ruin.

He oversleeps, missing a hand fracture repair surgery. Not just by a five-ten minute delay, but completely. He doesn’t wake up until the local chief physician, Mireille Voclain, shows up at his room, knocking -- well, more than once before he finally rouses. There’s no time to stuff the empty bottle of whiskey beneath the bed, before he stumbles to the door and opens it.

The look she gives him, pure pity, makes him want to sink beneath the floorboards. She asks him to grab a shower and meet her at her office an hour later.


-*-


“Well, John,” she says.

Very unprofessional of me, won’t happen again, completely understand if you need to report me to the GMC, of course, he manages, mostly on automatics.

“We’ve noticed a certain -- destabilisation of your engagement, since Dana was murdered,” Mireille continues, ignoring his attempts at responsiveness, “and we’ve become increasingly worried about your mental health in the aftermath. However, out of respect for the work you have done for the organisation, we have, perhaps mistakenly, tried accommodating you and show due regard for your integrity. However, I’m sure we can agree, this has gotten out of control and we may need to abort your involvement in the project for the time being, before something goes so wrong that a report to the GMC is our only remaining option.”

“So, you’re not going to report me,” he asks, voice flat, features blank.

“That we couldn’t procure a psychologist for you after what happened to Dana, despite your comprehensive involvement in her treatment leaves us with a part of the blame for the development of things,” she replies, “as does the fact that we didn’t force you to return home to England initially, I feel. We will take responsibility for that and as such, I feel there’s really no point in putting a stain on an otherwise brilliant career in medicine which may well continue for many years to come. If you get yourself sorted, of course.”

Of course, he concedes, staring straight ahead. His thoughts keep returning to the doctor who treated his injuries at Bastion, the man sitting down next to him on the third day, informing him that he wouldn’t be able to continue his service and for the sake of proper rehabilitation, they’d have to return him home to British soil. John had nodded and been very understanding, of course, of course while everything -- absolutely everything crumbled around him.

A bit like now, actually.


-*-


They get him on a plane the following day at nine hundred hours.


-*-


While he packs his things, he stays clear of the whiskey, though he’s got two unopened bottles hidden at the bottom of his closet. Instead he wraps them up in one of his long-sleeved t-shirts and adds that extra kilo to his gear.

He doesn’t write Sherlock. The man’s clever, he’ll figure it all out once he sees him, won’t he? It’ll be written on his face or whatever.

No need for redundant explanations.

No need.

arena.

Scheduled stopover in Madrid, four hour wait for his connecting flight to Heathrow.

John finds the nearest bar, any bar, really (this one’s called Arena, it’ll do), and takes a seat with a view of the shopping area. Lots of people, life. Ordering Scotch on the rocks, he watches the bartender drying off a glass, remembering suddenly -- or perhaps not so suddenly, the pubs his dad would frequent when John was still a kid. Dirty glasses cleaned up in the quarter of a minute.

He remembers having his service papers stamped veteran (status: invalided), leaving the base with a limp and a newly acquired hospital cane, two sentries saluting him like that would make any bloody difference.

The Scotch is a fine vintage, good quality, certainly beats the Jack Daniel’s he’s been drinking lukewarm in Sana’a. He sips his drink and doesn’t catch a single eye, not even the pretty brunette’s as she throws a long look in his general direction. Right now, he’s really nothing but the poster boy for a very effective anti-drinking campaign, he knows. Why pretend otherwise, why the hell bother?

It was sheer, dumb luck that prevented him from getting a patient killed while down there, that’s the lesson, right? Except, he failed anyway, let’s be real -- Dana reaped no actual benefits of him being clean and sober, did she? And, thinking about it, John has a hunch that neither did he, so clean and sober has to wait a few hours while he finishes this very good Scotch and perhaps orders a glass, if not two more, waiting for British Airways to get their act together.

Once he gets back to Baker Street, he’ll -- figure out a way to deal with this, all of this. Knowing Sherlock, he’s going to deduce him into the bloody ground upon the first visual and that’s good, that’s fine, he needs a little incentive to sort himself out as Voclain said, yes?

And Sherlock’s always been more than incentive enough.

Once the ice cubes have melted, John does an inelegant reenactment of bottoms up, emptying his glass before nodding at the bartender for a refill. Sherlock will be his incentive, sure, lovely, but Sherlock isn’t here right now, is he?

This Scotch and this bar and this quite tedious airport will have to act as stand-ins for the time being.