We All Fall Down

Drink It All Away

Sherlock and all of the characters belong to BBC.  All I own is the storyline.  Enjoy!

Doctor John Watson sat in his armchair, staring at the empty space of his best friend.  His hands folded in his lap, his vacant gaze unbreakable.  A million thoughts ran through his head in muffled screams, like an explosion in slow motion.  His best friend was dead.  There was nothing he could do about it.  All he could do was sit, and try not to let the sea of loss overwhelm him.  It was already threatening to pull him under.

 “How could you, Sherlock?”  His voice broke, and he stood, unable to bear the sight of the lonely room any longer.  He limped over to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of whiskey.  He didn’t bother pouring it into a glass.  What was the point?

He took a large swig from the glass bottle, tossing the cap to the floor where it clattered.  The flat was once again enveloped in a silence so complete that it almost seemed to whisper “Sherlock is gone.”  It was unrelenting, a pressure forcing down on John as if gravity had suddenly became much stronger.  John struggled to breathe evenly, taking another long drink of the burning liquid.  He was almost panting and the alcohol wasn’t helping the way it should.  John tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but it refused to go away.

“YOU SELFISH BASTARD!” John shouted, slamming a fist through a wall.  There was a thud as he far from gently rested his head against the wall.  He tried to breathe properly, tried to drown out his emotions.  He tipped back his head for another gulp of whiskey, only to stop himself with the bottle resting against his lips.  He stared at the tiny holes for a few seconds before another wave of fury came crashing into him.

“WAS THIS ALL SOME GAME FOR YOU?!  WAS IT?!”  A few tears trailed down John’s face, and he sobbed brokenly.  “ARE YOU REALLY THAT HEARTLESS?!”  He took several drinks from the bottle.  It was half full when he got it out, but now it felt much emptier.  He put it close to his face and studied it.  Only about a fourth of it was left.  He snarled angrily at the liquid.  It wasn’t numbing everything.  It wasn’t doing the job it needed to be doing.

He shoved his fist through the wall again, spewing out a stream of curses at the bottle.  He slid down the wall, his fiery anger dissolving into a less acceptable ache in his chest.  “You’re better than this, Sherlock.  This is all some trick.  Some trick that nobody finds funny but you.”  He knew it for a lie, but it was better than just accepting the truth.  That Sherlock Holmes was dead.

A knock came from nearby.  “John?” Mrs. Hudson called out warily.  His eyes snapped up to her as she entered the room, finally beginning to feel ever so slightly fuzzy.  He took another swig and plastered a fake smile on his face.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”  He ignored the unpleasantly scratchy sound of his voice.

“I heard shouting.  Are you okay, dear?”  Worry etched her features.  Even John, in his somewhat fuzzy state, could tell that she had been crying.

“Does it look like I am okay, Mrs. Hudson?” he asked harshly.  Mrs. Hudson went silent.  She took a few small steps back.

“I just came to check on you.”  She was obviously trying to hold back tears.  “I’ll just leave you until you’re willing to talk.  Call if you need anything.”

She turned and started out the door, an unmistakable sniff as she reached a hand up to wipe away a stray tear.  John stood, the alcohol suddenly hitting him all at once.

“Mrs. Hudson….  I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Hudson turned and took a step closer, most likely to hug him.  John also stepped closer, allowing her a small embrace.  She sobbed into his shoulder and he rubbed her back gently.  As a doctor, it was his job to take care of people.  It came naturally.

When Mrs. Hudson backed away, she looked down at John’s leg.  He didn’t even notice.

 “I’m just a shout away, dear.”  She said with a small smile, patting John on the shoulder without the scar from the bullet.  She turned and walked out.  John watched her go before returning to his chair and slumping down in it, drinking more of the whiskey.  Maybe he could drown out the outside world.