John had been feeling it more and more often lately. He tried not to, obviously, but he couldn't help it. There was no denying it. He was useless when it came to solving cases. Useless when it came to most things these days. He couldn't deduct like Sherlock, he just stood there like an idiot, he was an idiot, he couldn't even compare to Lestrade and the others. Occasionally he'd input his medical opinion, but really, Lestrade had his own men and women to do that. They didn't need him. He was just a tag along, there to stroke Sherlock's ego, not that it needed it.
Nobody needed him any more. Not even the surgery, they just kept him on out of sympathy and the shattered remains of Sarah's affection, but that was waning.
The limp and the tremor in his left hand returned. Sherlock couldn't understand it. It was frustrating. Maddening. It had to be linked to this inexplicable depression John had acquired, but beyond that Sherlock had no clue. This was why he didn't deal with emotions. They didn't make sense.
He could work out everything, but this. This one impossible mystery eluding him: the mystery of John Watson. The danger was still there, the adrenaline. Everything that had made the limp and the tremor go away in the first place. It simply made no sense. This was unbearable. Sherlock couldn't drag John around London chasing criminals if he was limping. What happened if he got stuck on his own without John to help? He had to find some way to make it go away again. This was his new primary case. The only thing that mattered. Making John well.
DI Greg Lestrade noticed. The promising partnership between Sherlock and John was slowly crumbling before their eyes and nobody could work out why. Not even, it seemed, Sherlock. Something was wrong with John; that much was certain, but precisely what or why they did not know. Greg was worried. He cared about John, quite apart from the remarkable positive effect he had had on Sherlock, he genuinely liked the affable ex-soldier. Everybody did. It was almost impossible not to.
John and him had become good friends over the months, and went out for drinks down the pub, when they got the time. They even managed to (shock and horror) talk about things not related to Sherlock or work, but now those outings had dried up. John always made his (polite) excuses. He still asked, though, call it a desperate hope, but always by text, he couldn't bear the smile, the sad, polite smile.
Mycroft even considered subtly getting a psychologist for Doctor John Watson, the best there was, of course. He quickly dismissed this thought for two reasons. The first: John Watson had a bad history with psychologists. Trust issues, if he remembered correctly, no doubt these would be worsened by his current problems. And secondly, if Sherlock ever found out, and he undoubtedly would work it out, Sherlock would never forgive him. It would be even worse than the time he had forced Sherlock into the rehabilitation centre. Doctor Watson, though he did not know it had quite a hold over his little brother.
It was a strange phenomenon. Mycroft cared for John Watson, in his own way, not least because he was good for his brother. And Mycroft cared for his brother more than either brother would ever like to admit. Mycroft didn't care for many people. He and Sherlock were similar in that regard, and John Watson was fortunate in that regard, to be cared for by both Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had a lot of power, and he would use that power to protect the people he cared about.
Mrs Hudson worried for her boys. She worried for them normally, of course (the messes they got into); some rusty maternal instinct had fired off when she had met them and she had made it her mission to look after them, even though she always insisted she 'wasn't their housekeeper' (and nobody ever believed her). Now though, John was spiralling down some dark rabbit hole and Sherlock was doing his very best to follow him in some misguided attempt to save him and Mrs Hudson had no idea what to do.
John sunk further, and the people around him worried. All the while he fought, resisted. Never would he turn to drink, though the temptation was strong. He had seen what it could do, not only to his sister, but to far too many of his patients. The desire though, it nagged at him. The desire to blow his brains out: to forget everything and be sent to absolute bliss. To be unaware of his misery for even a short amount of time. He knew that was why Harry had started drinking, though God knows why she had started drinking: when she had started drinking she had had everything and the drink had taken everything away from her.
He felt weak, hopeless, and that made him even more depressed, which only made him feel weaker, and more hopeless. It was a cruel cycle and one he felt he could never escape.
The first time John got drunk he was in the middle of London. Sherlock wasn't anywhere around. He eventually stumbled back to Baker Street with a huge hangover feeling entirely beyond repair. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide the facts from Sherlock. He never could. For the first time he hated Sherlock for that, though he knew he could never truly hate Sherlock. John entered. Sherlock took one look at him and snapped.
"What's going on with you, John?"
John stood stone still, with no idea what to say. There was no way he could tell Sherlock the truth, but he looked and sounded so genuinely worried … panic stricken. Did Sherlock really care about him that much?
No, don't be stupid. He's just annoyed his blogger isn't behaving properly. Or he's acting. He can act so very well.
"Please … Just tell me,"
But Sherlock never says please.
"I can't work it out."
Ah. That was it. He was a puzzle. I'm sorry Sherlock; I can't help you with this one. This is one of my secrets that has to be kept secret.
"I want to help you."
But John didn't tell.
John didn't drink again. Never mind the fact that he was a doctor and knew all the medical consequences of becoming an alcoholic, he had hated the hangover his little drinking session had given him, no matter what the benefits of getting drunk out of his mind.
After John's drinking session Sherlock did what he rarely ever did (but this was a rare case) and asked Lestrade for help. John was clearly struggling with his problems and was now experimenting turning to drink. Lestrade had helped him when he was coming off the drugs; it was logical to assume he could also help John, although he was certain John's situation wasn't the same as his. Sherlock's brain, in Sherlock's own words, needed stimulation, and the drugs provided that, so he and Lestrade reached an agreement. Sherlock would take the cases Lestrade was finding too difficult, and Sherlock would stay off the drugs.
It had often been noted in Scotland Yard that one of Detective Inspector Lestrade's greatest strengths, as well as being a brilliant Detective, was the ability to get even the most reluctant of witnesses talking. That was what John needed. Not Sherlock's deductive skills, which at the moment weren't deducting much.
And so Greg talked. And talked. And talked, but nothing he said or did could convince John to voice his problem. He tried everything. He even tried telling John that talking would help to which John replied that Greg sounded like his, "Bloody therapist," which from the way he said it was pretty obvious was not a compliment.
In fact, Greg talking to him only seemed depress John further, which frustrated and even upset Greg to the extreme. He liked John, and it was driving him mad that he couldn't help.
Then it struck him.
He was talking to John.
But Sherlock wasn't.
Sherlock had asked him to help because he knew Lestrade was good at this, good at talking to witnesses, had managed to talk to Sherlock, negotiate with Sherlock when he was in the height of his addiction. He was good and Sherlock wanted the best for his best friend, thought he wasn't it and so was staying back and letting Lestrade take over.
But John didn't know that. He thought that his best friend, the man he was practically in love with if only the two stubborn idiots could see it, had abandoned him when he was at his lowest.
He had to tell Sherlock.