John Watson and the Sociopath

Flashback

Hi guys! So this story used to have a story line. it still does, but there isn't an ending I'm building up to or anything. this is more of just a "I feel the urge to write so I'm going to update." instead of an actual story. thank you for reading!
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*1 year after Sherlocks "death"*

I'm awoken by my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand. Groaning, I sit up and pull it towards me. I quint at the bright screen in my dimly lit bedroom.

-incoming call from John Watson-

I slide to accept, pressing the phone to my ear and laying back down in bed.
"Hello?" I mutter, attempting to hide my annoyance.
"Hellooooo," I hear. I open my eyes and look at my phone screen, confused.
"John? Is that you?" I ask.
"Yeah, Gregory Lestrade, of course it's me," John slurs.
I screw my eyes shut, pinching the bridge if my nose. "How drunk are you?" I ask.
"I've got three empty bottles of vodka and I don't know how I got here."
I sigh, climbing out of bed and holding my phone between my shoulder and ear so I can get dressed. "I'll come get you, where are you?"
"The cemetery."
I freeze. "Alright buddy I'll be there soon, don't move okay?"
John agrees and I hang up, rushing around and getting ready before dashing out the door.

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The grass crunches under my feet as I run through the cemetery gate. Dew soaks the bottoms of my pants, but I keep running. I reach the section of the graveyard where I have visited many times and look around, panting.
Sitting atop our old friend's grave is a blond man with a gun between his teeth.
"John?" I call out hesitantly, not wanting to startle him. He glances at me, and in the light of the lamppost I see tears on his cheeks and vomit on his shirt. I walk slowly towards him, hands out in front of me as a gesture of peace. John sobs and the gun falls out of his hand onto the ground.
I run forward, kicking the gun out of reach and grabbing John before he has the chance to try to move. He shorter man claws at my jacket, taking fistfuls and then releasing it. He sobs into my shoulder, and I let him, feeling myself fall apart as well.
"The stupid ass..." John whispers into my shoulder.
"I know, I know..." I mumble.
John continues cursing and crying into my shirt, and I let him. I'm crying as well, and I have to keep reminding myself that I'm here to comfort John, not be comforted.
We sit for a long time, and as the sun rises over the gravestones, John is asleep. I carry him to my car, and put him in the passenger side. I turn the key in the ignition, jumping to turn down the radio as One Direction music fills the car. I don't want to wake John up.
As I drive, I look over at the man next to me. This is probably to first time he's slept in ages, judging by the bags under his eyes. He has also lost a ton of weight; his cheekbones are hollowed out. That was probably why it was so easy to carry him.
When I reach his new apartment, the opposite side of the town from Baker Street, I carry him up the stairs and grab his key from his pocket. I put him into bed and turn to leave.
"Thank you." I could've sworn I heard Sherlocks voice as a whisper, but when I turn around, all I see is John passed out scrawled over his bed. I shake my head and head out, hoping this is the last of the drunk phone calls for a while.