Let Me Help You

Summary: In "The Cardboard Box" Holmes seemed very disturbed when they left Lestrade and Mr. Browner. I thought he needed a little fluff, and he and Watson took this a slightly different way. Watson POV.

Warnings: Depression, mentions of violence, references to suicide, past minor character death. There is angst and a little fluff.

I kept stealing glances at my companion on our journey back to Baker Street, but he was still and silent, brooding. This last case affected him greatly, moreso than any I have seen in quite some time. It is rare that a case will affect him thus, and when it does I notice his frequent glances towards that damnable Morocco case.

"Holmes," I said as we settled by our chairs by the fire, "What about this case affected you so badly?"

Grey eyes glanced at me before their owner returned them to the fire. Holmes seemed reluctant to answer, but after a small sigh he began to speak.

"This entire case would have never occurred except for the petty jealousy of a scorned woman," Holmes said, quietly and without removing his eyes from the fire. "Simply because she was unable to have the man she wanted, Miss Cushing resolved to make her younger sister miserable, planting suspicions against her husband in her head. The man turns to drink, disgusting the wife and leading her to seek other companionship, which leads to the death of her and her lover, and sends the husband to gaol or to the rope. And all because Mr. Browner chose the younger sister instead of the middle one. Tell me Watson, what is the point to this circle of misery and violence?"

I sat, slightly stunned and unsure of how to respond. I too had been appalled by the sister's actions, but the rest of the crime had rather neatly swept the starting details from my mind.

When I gave no answer, Holmes looked at me, the slight smile on his lips attempting to mask the despair in his eyes. I could see the beginnings of one of his horrible 'black moods' setting in, and I desperately cast about for something to distract him.

Before I could suggest something, although I hardly know what I would have said, Holmes rose. "I think I will retire Watson. Alone," he added when I rose to follow.

I sank back in my seat, murmuring a reply to his goodnight absentmindedly. Ever since our relationship evolved, there has scarce been a night we have not spent at least partly together. To stay together all night would be madness, but Holmes would usually follow me to my room, where we occasionally engaged in carnal pursuits, and he would sleep beside me for several hours. He would steal back to his own room before dawn so as to avoid detection, yet he has always intimated that he slept best when we were together. Now, he is in one of his black moods and wishes to be left alone.

I cast my eyes toward my desk, thankful to see that the Morocco case still rests there. Settling more comfortably into my chair, I debated the ways to break Holmes out of his melancholy. I rarely know what to try to help him, as my own outlook is rather different from his. He sees me as the eternal optimist, and he has more than once pointed out that my beliefs border on naivety at times.

Standing, I made my way to his bedroom, opening the door and slipping inside. I paid no attention to the criminals adorning the walls and only absently noted that he hadn't started a fire on my way to the bed. He was curled underneath his bedclothes, his back to the door and me. He made no sign that he had heard me, or that he was even awake, but I knew he was. There was too much tension in his thin frame for him to be sleeping.

"Let me help you Holmes," I murmur, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting a hand on his back. He's shaking, trembling violently with the force of his suppressed emotions, and I knew there had to be something else bothering him. No case had ever affected him thus.

"You know that I am French, on my mother's side," Holmes said, his voice strained yet steady.

"Yes, you mentioned that once before, when you spoke of art in the blood taking the strangest forms," I murmured, trying to figure out where he was heading with this. Holmes could change topics rapidly, and often I would miss the chain that connected the different topics.

"There wasn't only art in her blood," was Holmes' dark reply. "It is a reason that Mycroft should be thankful he has inherited more of our father's tendencies than our mother's."

"You take after your mother?" I ask cautiously. Holmes rarely spoke of his family. I knew next to nothing about his family, save the little I knew about his brother Mycroft.

"Yes," Holmes replied, turning over and piercing me with his grey eyes. They were filled with despair and resignation. "She went quite mad, in the end. She had never been quite right after Mycroft was born, and it only got worse after I was born. She went downhill quickly, and nothing Father did could stop her from taking her life."

"Holmes," I breathed. I hadn't known…he had never mentioned this. "What happened?"

"She was subject to the same black moods that affect me," Holmes replied, his eyes distant. "They got worse, after my birth. The doctors kept telling Father that she would get better in time, but she never did. One day the fit struck her and never left. I was three, Mycroft ten. She was withdrawn, hardly leaving her rooms, or her bed for that matter. Father sat with her often, as did Mycroft and I, but she never seemed to notice. In the end, she hung herself with her bedclothes, while Mycroft and I were with our tutors and Father was working. I found her when I went to ask her about lunch."

"Oh Holmes," I murmured, sliding down beside my best friend and lover and drawing him close to me. He rested his head on my good shoulder, placing his ear over my heart. "I am so sorry."

Holmes shrugged, although I could tell he wasn't as disinterested as he appeared to be. "It was long ago Watson. I have accepted it."

"But you worry that the same thing will happen to you," I said, suddenly seeing what had upset him so. Violence without cause, the onset of a black mood, the worry that he won't escape from it. Perhaps he always worries when he feels the mood strike, but this time it struck too close for comfort. "The anniversary is soon?" I may not be the world's only consulting detective, but I have learned a few things living with him.

"Yes, to both questions," Holmes murmurs, voice slightly muffled by my skin. "In a few days."

"I won't let that happen to you Holmes," I said softly, pressing a kiss into his messy hair, no longer slicked back with brilliantine.

"Where would I be without my Boswell?" Holmes asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

"The same place I would be without my Sherlock," I answer, pressing another kiss to his dark locks, such a contrast to his name. "Sleep love. Everything should look brighter in the light of a new day." Holmes didn't answer, but he didn't need to. I held him until he fell asleep, my mind whirling. Eventually, I felt the pull of sleep and promised myself that tomorrow I would talk to Holmes more about this. For now, he was in my arms, safe from everyone who wanted to hurt him. Even himself.