There'd been a fourth suicide, the victim had left a note and Sherlock had found a new flatmate. He bounded out the door, picking up his scarf and coat, only just remembering that he wasn't supposed to act overjoyed in the face of murder. It wasn't decent, Mrs. Hudson said.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, taking the time to put on his scarf, making sure everything was in order. It was important to keep up appearances. Up above him, Mrs. Hudson fluttered around the flat, talking to John.

"I'll make you that cuppa," she reassured him. "You rest your leg." Sherlock hurried towards the front door, not wanting to be caught lingering in the hallway.

"Damn my leg!"

Sherlock stopped abruptly, as did Mrs. Hudson, judging by the quiet in the flat above.

John was immediately apologetic, seeming more embarrassed by his outburst then angry. Sherlock had seen it before, military men, healing from a traumatic wound, honorably discharged and struggling to adjust to civilian life. It had killed them.

It had almost killed him. Not military service, of course, he'd never be able to take that, all 'queen and country.' But adjusting to normal life. Well, as normal as it could get with him.

No, he had been fresh out of rehab. Mycroft had signed him in, forced him in, but he'd have been lying if he said that he didn't want to clean up his act a bit. But the utter monotony of daily life…one day of it and he wanted back on the drugs.

In the end, it was Lestrade that had saved him. Lestrade, an old school friend of Mycroft and a newly instated Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard. He'd shown up on Sherlock's doorstep with a double murder that had gone cold months before.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft had sent him and was tempted to turn him away at the door, but something stopped him. Fifteen minutes later, Lestrade was on his way to arrest the culprit and all thoughts of relapsing had left Sherlock. He had found purpose.

He found himself hurrying back up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, meeting him on the seventh step.

"The poor man," she said in hushed tones. "You've got to help him, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a quick curt nod and Mrs. Hudson left to put her kettle on. He sighed and stepped into the doorway of 221B.

"You're a doctor," he said, putting on his gloves and pretending not to have heard John's previous outburst. John sat up a little straighter in his chair.

"Yes," he said, wincing as he got to his feet.

"Any good?" Sherlock challenged.

"Very good," John replied firmly.

"Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths," Sherlock said, wandering back into the flat.

"Mmm, yes," John replied, blinking back the unwanted rush of memories.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," Sherlock said, stopping in front of John.

"Of course, yes," John agreed. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Sherlock paused and let that hang in the air between them.

"Wanna see some more?" he asked, smirking, already knowing the answer. Everyone needed to feel useful in life. Dr. John Hamish Watson was no different.

"Oh, God, yes."