Title: A Toast for Nothing
Pairing: Johnlock (Sherlock/John)
TV Show: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: ~1400
Rating: T
A/N: So, this was made over a Skype discussion between a few others on Tumblr. The two on Tumblr, whom you should follow, are withaflourish and knowledgeiscake. They have two alternate versions to this.
Basically, it's post!Reichenbach, and you can take the ending however you want. The main idea is that Sherlock is dead in this one (there are two other stories, each with different endings, but the beginnings are the same) and John slowly becomes an alcoholic. The ending is vague for a reason; "trigger" can mean two things. You take it how you want.
Enjoy!
It started as "just one." That's how it always starts. "Just one"—it was a common saying in his family. First his father muttering under his breath when he was already swaying, then his sister that told him she was kicking the habit but just needed that one to get going. And now, here he was, the great Dr. John Watson, scratching at the bottle whenever he had the chance. And he, too, would mutter it slowly under his breath, telling himself "just one", but he knew the devil was on his shoulder leaning into his ear, whispering: "Don't stop at just one. One's not enough. Here, have one more."
And that's when "just one more" was born. That was also formality in his family—his father would growl at the demons spawning round him, while his sister would whine and curse his name for all that came when he took the bottle away. But there was no one left to help him now. There was no one there to stop him; just the shadows that crept in the night; just the noises that gave him fright; little whispers that turned him white. But he didn't care; he just wanted to pull the trigger and let it all sail away.
John was inside the infamous 221B Baker Street flat, and just…sat there. He stared at nothing in particular, but those that would come every once in a while to see how he was doing (Mrs. Hudson came every day, but otherwise, it was either Mycroft or Greg that came to say hello) would argue that he was staring at the boxes of things Sherlock used, or owned, or wore, or tended to appreciate more than the simple-minded man. John didn't have the heart to throw it all away, much less tear the foundation apart brick by brick, but it wasn't like he was staring at the brown boxes that looked a little lopsided if you stared at it long enough anyway. He was just sitting there; was that a crime?
He took another swig of the liquor. It was strong, but his throat was used to the burn. Ever since the funeral, he thought, taking another drink. His throat that day swelled, the tears that ran down his face burning every pore that rested, and whenever he tried to swallow, it was like he could feel Sherlock choking for air as the rocks kept him below. No body was recovered, nothing to put into the coffin—just an empty vessel, locked away under the ground for all eternity. But if there were a body, would it have made any difference at all at the funeral? Would the violin touch those bony, thin fingers again? Or maybe the little magnifying glass would still be in his front pocket of his pants, still waiting for another mystery to solve. But John didn't know any of that—he was just a doctor.
All of London was still. They lived on after Sherlock's death, they managed to forget the kind of chaos that stirred about in the night when they were all fast asleep. But what about that doctor of his, what was his name? I wonder what happened to him. I wonder, maybe he found a nice girl to love—perhaps he's settled down. The hell with them all, he thought, as he put the bottle back to his lips and felt the burn of the alcohol rest heavily on his ghoulish soul. He didn't need them—he had one friend, he had one person to keep him away from the dark, and what did he do? Oh, that's right.
He died.
"You stubborn bastard," he slurred out of his mouth, to no one in particular. Well, it was to Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, but he'd never be there again. Perhaps his soul was around to tease when John was sleeping, and maybe Sherlock was still around, experimenting on ways to come back to life. He wouldn't put it passed the fool. But when was he going to come back? When was everything going to be crimes and solving mysteries again? When was it going to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson residing in their home once more? He felt the heaviness of the bottle in his hand tempt him again, so down the alcohol went.
It had been so long since Sherlock's death. Almost a year, he thought, remembering the little date circled on the calendar in the kitchen, which was pinned to the letter—the letter. If Sherlock could have the woman, John could have the letter—the nerve of him. And when he went to the Falls to see nothing but the water, he felt then and there that his life was stopping, that everything that revolved around Sherlock Holmes came to that point in time, and everything was breaking apart. He even went to see his therapist.
"John, you will move on from this. It will take time."
He's taken time and thrown it against the wall. It was almost a year now, and the progress that had been made before was dust on the shelves. Another drink, another bottle opened, another bottle thrown against the wall. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind, she's fast asleep anyway. Or was she out? No, it was the middle of the night, she was sleeping. Maybe she was sleeping with the man down the road. Or maybe she found someone that hadn't been a total pompous ass that flaunted everything he had in front of her face like she were some cheap whore waiting to be picked up by some…well, pompous ass!
He took a deep breath. It was the alcohol kicking in, that was all. He knew where this was leading, but he would not stop. He leaned back in the chair and let his whole body stretch out into the universe. The ceiling was high above him, little chips of the paint signifying another one of Sherlock's experiments reaching a new level. Sherlock, he thought, what a bastard. Another bottle downed, another bottle in his hand. His heavy breathing and eradicate emotions were clear signs of it, but he would not stop. He didn't dare stop, not when his life was flashing before him. Why would he stop that?
"You stupid son of a bitch," he whispered, another threat left in the cold air again. "Did you even think of me when you went against that sick, cold bastard?" "I'll burn the heart out of you." He expected a reply, wanted to scream out that he wanted some kind of recognition, but all he heard was nothing. And nothing terrified him. So he started drinking more, to the point of feeling the numbness start to rise from his feet. The devil on his shoulder was still whispering in his ear for more, more, and he wanted to stop, stop. Another bottle downed, another bottle against his lips, ready to be swallowed whole.
Was it his fault that Sherlock died? If he hadn't have fought with him that one night, if he would have stayed in the flat with Sherlock instead of having the intention of going to see Sarah (was he going to see Sarah? Maybe he was going to the store), maybe things would have played out differently. Maybe Sherlock would have died some other way—maybe of old age. Maybe Sherlock and John would have caught the cold bastard and put him away for life. Or maybe John was being stupid, like he always was, and wanted to drink some more.
He liked the latter option.
And with every swallow of the devil's blood he took, the more he wanted to close his eyes. But he couldn't stop, not when he could hear them say "drink one more, John, one more", and he'd be back to picking up another bottle when he ran out from the last one. How much time did he spend in that chair? He didn't know, he didn't really care at that point; those boxes screwed with his mind anyway, and everything in the flat was haunted by the memories of yesterday. And as he felt the alcohol go down his throat again, he wondered if the moon was out.
"John, did you know—"
"No, I didn't," he whispered, choking down the bits of alcohol left in the bottle. "But I do now, Sherlock. I do now." More numbness, more breathing, more racing of the heart—he was ready.
He pulled the trigger.