Warnings – death, war, darkness, gore, and drunkenness follow…

I should have gone home, eaten a giant meal, and slept for 3 days. That would have solved all my problems, or at least put them in perspective. I didn't though. I couldn't. I didn't want to go someplace where Sherlock would look for me. I didn't want Sherlock to think about me. For the first time since I'd first walked into the lab with Mike, that I didn't want to see Sherlock. I wasn't sure I wanted me.

The sun was still up as I turned down a street I didn't recognize. It was autumn and it was cold and I didn't have a jacket. I wasn't going to be able to stay out too much longer. Even with battling the fury and the odd melancholy that had settled over me, freezing to death wasn't on the agenda. I was going to have to get indoors.

I looked around trying to get my bearings and realized I had absolutely no idea where I was, and no phone with a GPS feature to locate myself. I continued on looking for something familiar, any of the recognizable landmarks marking the London skyline. I finally spotted St. Paul's in the distance to my right and headed that way.

I pushed my legs to move faster, I wasn't wearing shoes I could run in, or I would have run. My body was producing alarming amounts of adrenaline because of the fight and to compensate for the lack of sleep. It was starting to surge through my body and my heart was pounding. I pushed my gait just past comfortable, enjoying the burn.

I thought about coffee. I thought about a restaurant and food. I thought about a hotel and sleep. I thought about home and Sherlock and our bed.

I settled on a pub, on a corner, on a street I didn't know. A pub that didn't serve any food, so clearly not the best idea I'd ever had.

I picked a stool in the corner away from the small crowd that was already gathered and ordered a pint. The bartender was young, with piercing brown eyes and dyed black hair. She spoke with a very slight French accent, probably a student. She offered me a very warm smile as she sat the glass in front of me. I offered one in return, but I was sure that it didn't even come close to looking genuine.

"My name is Marie. Please let me know when you need something else." She still had a smile on her face. I remembered when the smile of a beautiful woman would stir my insides. Sitting at the bar, I just found it kind of annoying.

When she turned away, I lifted the glass and took a long sip. I knew it was a bad idea before cold liquid got past my tongue. A very bad idea.

Justin Mathers, 19, American Marine, Land Mine. He'd been crying silently, not releasing any of the usual excruciating moans and groans I'd come to associate with war injuries. I'd run to him as they pulled him out of the truck. It'd been freezing outside and I hadn't grabbed my coat, the thin long sleeve shirt my only protection from the sharp wind, the sharp wind that stung my eyes. I'd been annoyed that his arrival interrupted our poker game. I'd been winning. His leg was gone, along with one hand right at the wrist, and one ear. I plastered the standard issue comforting smile on my face and hoped it hid my alarm that he was actually alive. I'd introduced myself and his eyes met mine, the silent tears covering his cheeks. And in that instant, the exact instant that our eyes met, he died. I watched him exist in one second and not exist in the next. I stopped in my tracks and the men carrying the stretcher stopped in response. I just stared down at Justin Mathers, realizing he'd been waiting for a friendly face. He hadn't wanted to die alone. He'd held on for anyone, and got me, annoyed to be there. I never played poker again.

I swallowed down the last of my beer and shook my head, tossing the memory of Justin away. I knew he'd be back and soon; Justin has always been a frequent visitor in my dreams.

Suddenly there was a full glass in front of me. I thought for a long moment and managed to come up with the faint memory of getting Marie's attention.

I'd had no sleep for three days and no food in over 24 hours, I was feeling the happy blur that comes with the early phase of drunkenness. I was enjoying it. Alcohol was covering up the anger.

I glanced at the TV behind the bar and was surprised to see a football match. How long had that been on? Beer and Football, as good as it gets. It couldn't immediately place the teams, not recognizing the uniforms or any of the players' names. I just started to wonder if perhaps it was American when a loud cheer from the corner of my room erupted at a goal.

"Aussie, Aussie, Aussie," came one voice.

And a small group followed with, "Oi, Oi, Oi."

One question answered. I turned back to the screen and watched. I chuckled a little every time the commentator referred to them as "the socceroos." It seemed oddly hilarious. Soon it was halftime and there was another pint in front of me.

Michael Black, Australian, I don't know what branch, 32, helicopter crash. He'd past through our hospital in pieces. 'It's another piece of Michael.' 'We've finally got the Australian's head.'

I never saw any of him or knew what he looked like, but I remembered signing over a body bag and somebody saying he played cricket.

Several months later I sat in our camp, rooting, silently, for Australia in the Ashes. I think Michael would have liked that.

I tipped my glass to the socceroos, and took a sip, putting Michael temporarily to rest. He was easy to pacify with sports.

Another pint.

A man sat down next to me, my head felt heavy and awkward as I turned to look at him. The pleasant swimmy feeling was starting to feel less pleasant and swimmier. He was around my age, but the huge grin on his face revealed he was having a much better day than me, maybe a much better life. His voice was higher than I expected as he order his Guinness. He turned slightly and smiled at me as he sat back to wait for his drink.

He was excited as he spoke. "Finished work and am taking a fortnight off with my boy. He's going to be 10 in two days and I'm taking him fishing in Costa Rica. He's never been across the Atlantic before." His drink came and he took a long swig, getting a proper moustache from it. I almost laughed at the foam on his upper lip, but stopped myself.

"Should be fun," I replied. I had to focus on each word longer than necessary, forming it into something coherent. I didn't want the man to think I was drunk. "Never been there myself. I was in America once, years ago at a training thing. Never been one for fishing though. Dad took me out a couple times when I was little."

He nodded. He failed to point out I was drunk and I had a quick debate over whether he was polite or if I was just doing a good job acting sober. I decided I was an excellent actor.

"I'm hoping he'll like it. Some of my best memories with my dad were fishing." He took another long sip and I followed his lead. I didn't want to fall behind. I closed my eyes as the beer went down.

James Watson, 41, brain aneurism, left behind a wife and two young children, Harriet 12 and John 9, almost 10. He'd been a good man, worked hard to provide for his family. Came home every night and would wrestle around on the floor with his kids while waiting on dinner. He'd check homework and listen to jazz albums. He talked about travelling to New Orleans one day. He'd read books and made his kids read books, too. "Information is important if you want to do big things." His daughter had become a lawyer, his son a doctor. He'd tell his wife he loved her while they danced in the kitchen unaware of the children watching around the corner.

The suit was hot and itchy and I was so angry because Harry wouldn't talk to me. I punched her when she ignored me and she started to cry. My uncle yelled at me for acting out, told me I was upsetting my mum. I was mad at her too, she wouldn't stop crying. I wanted the bad feelings to go away.

I didn't want to go; I didn't want to see him. He'd left us.

Somebody picked me up so that I could see inside the coffin. I didn't recognize him. It was all his fault. He was my dad and I hated him.

I gulped a breath in not allowing myself to think about him any longer. Anybody but him. I finished my drink.

"Have a good trip." I said as the man tossed some notes down. He shook my hand and offered thanks. I was surprised to realize I was actually happy for him, and his son. That called for another pint.

As I waited for Marie to walk back over I looked up to check the football score and the news was on. "What happened to the football?" I asked pointing up to the telly, wondering who the hell would watch the news over footy.

"The Aussies pulled it out mate," came a voice from behind me. I bobbled my head around to see the pub was packed. There were people queuing behind me waiting on drinks. "Hell of match."

I was shocked that I'd missed it, 45 minutes not counting all of halftime. I looked back at the telly and watched the weather report. Marie brought my pint over and stood in front of me for a moment. "Feeling alright John? Can I call someone for you?"

I didn't remember telling her my name. "I broke my phone." I responded, not realizing until she was gone that in no way had that answered her question.

I needed to get Marie's attention again, to explain that I wasn't an idiot. I understood the question, really. I'd had a few too many drinks perhaps, but I wasn't an idiot. Despite what Sherlock said.

"If it's not going to cure me I don't see the point." Henry sat across my desk from me. We were going over the report from the oncologist. Henry had decided to refuse treatment. I understood, but still felt compelled to push. He was only 43 years old, not much older than me.

"I just think you decided this rather quickly. Think about it a little, we can talk about it again in a week or so. This isn't a decision to be rushed into, it deserves careful consideration."

He'd smiled at me the way Sherlock smiled at me when I was saying something he thought was ridiculous, yet endearing. Henry was humoring me.

"I appreciate your thoughts Dr. Watson. I really do, but this is what I'm going to die of. How many people get to see the face of the grim reaper before he strikes? I've spoken to a solicitor and I'm putting my affairs in order. Then I am going to live. The oncologist estimates that I have about 3 months before it becomes intolerable. I've got 3 months to have a really good time."

I opened my mouth but he interrupted me. "I am really ok with it Doctor. I promise." I met his eyes and believed him. I nodded and shook his hand, I never saw him again. Three weeks later he died of a heroin overdose in a hotel room in Thailand with 4 hookers.

I remember hearing the story from one of the other doctors and thinking it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Was that what he considered living? He'd died all alone, surrounded by strangers. He could have done that in Afghanistan and gotten paid for it.

I'd climbed into bed that night and held Sherlock tight.

I needed another pint. They weren't going away. My head was hurting. The exhaustion was creeping up on me again and it was bringing nausea.

I felt the hand on the back of my neck and even after the events of the day the familiar pleasant twinge settled down my spine. Marie was in front of us again, I couldn't remember why I'd called her over.

Sherlock's hand was in front of me holding a credit card. Marie accepted it. I reached behind me to grab my wallet. I was more than capable of paying for my own drinks. Sherlock squeezed my neck gently, and his voice was at my ear.

"You left your wallet in the locker at the morgue." I padded my pocket to verify, and indeed it wasn't there. I turned on the barstool to check that it hadn't just fallen onto the floor. The movement made my head spin, the floor suddenly getting closer.

Sherlock caught me against his chest, encouraging my head up. "Whoa," came out of me in rush and Sherlock grunted at the additional weight.

I closed my eyes, "Keep them open." He said and I opened them. "Focus on something that isn't going to move. " There was a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the counter, I stared at it. My stomach started to churn. "The clock, John, not liquor." I focused on the clock.

The room settled around me. Marie was back with the slip for Sherlock to sign and a glass of water for me. Sherlock shoved it into my hand. "Drink this, but keep your eyes on the clock."

I obeyed and kept my eyes focused on the face of the clock around the rim of the glass. It tasted delicious. He signed the slip and stayed standing behind me while I finished drinking. His fingers kept up gentle massage on the back of my neck.

I was taking the last few sips when the picture appeared on the telly. It was Emily, with her beautiful smile, followed by Rebecca and Rosa. My breath caught and bile filled the back of my throat. I'd pushed them away, choosing the more familiar demons over the new ones, the young ones. My throat was hurting, clamping down on itself and tears filled my eyes.

I was horrified at the realization I was going to cry in a pub in front of Sherlock. It was more weakness, more stupidity. I closed my eyes, getting sick was preferable. The nausea didn't come, Emily did. Emily as she was just before we cut her open. I tried to think of the others, of Jennifer or Justin, the familiar ones. I could handle them, not Emily. I felt a tear trail down my cheek, silently, just like Justin Mathers.

The hand left my neck and moved down and across my chest settling just underneath my ribs. He pulled me back against him, hugging my body against his. I took a breath and it was a very obvious sob.

There was a voice in my ear. "We found them John, they're safe." I concentrated on my breathing. "The other five are safe." He repeats. "Joanna, Elizabeth, Hillary, Lindsey, and Jill are with their parents as we speak. They have nothing more than a bruise between them." I knew he learned the names for me, not them, but that was ok. He knew them and that was very important to me.

"Look at the telly, John." I opened my eyes and did what he asked. There was a woman being led away in handcuffs, I caught a glimpse of her before someone threw a jacket over her head. My stomach started to churn again and my breathing quickened.

There was video footage of five teenage girls being led out of the same building, Joanna, Elizabeth, Hillary, Lindsey, and Jill. I recognized each of them and they were safe. I felt another tear. I reached a hand up and wiped my eyes, preventing more.

I hiccupped.

The news story ended and there was a voice at my ear again. "Can we go home now?"

I hiccupped again.

I tried to nod, but it made the room spin. "Please." I answered. He squeezed my torso with his arm and placed a kiss into my hair, before pulling back and helping me to stand. He had to carry most of my weight as we worked our way to the door. I was continuing to hiccup the whole way.

He settled me, back against a light post, keeping his hand on my chest. I closed my eyes, but that made it worse so I opened them again. I watched Sherlock as his eyes darted back and forth looking for a cab.

"I love you." I said to him because I did. He turned his head and looked at me curiously.

"I love you, too." He replied, turning back to the road, keeping his hand pressed firmly against my chest.

"Sherlock." He turned back to me. "I am pissed at you. You weren't nice to me."

He frowns at that.

"You hurt me." I added. "You aren't supposed to hurt me."

"I know." He said, still frowning. He looked back to the road.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John." He sounded annoyed and didn't look at me. His eyes searched the road.

"The beer didn't make them go away." He turned then and looked pained and that made me sad. I didn't want to hurt him. I wasn't supposed to hurt him either.

"I know." He said after a moment. "Sleep will help though." He spotted a cab and put his hand in the air. I didn't think he was right; they often came when I was sleeping.