He'd been hoarding this bottle for a while, waiting for a good occassion to break it open, but today... well, it hadn't been a good day. He didn't understand this place, and he hated the waiting and the uselessness, and he missed Holmes. Good God, did he ever miss Holmes. He felt broken and useless and half a man without him, and he would have given his own right arm to have him back. The grief had been enough, too much, and he needed the numbing of alcohol, the gentle buzz of chemicals to quiet the agony of his mind, and he'd poured himself a drink.
Watson savoured the burn of the alcohol, and he leaned back in his chair staring at the ceiling, lost in memory. At first he found himself humming, and then outright singing, for no reason except that he'd been thinking of a violin and suddenly couldn't stand the silence. He couldn't play an instrument to save his life, but he could carry a tune, and with the unselfconciousness that came of being slightly intoxicated, Watson belted out Gilbert and Sullivan in the direction of the ceiling.