John Watson was a soldier. Some people said he was brave. Some people said he was a clever doctor, that he was nice and polite.
John Watson needed war and danger and the sharp scent of risk. And after Afghanistan he had to search for it again. He did search for it, a long time, thirsty for the thrill of the fight.
And then he found it. In a man called Sherlock Holmes. Jon was absorbed by him, that powerful personality, that brilliant mind. He completely and utterly fell in love with him, his wonderful man.
And he realized something. All the people were right. He indeed was kind and brave and polite. John had always thought of these attributes as positive. But not anymore. He was absolutely average. Dull. And all of a sudden, he wanted to be different. Desperately.
Special, special for Sherlock, special like he was, special in some way. Extraordinarily smart or beautiful or talented, just something. But he wasn't. He was the most ordinary, boring, normal person. He was "kind". In other words, he was nothing. He knew that he meant something to Sherlock, of course he did, but what he craved was to be the centre in the mind of the stunning detective. He was aware that he would never be the focus, would never be able to catch his attention like equals, Moriarty or Irene.
The reality of his life was cruel, he was near the incredible madman, lived in the same flat, spent most of his time with him, but wasn't allowed to touch him. It wasn't enough. He'd thought it would be. Being his best friend, he most important person in his life, even if that was less than he could get from anyone else. That maybe he could live with these feelings, that roar inside his chest every damn time he so much as looked at him or the almost irresistible urge to brush Sherlocks sharp cheekbones with his own fingertips. But he couldn't, he needed more.
It wasn't enough.
He wasn't enough.
And that was the problem.
The final problem.
His final problem.