John Watson, M.D. -
He never cries out, but his face shows that he is hurting. His eyes squeeze shut tight and his mouth opens in a silent scream. He shies away from my gentle stroke, nearly dropping off the edge in his efforts to let no one share his pain. In his ear I whisper words of comfort, trying to soothe him with my voice, but he only moans softly. Always, in the morning, he asks me why I look so tired, and I never tell him that I could not sleep and leave him to suffer alone. He does not understand that people care for him, doesn't understand that I care for him. Empathy for him is the limit to his ability, and his unwillingness to accept help and love is his undoing. I love this broken man, but I pity him.
I wish I had never met Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: I apologize if it's confusing, but it's as if John's writing a letter about when Sherlock sleeps. :)