Sherlock sluggishly opened his eyes. He thought he'd heard the front door open a few seconds ago, but when he scanned the room he could see nothing. He eyed the bottle in his hand, noting detachedly that what little was left in it had spilled on the floor.
He picked up the bottle so it wouldn't spill any further on Mrs Hudson's carpet before attempting to get up. It was harder than he'd imagined, but after a few minutes of struggling he managed to stand, albeit with a little help from the furniture.
What was he supposed to do now? Normally he would be out working a case or conducting an experiment or updating his blog. Now he didn't feel like doing any of those things. For the past few months he had devoted most of his time to planning the wedding down to the smallest detail. But now the wedding was over, and from now on Sherlock would have nothing to do with it. He was sure that John would no longer be able to accompany him on cases, even if he had said nothing would change.
What the hell am I doing? He thought to himself.
"What the hell are you doing?
He looked up to see John standing right in front of him.
"Oh god, not again," he groaned.
"What?" John questioned in an angry, clipped tone.
Sherlock slowly and dizzily walked over to his chair and sat down. His eyes were only half open and his words were slurring. "You always show up when it's most inconvenient, John," he half-heartedly complained.
Sherlock's recollections of John- he absolutely refused to call them hallucinations- had been getting progressively worse during his time away. He thought that after his return they would disappear, but they hadn't. He still saw and heard John when he wasn't there; his mind trying to fill in the gap his heart couldn't deal with.
He had to admit that this had been helpful at times though. Whenever he felt his grip on his sobriety slip John would always appear to pull him back from the edge. He knew that John hadn't really been there, and that at the end of the day Sherlock had ended up saving himself, but it was easier to think that someone else cared enough to stop him.
"I honestly thought that this would have stopped happening after Serbia, but I guess not," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.
John walked over determinedly and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders, staring intently at him. "Sherlock, what in the hell are you talking about?"
He shrugged his shoulder so that John would loosen his grip on him and stared back. "You know precisely what I'm talking about. After all, you're me," Sherlock giggled. "I'm talking about your little appearances every time I… how should I put it? Overdo myself."
Sherlock brought his hand up and started counting on his fingers. "First time was at Mycroft's house when I got drunk after I heard your little speech at my grave," he began, his words slurring more and more. "Then there was the first time I had a little slip up, and the time after that was when I did actually overdose." He looked up thoughtfully for a second. "I really shouldn't have done that. You wouldn't be pleased if you found out. Well, the real you anyway, you don't care. I don't." He shrugged nonchalantly. "After that I only remember Serbia. That was a hard one to forget," he reflected.
By now John had sat down in his own chair, opposite Sherlock. His face harboured a horrified expression.
Probably what John would look like if he ever did find out. Sherlock mused.
Now that Sherlock had finished talking John took a deep breath and sat forward, elbows on his knees. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and held it in his own. "Sherlock," he started calmly, "who do you think you're talking to?"
Sherlock scoffed. "I suppose technically I'm talking to myself, since you're not real."
John nodded, his suspicion confirmed. "Sherlock, I'm right here. I'm real."
"You can't be, you're at the wedding," Sherlock said decisively.
"No, I'm not. I came by after I realised you'd left by yourself," he said, "I tried calling you but you didn't answer. I got worried."
Sherlock still didn't believe him. The alcohol was clearly getting to him if he couldn't accept the fact that he was imagining John, just like so many other times.
Exhausted, he let his head loll to the side once again and closed his eyes. A long sigh escaped his lips. "You're never coming back to me," he said, with a grim smile on his face.
John was left speechless at what he had just witnessed. Sherlock truly believed he wasn't real. And he was completely aware of it, like it had happened before. Something which Sherlock himself had admitted.
He knew that Sherlock hadn't come back quite the same, but he'd never realised how broken his best friend really was.
After sitting in the quiet of Baker Street for about ten minutes John decided that the only thing he could do for Sherlock right now was get him to bed.
He stood in front of the detective, who was sleeping like the dead, and gently took off his coat and waistcoat. Once he managed to do that he manoeuvred Sherlock so that he could pick him up.
It wasn't easy, but it also wasn't nearly as hard as he'd expected it to be. Even though Sherlock was tall he was also incredibly thin, and much too light for a man his age and height. John cringed inwardly.
Setting one arm under his best friend's knees and the other under his neck John walked over to Sherlock's room and gently deposited him on the bed. After laying him down on his side and covering him up, he slipped out the door.
He was at a complete loss as to what to do now. He couldn't leave Sherlock like this. Not just because he'd been stinking drunk but because of his mental state as well. Sherlock was not okay. And if Sherlock wasn't okay, neither was John.
He had to do something.
He called Mary and explained the situation to her. John apologised profusely for leaving her alone on their wedding day but she cut him off before he could finish, telling him to stay with Sherlock until he was okay and even offering to bring over a change of clothes for John, knowing that he would be unwilling to leave Sherlock alone.
Sighing in relief John sat in his chair and wondered how he could even begin to deal with Sherlock.