Sometimes John was reminded that he was overqualified for his job as a clinic doctor. He had been a surgeon once - a damn good one - and should have been working in an actual hospital where he could actually be saving lives. The problem was, not many hospitals wanted to hire ex-army doctors who had PTSD and shaky hands. Never mind that his hands were perfectly steady when he needed them to be.

Years ago, the monotony of the clinic work hadn't bothered as much as it was bothering him now. As a broken soldier, it was the only job he could get, and during that time in which he had barely gotten back, he had been wracked by too many other things to worry about the boredom. Then, when it came to a time that he wasn't broken, he was saving lives by other means. With Sherlock Holmes.

Now that that part of his life had been at a stand still for two years, it was practically unbearable. Now the work wasn't only tedious, but it was without the purpose he had once used to balance it out with. Even with the famous detective back, if the previous crime scene had been any indication, John was no longer of any use when it came to catching criminals.

In fact, had John ever been useful in that regards? Had Sherlock actually needed him, or could the madman have continued to do what he loved without any assistance from him? After all, John thought bitterly, when Sherlock had truly needed to be saved, John hadn't been able to do a damn thing.

He hadn't been able to stop Moriarty from strapping the bomb on him, putting Sherlock in danger without any way of protecting him. He hadn't been able to stop Irene Adler from drugging Sherlock and beating him with a riding crop. He hadn't been able to stop the country from believing Moriarty's lies. And he sure as hell hadn't been able to stop Sherlock from taking the fall.

John wasn't sure when it had happened, when he had decided to talk the trolley here, but he ended up at the pub after work. With little conscious thought, he sat at the end of the counter and ordered a pint.

Thirty minutes after John had gotten off of work, twenty minutes after the time he should have arrived at the flat, he receive a text. Where are you? -SH

Peering at the text, John pondered about whether or not he should answer. When another pint appeared in front of him, it decided that for him. He set the phone aside and drowned his brokenness away.

It's far past the time you should be home. -SH Another text lit on his phone, but John ignored it entirely this time.

Answer your texts. -SH

Lestrade has a case. -SH

I need you. Hurry. -SH

What happened to you? - SH

There was a part of John, still himself after all that he had drank, that felt guilty about not responding. It was unlike him to ignore Sherlock like this, and he could just picture the man going out of his mind. Though he had a tendency of ignoring others, he didn't take to kindly to be the one that was ignored. Another part of him, however, was entirely affected by the alcohol and didn't care at all.

Two hours later, pleasantly numb without any of those painful thoughts that had weighed him down through the long hours of work, John pushed himself from the bar stool to stand. Uncoordinated, he fished through his pockets to find his wallet so he might pay, but was having more trouble than he should have had. He swayed on his feet, the room beginning to rock, threatening to put him on his backside, but strong arms had reached out to save him from further humiliation.

"Here," a rumbled baritone voice was close to his ear. Cash was placed harshly on the counter, disapproval clear. The firm grip on John's elbow tightened. "Come on, we're going home."

John couldn't find any words to either agree or disagree, and simply let Sherlock lead him out and be guided into the cab that waited outside. In his alcohol induced mind and body, John wasn't in any state to to comprehend what he was doing or what exactly was going on around him. He was barely aware that the detective was keeping his hand on John the entire ride home, moving his hands to John's elbow and the small of his back as they got out and headed upstairs.

The smaller man was set carefully into his chair. As John slumped into his chair, Sherlock knelt before him so that they were at eye level. His expression was serious and stern, and if John hadn't been drunk he would have seen the concern and care.

"Why didn't you come back to the flat after work? You always come straight here. Or, if you know you aren't going to, you always inform me where you are going." He stared at John as if to study him like a crime scene, but unlike a crime scene he seemed unable to come up with anything reasonable deductions.

"You're not my keeper," John grumbled through his haze.

Sherlock frowned, not used to gaining John's anger quite this quickly. In fact, he wasn't all that used to John being inhibited. "I didn't say I was. I'm just saying you usually inform me what you are doing."

The pints were beginning to fade, leaving John still numb and out of his mind, as well as getting a massive migraine. "I don't have to tell you anything," he snapped before Sherlock could continue to list the conclusions he was coming to about John's behavior. "You certainly don't tell me everything."

There was deep sadness that overcame Sherlock, wrapping around him like a shadowed blanket. If John had been well enough to see that, he would have felt guilty, but he couldn't force himself out of his own darkness.

He was so out of it that he couldn't even hear the pain in the detective's voice as he apologized for the third time in three days. "I'm sorry John. I just wanted to protect you."

John, becoming drowsy by the waning alcohol, mumbled almost incoherently, "Don't need pro'ection." He closed his eyes, wanting to drift away.

"Of course not," he could barely hear the detective murmur. Gentle fingers brushed dusty blonde hair speckled with gray from a sweaty forehead.