Nine

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John woke with a splitting headache and a dull pain in his arm. His stomach was swirling and he felt like shit. What had happened? He looked up, squinting in the light. There was a half finished bottle of Vodka beside him, and his arm was painted with dried blood. There was a nasty looking cut underneath. He groaned and sat, his stomach lurching. Turning to the side, John gagged and dry heaved. He pushed himself up, grabbing the sink and throwing up into it. Shaking fingers turned the tap on, and he splashed his face.

Feeling slightly better, John made his way into the living room. There were at least seven empty bottles of beer on the ground, one smashed. His phone lay, dead, on the couch. He picked it up and plugged it in, hissing in pain as the cut on his arm brushed against the couch. He needed to clean and dress it. And fine something to help his headache. Damn hangovers.

John found the emergency first aid kit in the bathroom and used an alcohol wipe to clean the blood off the cut. Now that he could see it properly, he realised it wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Luckily, it was a clean cut, as if something had sliced it. There were no sticking plasters in the kit, so he crudely wrapped some gauze around it. Where were the painkillers? Maybe in the kitchen.

His phone had turned on by the time he got back to the couch. He frowned. A whole bunch on missed calls from Sherlock. Sherlock? Had he really called? Oh god, did John answer while he was drunk? John's face burned, even in the privacy of the flat. He unlocked the phone and pressed call on Sherlock's contact. Sherlock picked up before the first ring had ended. John was surprised. "Sherlock?" he asked.

"Oh god John, are you okay?" Sherlock's voice sounded strained and worried. John winced, pain pulsing through his head. 

"Please keep it down. I have a splitting headache." He massaged his temples. "What on earth happened? Why'd you try to ring me so much? Where are you?"

"You were drunk and you rang and I answered, and then you said you'd kill yourself and then, oh god John." Sherlock's voice got a pitch higher, and wavered. John frowned. 

"What? Sherlock, are you crying?" He bit his lip at the strangled sob that made its way through the phone. What the hell had happened to make Sherlock - the unfeeling shell of a person - cry? "Please don't cry." There was silence on the other end, save for a few deep breaths and a constant drone in the background.

"I thought you were dead," Sherlock whispered. John shook his head, despite knowing Sherlock couldn't see him. 

"I'm not. My phone was out of power. Sherlock, you need to tell me what I said. I woke up this morning on the kitchen floor with a splitting headache, a bottle of vodka and a cut on my arm."

"You called me, and I asked how much you had to drink. Then you threatened to kill yourself if I didn't come back and then you said you had a knife and I was begging you not to hurt yourself and then you were saying there was a lot of blood, and then you hung up." Sherlock spoke fast and unlike himself. John sighed. 

"You know I'd never kill myself." He rubbed his temples again, the headache still raging. "Where are you, anyway?"

"On the way back to you," Sherlock said. It dawned on John that the drone in the background was a car's engine. He sat down on the couch, switching the phone to his other ear. "

You're coming back? Really?" John couldn't wipe the smile from his face. "I thought you'd left me, Sherlock. I was so certain you'd 'died' again, and you were just disappearing." He laughed. Sherlock did too, on the other end. 

"I'm coming back. It was wrong to leave you."

John's phone beeped. He sighed. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to hang up now. My phone wasn't plugged in for all that long, it's still on low battery." There was no sound from Sherlock. 

"Okay, I guess I'll see you soon. Bye." John took the phone from his ear, pressing 'hang up'. He grinned to himself, feeling bubbly despite his ever raging headache. Rising from the couch, he went into the kitchen to find some painkillers.



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