John stepped in the room and looked around. His face held the slightest hint of a long day, coupled with a disturbing scene in the room prior to this and one self-proclaimed Sociopath getting just a bit too excited to see him. Really, was he needed? Did Sherlock care at all? Or was he just a useful tool, a servant-boy to the princely detective, there to do his every bidding?
He sighed as he shook his head, fighting back the doubt and the prickling behind his eyes. This isn't the first time Doctor Watson had these doubts. He had them nearly every time he was on a case that he couldn't do anything on; every time Sherlock called him urgently to ask him for his phone, or a pen; every time he was around the infuriating, gorgeous enigma. The more the little things accumulated, the more useless he felt, and he was almost certain Sherlock knew. At least, he liked to think he knew, so he wouldn't have to tell him.
He was almost so lost in his thoughts he ran into a lamp in the corner of the room. John started and blinked, then looked closer at it. It was an old oil-lamp, lit, blazing along merrily, but something seemed…off, slightly. Maybe it was the smell permeating the air, a faint, indistinct odor. Or maybe he was going paranoid. Either way, Sherlock (oh Sherlock of course he'll solve the case easily and then we'll go home and it's back to perfection and uselessness) should look at this.
"Sherl—"
Then it hit him. A horror beyond simple fear, sheer terror gripped him tightly from the inside out, writhing around in his intestines and making a home in his brain. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to do something, anything!
"John!"
And then he felt himself hit the ground, a weight on top of him, heavy and unyielding, but not hurting. Still, it took a minute of thrashing before he realized it was Sherlock himself, concern etched across every feature.
"—alright?"
And he's talking. Focus, John.
"Are you alright? John!"
"I…Sherlock, what was that?"
"What?"
"Why did you tackle me?"
Safer territory, this. Better than asking what anything else was, and he was so addled it seemed like a perfect response.
"John, you were trembling and shouting my name, and you were rigid as stone. Something in that room was messing with your head—"
"Sherlock, were you worried about me?"
Sherlock's eyes locked back on John's from their previous state, that being darting all around the room as if there was something there.
"…Of course I was."
"Why? Because I'm convenient for you?"
John flinched at the harsh words even as he said them; he hadn't meant that to come out. Great. Just great, Watson.
"What? No, John, you're here because I want you to be here. You're my friend. There is no one else on this earth that comes close to you. Any thoughts that you may be inadequate are utter rubbish and you should banish them from your mind immediately."
John was stunned into silence, and meekly took Sherlock's hand as the other offered, pulling them both up. Sherlock turned to look in the room, a cloth over his mouth at John's insistence, and because of that, John nearly missed Sherlock's last words on the subject: the words that always brought a smile to his lips, his heart already so much lighter than before.
"Besides, I'd be lost without my blogger."