Chapter Text
After leaving the wedding Sherlock walked around aimlessly for over an hour. He had no one to go home to anymore, and he really wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of going back to an empty flat. That’s all it was now- just a flat. Home was where John Watson was. And he’d spent the last two years of his life trying to protect his home, only to discover it had become someone else’s.
He’d done his best to look happy at the wedding because he knew how much it would hurt John if he’d acted like, well… like Sherlock. He had avoided deducing the guests, done his best to make up for the insults, and generally tried to be more pleasant. Each word that came out of his mouth and each expression that crossed his face was agonised over beforehand. It was exhausting.
When everyone had started crying during his speech he had worried that he’d said something wrong, but John’s hug reassured him that he hadn’t done it wrong after all. The guests were simply crying because they were emotional. Sentiment.
Sherlock was quite proud of himself for his performance at the wedding. That is up until he deduced Mary’s pregnancy. He’d had his suspicions; of course- he was the world’s only consulting detective after all- but he didn’t want to say anything until he was certain. In retrospect he now realised he’d kept his suspicions to himself so that he could get used to the idea of completely losing John. After all, why would he need him anymore?
Well you’re hardly going to need me around now that you’ve got a real baby on the way.
The fact that neither John nor Mary had denied that fact hurt more than he could have imagined. No one would ever choose Sherlock Holmes over anyone else, much less over starting their own family.
John was clearly beyond happy, as was Mary. Sherlock knew exactly how they felt. It was the same way Sherlock himself had felt after he realised how much John meant to him. The rush and excitement and joy of having someone by your side unconditionally. Someone who complements you in every way.
But it was all over now. At least, for Sherlock.
The realisation hit him right after delivering the news about the baby. He felt what little happiness he had left slip away. He was going to lose John, and there was no way to get him back.
So he put on a brave face for as long as he could. Made sure John and Mary danced, made sure no one noticed anything that might give away the news, and then he turned around to find himself surrounded by people, but utterly alone.
There had been a split second when he thought he might not have to put on a brave face after all, but the relief was swept away as soon as he realised that Janine was dancing with someone else; someone he had helped her pick over him, just like he had let John pick Mary over him when he left.
He didn’t want John to know how much it was hurting him. It wouldn’t be fair to ruin his ‘big day’ as Mrs Hudson had so cheerfully put it. So he turned around and walked away; unable to keep up the pretence anymore, unable to keep the pain away from his expression.
I mean, who leaves a wedding early? So sad.
Her words reverberated in his head as he left. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep John to himself. The fact that John had only settled down after Sherlock’s ‘death’ made him wonder if what had been stopping that from happening before was the detective’s presence. Was the only reason John and Mary had managed to stay together the fact that Sherlock hadn’t been there to ruin yet another of John’s relationships?
Maybe he should have stayed gone.
The thought had crossed his mind more times than he liked to admit. He’d been eager to return to London at first but once he saw how everyone had moved on without him he felt out of place.
So he went to the only place that still made sense. The place where he’d built a home for himself. And even though it felt like half of it had been stripped away, Sherlock still held on to the memories they had created there.
He walked into 221 Baker Street and slowly made his way up the stairs. He was feeling lethargic and, if he was honest with himself, a little bit depressed.
Once he stumbled into his- no longer his and John’s flat, he thought with a pang- he collapsed on the sofa without even taking off his coat. He sat and stared off into the distance for a few minutes before deciding to search the kitchen for something to drink, and this time he wasn’t looking for tea.
He couldn’t stop all the thoughts in his head and he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it for very long. He felt sadness and loneliness gripping him and desperately search for a way to curb these feelings. He knew what it would take, but he didn’t want to go down that road again, even though he knew it would lead to blissful oblivion.
Contrary to what most people seemed to think, he hadn’t spent many of his teenage years doing drugs because he was bored. But to avoid yet another hit to his sobriety he decided that the bottle of scotch he’d found in the kitchen would have to do.
He opened the bottle, poured himself a drink before closing it again, and then downed it all in one go.
It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough to put a stop to all the thoughts assaulting his mind. All the months spent living with John. All the months spent away trying to get back to him. And now all the months he would spend alone.
Open. Pour. Close. Drink
Again.
And again.
And again.
It wasn’t long before he lost count of how much he’d had, but that still didn’t quell the feeling of loneliness. His mind had decided that now would be a good time to wonder how the wedding was going. Were John and Mary still dancing? Were they hidden away from everyone so they could be alone? Had they left already?
It didn’t matter in the end. John had Mary. Mary had John. And Sherlock had no one.
He discarded the empty glass and simply picked up the bottle, taking a long swig. He screwed his eyes shut as it burned its way through him. He hoped it would eat away at the memories.
Getting up, he stumbled into the kitchen. It was only when he set the bottle down on the counter that he realised his hand was shaking.
He tried to tell himself that it was the alcohol. Or the insomnia. Or even the rising panic he was feeling. But deep down he knew what it was. The words post-traumatic stress disorder floated around in his head and he tried to shake them away.
Clearly he hadn’t had nearly enough to drink if he could still think clearly or at least about as clearly as the average person. So he searched the kitchen again for anything he could, now that the bottle of scotch was nearly empty. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he couldn’t decide, he found another bottle.
He downed the last of the first bottle before opening the second and taking it back to the living room with him. This time he decided to do away with the glass altogether and simply sat in front of the sofa taking drink after drink.
Eventually his mind fell blessedly quiet.
His head lolled to the side, his legs contorted between the sofa and the table, and he watched detachedly as the tremor in his hand worsened.
He couldn’t bring himself to care. Not about the tremor, not about the outfit he was crumpling up, not about the awful hangover he would no doubt have tomorrow morning.
After a few moments he felt his eyes fall shut and decided not to fight it. What was the point after all? There was nothing he could do today to change what was happening. Hell, there was nothing he could do tomorrow or any day after that.
Well, it’s the end of an era, isn’t it?