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John stared at the bottom of his empty glass.
He drank so much scotch that night that his vision had grown blurry and he felt like he was about to pass out from exhaustion. Truthfully, this had become a pretty regular occurrence for John.
The bottle only had a shot left, so he poured it into his glass and downed it in one painful gulp. He made a face and slammed the cup down so hard he was surprised it didn’t break.
He ran a hand through his hair as he yawned.
John pushed his chair back and stood up, about to find solace in the form of a mattress, but instead, there were four quiet knocks on the door to his flat.
“What the hell,” he muttered, checking the time.
It was well past midnight – in fact, it was nearing the time most people would consider an ungodly hour.
He stumbled to the door, bleary-eyed. John cursed as he tripped over an abandoned shoe that ended up in the middle of the floor. Angrily, he kicked it out of the way. He made it relatively unscathed to the door. John unlocked the door and swung it open.
Standing in front of him was the perfect Christmas gift.
“You’re alive,” John whispered brokenly.
John fell into Sherlock’s arms.
“Merry Christmas, John.”