth across from him. Neither of them speak at first, just taking in each other's company once again.
Apparently, the time away hasn't been good to Sherlock either, John notes. He is thinner than John remembers and paler too. His complexion speaks volumes about how unhealthy his life has been recently.
"You haven't been eating." John finally says, breaking the silence.
"The same can be said for you." Sherlock replies with no malice or sarcasm.
"John, loo-" Sherlock starts.
"I thi-" John cuts himself off quickly, "Go on then. You want to explain what was so important about this. And I should at least hear you out, right?"
Sherlock sighs in relief, all but given the go ahead to try and fix this.
"My email to you was absolutely genuine. I didn't expect to leave the pool that night. I didn't die, as you can see John, in fact, I practically wasn't hurt at all. Thanks to your actions, of course." Sherlock pauses while watching for a reaction from John, he gets none.
"I went with you to hospital and once it was obvious that you were going to pull through, I made arrangements with Mycroft and left."
"Mycroft knew." John interrupts but isn't surprised by this revelation.
"Of course. I knew I would need his help at some point and of course access to untraceable bank accounts. And his part in all this was to supply what I needed and most of all, to keep you safe. Because that is why I did it. Moriarty might have been dead but there were too many in his enterprise that would try and enact revenge on me and they would have used you to do so.
"I realized that fate had dealt me an extraordinary set of circumstances. If the world believed I was dead, then all those people would lay themselves open allowing me to take them down.
"I admit that this took me longer than I intended when I left you, my dearest John. Several times, I have sat down to email or text you, but it was important for me to continue to be dead and any change in your demeanor might have brought that into question.
"However, I did not know that this was happening." He gestures to the pint that had showed up while they were talking. "Or I would have come back much sooner and risked the fall out."
John's face is still blank as Sherlock continues his tale.
"I asked Mycroft not to tell me anything that wasn't necessary for survival while I was on the hunt. I knew I would not be able to work with the distractions. It was hard enough that I had you in my head wherever I went. I kept checking the blog and other than one initial post that I was dead, you never updated it. My one lifeline back to Baker Street and my John, and it was silent." Sherlock looks lost for a moment as he waits for a response.
John sips his drink, and Sherlock doesn't even try to hide his grimace.
"You let me think you were dead to protect me? That is what you expect me to accept, Sherlock?" John's voice is frightfully even.
Sherlock shrugs.
"It is the truth. I did it all for you, for us. We would never be able to live in peace with what was left of Moriarty's crew."
"Sherlock, don't even try that with me. You were being selfish. What did you think? That I would be too much of a hindrance, that you wouldn't be able to do as much if there were two of us? Or is it the more likely option that you just were tired of me and wanted to do this alone? Couldn't deal anymore with the ex-soldier with PTSD and psychosomatic limp?"
"No, that isn't what I thought." Sherlock quickly changes the subject. "Look, it's obvious that I have hurt you. I'll leave Baker Street. I'm sure that Mycroft can put me up for a few days until I find a place of my own..." He trails off.
"Leave Baker Street? You just got back." John looks as if he was just slapped in the face.
"I am not going to make your life harder, John."
"You're an idiot if you think that going away again is going to make this easier on me. You can't just walk back into my life after being dead for three years and then leave again..." John sighs, "Let's go. This isn't really a conversation for a pub."
He pushes himself up from the table and drops enough bills to cover his tab. Together they walk back in silence.
The black car at the curb alerts them to Mycroft's presence even before they reach the flat. Sherlock picks up the pace and practically runs up the stairs, taking them three at a time.
His brother is sitting in his armchair, twirling the infamous umbrella, when he comes through the door.
"Ah, brother, so good to see you have made it home safely. I admit, I expected at least a call. Mummy would have been so disappointed." Mycroft says in the voice he always uses when he drops her name into conversation.
"And I expected you to look after John while I was away." Sherlock spit back, invading his personal space. "You gave me your word, Mycroft."
"He is fine. A little worse for wear but nothing happened to him while you were gone. There was a close call with a sniper once, but my men took care of it." Mycroft seems completely at ease in all of this which only furthers in angering Sherlock even more.
Before he can respond, John reaches the top of the stairs just in time to hear Mycroft's response.
"Excuse me, what? A sniper?" He asks, the concern seeping into his voice.
Both brothers ignore him.
"You call this fine? Look at him. Did you check on him even once while I was away? Or did you just figure that it was beneath you to keep tabs on him now that I wasn't around?" Sherlock clenches his fists in obvious restraint to keep from punching his own brother.
A realization passes over Mycroft's face for a split second before he quickly arranges his features back to neutral and stands, forcing Sherlock to take a step back.
"My apologies. I had no idea that you were in love with Doctor Watson, or I should have intervened more thoroughly." He side steps Sherlock and walks out the door, not even waiting for the backlash.
The door slamming downstairs seems to draw John out of shock.
"You're in love with me?" He asks, just barely above a whisper.
Sherlock collapses into the chair that Mycroft just vacated and looks slightly distressed.
John also sits and prepares himself for a conversation he has had many times over the last three years. This time though, it seems to matter.
"Do you know what I said to you at the cemetery every time I went there?"
Sherlock shakes his head.
"That if I had just a couple more minutes with you, I would tell you the truth. I'd tell you everything about how I felt, how I needed you more than breathing... that I love you." John staring at Sherlock. This time it is his turn to wait for an answer that takes forever to come.
"Is that what you want, John? For there to be an us?" Sherlock doesn't look up.
"Of course, if it is what you want."
"You're not Harriet and you're not your father, but if you continue on this path then you will be. I'm not usually one for ultimatums but I need you to choose, my dearest John, this or me." Sherlock looks up, finally making eye contact.
John thinks about his answer carefully, feeling the heavy weight of Sherlock's gaze.
"You. I would take you over any of this. But I don't know if I know how." John reminds him of a lost child.
"I'll help you but this is something you have to do for yourself and not me. There are meetings and things we can look into. I need you to promise me that you will try."
"You have my word." John agrees.
Then tension is so thick in the flat that John grabs onto the first thought in his head.
"You cleaned." He says with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Yes," Sherlock pauses. "I threw everything out, all of the bottles you had around the flat, even my old stash of cocaine. The hardest substance here now is rubbing alcohol.
"You were right, you know. I did do it for selfish reasons. But not the ones you named. I really did it because I needed to keep you safe. If anything had happened to you, I would have fallen apart too. Only, it would not have been alcohol, but drugs and a lot of them."
John gapes at him a moment. Both contemplating the personal changes necessary to make this work.
[A/N: The epilogue is the boysex that I could not make a decision on whether it should be included. But this is me, and how often do I NOT write smut? If you want to story to end here then I would suggest skipping the next bit.]
EPILOGUE
3 months later...
John lays on his stomach on the bed. He has just about drifted off to sleep when a now familiar weight slides under the sheet next to him.
"John?" Says a deep baritone voice into the crux of his neck.
"Hmmm?" John responds as fingers begin to play with the waistband of his pants.
"I'm bored." Sherlock nips his shoulder lightly.
"And you're waking me up because?" John asks, unable to keep the smile off his face.
"I thought you might prefer to entertain me, but if you're busy I can always go back to that experiment with White Phosphorus." Another nip, this time lower on his back.
John partially rolls over to see the other man.
"How do you even have- Never mind. I don't even want to know."
Sherlock pushes John back on his stomach and reaches to push down his pants. Then he straddles John's thighs, leaning forward to lay his naked form along his back.
"You know, I could feign ignorance as to why you were naked when you crawled into bed, and why I'm naked now. " John chuckles.
"But you won't." Sherlock says with a roll of his hips, his erection teasing John's entrance.
"I don't think people appreciate what I do to keep you from blowing up the whole block." John laughs as he passes Sherlock the lube from the drawer of the nightstand.
"Oh, so that's why you do it?" Sherlock starts to roll off John, "then I will go play by myself."
"Sherlock, if you don't get back here and finish what you started, I'll tell Mycroft we have agreed to come to the Family Holiday in September." John threatens with a smirk.
"You wouldn't!" Sherlock freezes his movements.
John looks over his shoulder at him.
"I would you bloody cock tease."
Sherlock resumes his position on John and leans down for an awkward over the shoulder kiss.
"If I didn't love you..." He nips at John again as he slicks up two fingers.
Sherlock kisses, bites and lick's down his spine and rubs the ridge of John's opening, gently, teasing with just the tips of his fingers. John growls attempts to push back onto them.
"Pillow." Sherlock says.
"What?" John asks, confused by the non sequitur.
"Under your hips." He says using his free hand to pass John the second pillow from the bed.
"Oh." John does as instructed. And from the quick glance Sherlock gets as John raises up on his hands and knees, he sees that John's cock is dripping pre-come, even with the very little stimulation he has done.
"For all your talk, John Watson, you really want this." He finally works in one and then two fingers, crooking them slightly to occasionally hit John's prostate.
John moans with each push of Sherlock's fingers. Never finding enough stimulation from either them or the pillow under him.
Sherlock opens the lube again with his free hand and pours some out, spreading it on with strokes of his palm.
Sherlock removes his fingers but quickly replaces them with his own cock and pushes into the slowly expanding muscle.
He pushes into the hilt, then pulls all the way out and enters him again. He does this for a third time, before he decides to stop teasing John.
This time when he enters him, Sherlock changes his angle and hits John's spot, causing him to cry out after all the almost stimulation he has been receiving. Sherlock repeats this over and over again, each time slightly hard and faster than before.
He looks down and watches as he pulls out and thrusts back into John. And the sight mixed with the noises of complete debauchery that John is making is his undoing.
Sherlock feels his balls contract as his vision begins to cloud around the edges. He loses his rhythm but continues to push into John as his orgasm takes him. And if this could not feel any better, John clenches around him, managing to come from prostate stimulation alone.
When he can move again, Sherlock rolls off of John.
His pillow will have to be washed now, so he convinces John to roll over by and lays with his head on his lover's chest.
"John?" He asks as John wraps his arm around Sherlock's shoulders.
"Yes?"
"How long was I gone when you broke my chemistry set?" Sherlock follows the question with a small kiss on John's skin to soften the question.
"Honestly, I don't know. But I promise, as soon as I find another job, Sherlock, I will buy you another one. If I have to get it one Erlenmyer flask at a time." He kisses the curly mop and begins to drift off to sleep.
"That won't be necessary." Sherlock says, not knowing if he means the chemistry set or the job, it's kind of nice having John at home.