Addiction IV
John had, eventually, grown better. Physically, for the most part, but he found himself smiling more often; found himself happier. He'd taken to keeping a tally. He'd never quite shaken that habit – even now, he had a journal for it underneath his bed in Baker Street. It helped when he felt overwhelmed, rather than... other means. He could look back and see how many things brought him joy at some point in his life – no matter how insignificant. And that would keep him grounded.
It had been a struggle, medical school. He could have gotten away with it; forging his own prescriptions or having someone else do it for him. He likely wouldn't have been discovered – not with the way everyone perceived him. But he never went through with it. Not once in all those years had he bounced back.
Afghanistan hadn't afforded him the slightest chance to even think about it. That was likely one of the few reasons he missed it so much. Didn't allow him time to dwell.
After Afghanistan, however, he'd given in. He felt tortured. Torpid. Tired. He relapsed. Became much worse than he had been as a young man – especially since he had the resources.
His invalidation, his past, his bulletwound, his limp...
He felt he needed it.
The medication.
The stimulation.
The distraction.
And he got it.
But when he found himself contemplating again, becoming sick again; sicker than he'd ever been before, he forced himself to stop. Nearly died in the process. Not that he'd cared much at that point.
And then he had met Sherlock Holmes.
At first, John had been... not quite irritated by him, but certainly baffled, at least in the beginning. But he could not resist the pull of him, in the end – stoic and cold, detached; an excellent case solver. Someone willing to allow him to tag along. That, in itself, was rare. Someone who didn't need to know his life story, but could seek it out if he so wished. He moved into the flat with him – London was all he really had left. And Sherlock Holmes was the ultimate distraction.
And it seemed that, to him, John Watson would be the same.
At first, John had been put off guard by Lestrade's 'drugs bust'. Hadn't caught on. Made a disbelieving comment or two. Regretted it afterwards, of course.
"You?" he had asked. Swallowed harshly. Didn't breathe.
"Shut up!" Sherlock had replied. That small remark had quieted John and they didn't mention it again, after that. But John had kept a closer eye on Sherlock from then on. He tried to keep them both occupied.
He begged Lestrade for a case, for paperwork, something.
John knew what addiction felt like. What it did.
And if one of them bounced back, so would the other. He wasn't prepared to let that happen.
John hadn't given a reason why, but Lestrade seemed to know. He acquiesced, giving John and Sherlock what he could when he could. John wasn't sure if Sherlock actually knew anything about his past. If he cared enough to find out. If he realized why there was no medication of any kind ever left in the flat. Why John didn't take anything, no matter how sick he got. He couldn't be sure.
But, in the end, it seemed he and Sherlock Holmes were much more similar than he'd originally thought.