Alcoholism is a danger. John's father had had a small problem with it. His sister managed to take that above and beyond expectations. While John had never shied away from it, pints with mates at the pub while watching rugby or catching up with army buddies passing through never an issue, he knew better than go for anything too hard.

Harry scared him one too many times. He'd seen first hand how it had driven people away from her. How it'd driven him away from her. And even now, when he might have needed her, especially after Sherlock's departure to the world of not so permanent death, he'd not thought of reaching out to her anyway and he very much doubted, after all this time, if she would even care what he was going through.

As Sherlock lifts him, John stirs. He's a solidly built man, no matter how small, and at a dead weight, certainly quite heavy. Sherlock's strength would likely amuse him.

Instead, the moment he's laying down, eyes that look brown from afar but are more like deep blue sapphire snap open.

"Sherlock--" John's face immediately sours. "What are you doing?"