"Dear Lord, John, is that you?"
John peered blearily up from the pavement, a place where his face just recently became acquainted.
"Nope," he said with a hallow smile and laid his face back where it was, too far gone to care at all what he was doing. Which, as it turns out, was lying face down outside the local pub, too drunk to think, see, or walk straight. Lestrade was walking out of the pub, his arm around his wife, when the sight of a very intoxicated John caught his attention. He rushed over to the doctor, leaving his wife standing surprised.
"Are you hurt?" He asked hurriedly, checking for injury as he tried to pull Jjohn into a sitting position.
"Irrevocably," John slurred, slumping his heavy head against Lestrade's shoulder, who in turn froze in pitying shock.
"My God, man, you're drunk," He hadn't seen John drink so much as a beer since he's known him, and to see such a careful man crumbled was more bizarre than the murder case they'd just closed that afternoon with Mary. He couldn't leave this honorable man in such an embarrassing situation, not a chance. He vaguely remembered where John lived, and at very least he owed it to him to gather him up.
"Love, I'm going to have to bring him home," Lestrade said to his wife, his voice heavy with concern, "would you mind if I met up with you at the flat then?" Lestrade asked, turning his face upward to his wife. She nodded grimly, said her goodbyes, and left.
"Alright John, let's get you up," he encouraged, sliding an arm around his floppy drunk friend.
"No-no, I wanna stay," the doctor mumbled, pushing against Lestrade. John successfully landed himself back on the ground, grumbling about not wanting to move.
"C'mon, I'm going to bring you home," Lestrade said successfully pulling John to his knees.
"Idon't haveone lesstrood." As the doctor's drunken slurs tumbled out of his tired heart he lazily gave up struggling against Lestrade, "I don't haveone. It jumped offaroof."
"I know, buddy. It's alright. Come on, up we go," Lestrade felt powerful sympathy for the poor man, yet he couldn't help but feel intrusive as well; seeing a side of John no one was allowed to, behind some invisible wall he hid behind constantly.
John, now barely standing, let Lestrade hold onto his shoulders to steady him. He tried to focus his eyes but the overwhelming disorientation made the world around him spin nauseatingly.
"I haven't been disdrunk in solong," his voice was moving up and down in pitch as he flopped his head to the side and looked at the displeased Lestrade.
"We've all been there," he told John, "It's ok. I'm just going to get us a cab alright?"
"You knowhat isslike? To feel lika damn broken lamp alldatime?" John asked, wobbling forward.
Lestrade didn't respond, instead he dragged the doctor to the side of the road. He leaned John against a telephone pole where he was able to steady himself.
"Iss dark," John whispered to the ground, his head now slumped down against his chest, "quite dark."
Lestrade was able to wave a taxi down, and as it pulled up John nearly fell over again, Lestrade jumping to catch him. "Pull yourself together, man," he chidded softly.
The cabbie rolled down the window, "Is he drunk? I don't want anybody gettin' sick in my car, now." He eyed the very wobbly John apprehensively.
"Me," John pointed to himself as he muttered to Lestrade, who turned and looked at him confused.
"You what?"
"Watchout," John advised, and with that he leaned gracelessly forward and projected vomit over the curb. The doctor barely missed Lestrade's feet, who deftly caught him before he could fall over. It wasn't like there was much food in John's stomach, so the barfing ended relatively quickly. The detective inspector then turned to look at the cabbie who held a disgusted grimace.
"Well, you don't need to worry about that anymore," Lestrade told him.
After some halfhearted pleading with the driver they were allowed entrance into the picky cab, and Lestrade struggled to get John situated. With some incomprehensible grumbling John slummed his head against his friend's shoulder. Lestrade was trying to remember where the poor drunk man lived, trying to recall the address.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked, starting the car.
"Um, Baker Street, I think. John, hey- wake up. What's the address? It's two-something Baker Street, yeah?" He asked, stirring him off his shoulder. John frowned not wanting to be heckled into thinking anymore.
"Bakerstreet?" the drunk doctor mused, "Oh yes, itwas 221b," he said shutting his eyes, forgetting in his drunken delirium that he hadn't lived there in nearly three years.
Lestrade reiterated the address to the cabbie, then sat back to sighed and run a hand through his hair. This was not exactly how he planned on ending the evening. The drive continued in silence for a bit, John finally stopped whining about being moved. Lestrade didn't know what to say, never having been very close to John. After a couple turns, John let out an overly loud sigh.
"Today was notgood," the alcohol seeped his voice rough. Lestrade looked over at him.
"We caught a killer, that's something, isn't it?" he offered. John tried to think about this, but still feeling the heavy effects of intoxication, gave up quickly. As silence took over once more and the hustle simmered around John, that leaky pain slithered back into his chest- the same he'd been trying to smoother with drinks a few hours earlier. He'd give anything, anything, to not have to feel it anymore. It was annoying, crippling at times, and did nothing but break him into smaller and smaller pieces. He wanted another drink.
"What am I going to do?" he asked, leaning his head against the cold window. It was refreshing against his flushed cheeks. Lestrade patted his shoulder comfortingly.
"It will get better," he offered.
"Better?" John whispered, sucking on the word as if trying to understand its meaning. "No. Not better. Better's gone. Better's dead." He felt the tiresomely familiar sting of weak tears pressing against his eyes. His resistance against the sadness was drowned in scotch, and the whispering pressure leaked carefully all on its own.
"Yeah, well-"
"He was my best friend," John interrupted a little too loudly. Lestrade didn't mind being cut off, it was a bittersweet heart-warmer to witness John like this.
"A pain in the ass," Lestrade mused, with a smile. John nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"I didn't know how much I needed him," he said quietly. He was slurring less, but wasn't nearly sober yet. "And now I do. I know and I need him." Lestrade stayed quiet, unsure what to say.
"I'm not gay," John dropped his voice as if he was telling a secret. "I'm notgay, buuut I loveim." He began shutting his eyes, waves of sleepiness washing over his swerving consciousness.
"Hey no! Stay awake mate, we're almost here," Lestrade nudged the other man back into consciousness.
"Where?"
"Home." Lestrade answered, as the cab turned onto Baker Street.
"Idon't haveone," John's response was barely audible. Opening his eyes once more he slowly realized, with black apprehension, where in fact they were. His heart, already feeling like it had been plummeting through dark empty water, suddenly hit the ocean floor with a morose thud.
The driver pulled up in front of that sacred, untouchable door, and John felt the hallowing of his stomach as he looked out the window. He swallowed hard.
"Hell," he whispered, knowing full well given the state he was in, there was no way he'd be able to stop himself from walking into that flat and stumble down a dark, cruel, agonizing memory lane.
The car pulling up in front of the building dragged Sherlock out of his thoughts, and he put down the book he'd been scanning through. Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of most of his things, but had not had the heart to completely clear it all out (especially since John went into a fit when she last tried). Though a week later John himself moved out, neither of them were able to pack up the rest of the his things. Their things. It would be like permanently erasing the detective, closing the final chapter that felt too wrong to officially end. Instead Mrs. Hudson and John held some strange, unspoken agreement to keep half of his things laid out, in a museum like fashion.
This made things a little easier for Sherlock now, as he scurried around looking for a piece of important information that he knew he'd left behind. Being back home brought a parade of heightened emotions he chose to ignore, focusing on finding a book that contained the key to finding a very important hideout. He was actually proud of himself being able to stay so focused; he was nearly able to claim an in and out job, no getting distracted by a life he couldn't afford to miss. He had a job, a mission, and any side tracking (no matter how desperately desired) would be counterproductive. He had almost gathered what he needed when he heard a car door slam, drawing him towards the window.
Sherlock's heart froze.
There he was.
A wave of bewildering emotions ranging from horror to an undeniable relief attacked him quite off guard. Seeing John after all this time was like taking a very long breath he hadn't known he was holding. He had been so careful not to think John's name for so long, not to picture his face, and especially not to dwell on the sense of a lost future he felt ever since he said that final goodbye. And there he was, the actual John Watson- very alive, very there, and very drunk.
Sherlock glared down into the street and watched as Lestrade (out of nowhere) climbed out of the cab and helped John up from his tumble out of the taxi. The inexplicable bout of subtle jealous towards Lestrade melted almost immediately as Sherlock gathered that he'd been out on a date with his wife (who was obviously still unfaithful) and not out on the town drinking with John. A closer look at John dropped lead into his stomach. Immediately a line from Mycroft's file flashed across his mind:
"Dr. Watson seems to be slowly, almost mechanically, distancing himself from reality."
Sherlock shook his head and pushed that thought away, yet was unable to take his eyes off John as Lestrade attempted to pull him up off the ground. John was saying something, obviously very upset, but clearly sobering up by the second. He gathered himself to stand and keep a solemn expression focused on the door. This gave Sherlock the opportunity to see for the first time every sleepless night, broken cry, and shuttering silence which carved the man that stood below him. He saw with his own eyes what it looked like to take a home away from a man, and leave him with nothing. The John he held in his memory, smiling amazed at his intellect or playfully insulting him, was violently replaced with this too thin, shaking, hallow-eyed figure. This John-shaped man had tears in his jacket, gravel in his hair and notable stains on his once perfect jumper. His shirt read unchanged in days, and his shoulders said sleeping on a crappy mattress, possibly a couch.
After a few words exchanged between Lestrade and John, Lestrade patted him on the back, and climbed into the taxi. Sherlock couldn't help but miss Lestrade as well, and felt a twinge of worry somewhere repressed in his chest for the next time he'd be able to see his friend again. But at least John was still there, frozen like a statue before the door. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing there, but judging on the state of intoxication, Lestrade's obvious recent presences in John's evening, the hour at night, and the unprepared look in John's face, it was not a planned visit. The fact that John clearly had accidentally rattled off their old address and now stood so obviously horrified at his mistake dug a piercing little cavity into Sherlock's iced heart.
For a brief moment Sherlock imagined how wild John would look if he were to simply walk out that front door and back into his life. The look on his face would almost be worth the risk it would mean. Almost. Shaking that thought away as well, his momentary smile dropped quickly as he watched with growing horror as John made his way up to the entrance. The doctor paused and put his hand against the door, his eyes shut and head down. Sherlock knew he should be hurrying to get out of there before John saw him (obviously) or at least to hide. But he couldn't pull himself away. Instead he raised his own hand up to the window and froze in a mirroring position, feeling an unexplainable connection. He felt deep down as if for the first time he had made a real connection with John. It was an unsettling thing, and not something he felt comfortable with welcoming. He was getting dangerously close to failing his mission.
John broke the union and pushed the door forward, entering the house.
"Hell," Sherlock whispered, and rushed into action.