John was sixteen at the time and had returned home from school a little late. His day had been enjoyable enough for him to be happy, but not spectacular enough to remember the details. He was just pleased that, for the first time in months, he had been able to let go and enjoy life.
Then he walked through his front door. His mother was on the phone, which sat on a small table just inside the door, and didn't acknowledge his return. The first word he heard was 'hospital', and that was when he had lost his happiness.
John sat at the computer for twenty minutes, turning the music up to resist eavesdropping on his mother's conversation, every possibility running through his mind. The internet couldn't distract him. His friend asked what was wrong and he began to hyperventilate, quickly logging out and jogging up the stairs to his room. As soon as that door was closed at his back, he was curled around himself on the bed, struggling to breathe and without the energy to wipe away the tears. He already knew what had happened. It had happened before. He hoped above all else that his parents would be truthful this time, instead of lying and telling him the truth of it two weeks later, well after his cousins.
He honestly wasn't sure of the time when he heard the footsteps on the stairs, making him sit up instantly and clear his face. He picked up a book, superficially pretending that he was unaware of everything that had happened. His mum came in, and her expression said it all.
She sat on the bed and, to his pain and joy, told him everything. She had received a call from Harry's ex while she was at work; they were on the way to the hospital, they thought everything was going to be okay but could she come to meet them? On the way, her hands shook so much around the wheel that she had to pull over. John's grandmother went with her in the end, to keep her company. In the waiting room they saw John's aunt, a receptionist who had missed the whole thing, and they sat there. A morbid little family reunion, with Harry's ex slightly off to one side ranting out her apologies. Physically speaking, Harry was okay; she had had enough sense to stop herself before the second pack of pills, and called her ex for a drive to the hospital. It was the most intelligent thing she had done in months.
John wasn't ashamed for crying; he had every right. His mother never said outright that Harry had tried to die. Only mentioned the pills, skirted around the edges; she knew that John had guessed and didn't have the strength to say it out loud. They clung to one another.
Harry returned home, and managed to cling to that renewed thirst for life. Barely. She drank, much more than she should, and she carved two shallow rings around her lower arm. She didn't sleep much, and neither did any of the others in the Watson household. They were all too terrified of losing her. John's mother slept with a hand around her phone to make sure she felt it should it alert her to a text, ready to jump out of bed and run to her daughter. On those nights she would literally just hold her, stopping her from moving or trying anything stupid. Harry would not listen to any reason. Everything alcoholic in the house was poured down the drain, regardless of the worth.
During all of this, John was exhausted and working towards his O Levels. He only mentioned what had happened once the next day, putting it as lightly and bluntly as possible in the hopes of purging it out of his mind, and regretted it when his friends cringed and changed the topic. He first learned how to go about life with a straight face during all of this.
Months later, they could go to bed without being terrified of what might happen. Harry was mostly sober, since the drink turned mildly upset into complete depression and paranoia – but the habit came back later, of course.
John himself didn't have much of a role to play in Harry's slow and exhausting road to recovery except for one thing. Harry refused to tell her little brother what was wrong at any given moment, and John was too scared of setting her off to mention it, but he started to hug her or squeeze her shoulder every time he saw her. Harry didn't have to ask and didn't always respond, but John's mother told him that Harry had told her how much she appreciated it. One night John was frantically writing an essay when he heard his name called from just behind him, a broken shadow of Harry's usual voice. John looked around and she was standing there, slouching, looking at him. Her eyes shone in the dark from the light from his monitor. He stood up, pulled her into his arms, and refused to let go.
If there was one thing John prided himself on, it was his empathy. It was why he became a doctor and how he became a good one. He could easily tell whenever Harry was upset, and constantly worried about her; truth be told, part of the reason he didn't live with her was that he knew he needed the sleep and time to get over his own issues. It was the same with his friends. And it was the same with, surprisingly more than anyone, Sherlock.
John had been typing up a blog post late at night in his armchair at 221B, chewing his lip as he tried to decide how best to word that the friendly pool boy was actually a cannibalistic necrophile, when Sherlock had called his name. He didn't sound so obviously broken as Harry had, and his eyes never shone quite like that. It was the set to his lips, the crease in his brow, the quiet question of his voice that had John setting his laptop off to one side and walking briskly over to Sherlock. He held him tightly, and Sherlock didn't reciprocate. John wasn't surprised; it was the first time they had hugged, possibly the first time Sherlock had been hugged, and as far as Sherlock was concerned it was completed unprompted. He thought he was good at hiding his emotions, the fool.
"John?" he asked after a moment, clearly confused.
"Shut up," John muttered. "I'm here, you know,"
And he knew that he could never leave. It wasn't the same as with Harry. If Sherlock decided to kill himself, he would be too calculating and too stubborn to fail. But John had hope.
Sherlock was also too vain to let his brilliant brain go to waste.