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Sherlock let out a ragged breath, pushing the towels tighter down on his wrist, trying to suppress the shiver of his limbs as ice flowed through his spine. Pools of red streamed down his pale arm and he winced as euphoria gave way to shame and self loathing. Too far, Sherlock told himself, I've let this get too far . He felt like he was sinking deeper, unconsciousness beckoning him like a siren luring a sailor to his death.
It started out as an accident during an experiment, he slipped up and his blade nicked the top of his wrist, just a small cut on his left wrist, not even an inch long. As he stared at the way the blood had beaded against the skin, he paused. His mind slowed down, no streams of thought and data, just peace and silence, a calm space away from the storm of his racing mind.
He decided to try out “experiments” with it, and every time he felt the urge to use drugs or needed something to help his mind focus, he'd sit in his tub and drag his razor over his arm. Never too deep, never too many. Not at first, anyway. It was a bad habit, he knew, but he was still in control and nobody was getting hurt. It was his body, after all. And he'd sit there, watching in horrified fascination as the flesh split easily under his blade, rivulets of blood forming.
Then once a week turned into once every few days, and the experiment turned on him as he slowly realized that he'd simply dropped one type of addiction for another. The time spent between sessions became filled with anxiety as he craved the release that came with his self destruction, and he needed more and more, deeper and deeper.
Freak.
Too deep, I've gone too deep.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice boomed from the sitting room and Sherlock flinched, pressing the towel down harder. He felt heavy, vision turning black at the edges as if the darkness was closing in. Help me , Sherlock tried to telepathically tell Greg.
Greg was always there for Sherlock when he needed him, a constant boulder in a world that changed randomly and moved far too fast for Sherlock to keep up with it. Sherlock was young when Greg met him, just about 15, still scrawny and soft spoken.
It was in a mostly abandoned park that Greg finally found him.
Too many punches, too many kicks, the taste of blood and dirt in Sherlock's mouth, bitter shame climbing its way up his throat. No more no more no more. The 4 teenagers- boys, 1 with a broken family because of cheating mother, 2 were middle children, 1 lived with father with criminal background- chanted freak. Over and over. “Freak, freak, freak,” they kept saying as if it were the only word they knew, the only insult they were capable of giving. Stop stop stop! Too much, too much. Pain exploded through Sherlock's body as fists and feet pounded against his body, until a voice barked out an order and the feet slamming against him scampered away.
“You didn't show up to the crime scene and didn't answer any of my messages.” The voice was moving, looking around for him, walking through the rooms. Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes, unable to fight the pull of the darkness anymore. I'm sorry, I've ruined everything again. His trembling slowly stopped, and he laid limp against the tub.
“What's your name?” Greg had asked, looking at the battered boy in front of him.
“William,” replied a soft childish voice, blue eyes darting up to meet his nervously, the boy's hands fidgeting nervously at his side. “Alright. Let's go home then, William. Your brother is very worried about you.”
That's how they met the first time, many years back. Sherlock was just a boy, scrawny and pale, with hair that was as unkempt as a bird's nest. The next time they met was in a drug house, and Greg didn't have to be a genius to know how Sherlock went from point A to point B. Yet he stayed, he helped Sherlock recover, gave him cases to keep him from drowning in the hurricane inside of him. He grew to think of Sherlock as a son, caring deeply about him.
So perhaps he can be forgiven for the long stream of curses that flew out of his mouth when he opened the door. He wasn't ready for the sight of Sherlock unconscious, pale and ghostly against the white porcelain of the tub and covered in red. Greg knelt beside him, gently checking for a pulse and sighing in relief when he found it. “Sherlock? Come on, lad, don't do this,” he pleaded as he fished his phone out of his pockets and called for an ambulance, hand remaining on Sherlock's mess of curls. The woman took his address, name, and emergency before saying that help was on the way. Greg shook Sherlock, growing increasingly desperate as the seconds ticked on.
Finally, just as Greg was beginning to grow deeply concerned that he came too late, Sherlock groggily opened his eyes. “Dad?” he asked, disoriented, closing his eyes again before Greg shook him again.
“No! Don't go to sleep, kiddo. You have to stay with me right now, alright? Just stay awake, help us on the way,” Greg promised, rambling as he nervously hoped that the ambulance would just hurry up . His heart pounded in his ears like thunder and Greg tried to ignore the trembling of his hands that kept the towel pressed against Sherlock's wrist.
“Dad” was usually Greg's title when Sherlock was either on the brink of death, or when he was high off his ass. As much of an honor it was to be considered worth the title, it made Greg wish that it didn't have to be like this. He wished that Sherlock could use it casually, rather than when he was struggling to breathe or sobbing as he crashed down from his high. He just wished that Sherlock could let him in again, allow Greg past his defenses that he formed because of the fact that people always did seem intent on destroying his light.
Sherlock opened his mouth, wincing as the sting of his arm grew to a steady burn. “I don't want to die,” he said and Greg watched as tears rushed to Sherlock's eyes, the light of the bathroom shining off of it. “I didn't think this would happen. I don't want to die, please, I don't want to die.” Sherlock's voice grew more desperate as he spoke, before he broke off as tears started to stream down his face, terrified and panicked eyes staring at Greg.
“You won't die,” Greg assured, managing to sound more certain than he felt. “If you do, I'll kill you. You're not going to die, we'll fix this. We'll get through this like we always do, alright?” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, helping him out of the tub and thanking every god that ever existed that Sherlock wasn't heavier than him. “You're going to be okay.” His voice cracked as he lowered Sherlock onto the couch in the sitting room, his entire body tense because this is too much .
Sherlock had fastened his grip on Greg's shirt, as if he was a man on a boat and Greg was an anchor to keep him steady during a storm, his only hope of surviving . Memories of the past flashed in front of Greg's eyes, all those times he had to sit down in a cold bath with Sherlock while he detoxed and ran a dangerous fever, all the times Greg had to visit him in rehab, all the times that Greg sat up at night watching over Sherlock in the hospital.
It was painful, but if he was able to go back in time, he'd do it all over again because Sherlock was practically a son to him, and he would never turn his back on his son.
He was all Sherlock had left.
“It's okay, you're okay,” Greg said, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, trembling against him. “It's not even that deep, right? You'll be okay, we'll fix you right up and you'll be good as new. Come on, calm down, love, it's fine.”
Finally, after a few minutes that made Greg's insides twist and curl and writhe from within him in terror and panic, the paramedics ran into the flat. “Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked, before Greg pointed to the bleeding man and they put him into a gurney. What happened between the flat and the ambulance was a bit of a blur, but a few hours later, Greg was sitting in a hospital room. The paramedics had asked question after question, and he'd had to repeat his answers to the doctors several times, so that they could know about the circumstances that surrounded Sherlock's injury. He suddenly realized why some of the witnesses he interviewed were so impatient and short with him. He’d have to remember to be more patient and friendly to them, because God knows how they managed it.
Greg leaned forward in his chair, running his hands down his face, tired to the bone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock bleeding and sobbing, still feeling Sherlock's hands gripping his now bloodstained shirt.
It may not wash out. He'd have to either get rid of these clothes or just wear them and remember the moments as he wondered if the ambulance would come too late every time he donned these clothes. He'd remember the terrifying thought that Sherlock might actually be dying in his arms and all he could do was murmur out soothing words to comfort him.
A few minutes later and the ambulance would have had to take Sherlock into the morgue. Greg won't ever be able to forget today, just like he hasn't been able to forget all the other days, which he only dared to remember at midnight when the chill of the night surrounded Greg and he would wonder if Sherlock was okay that night. He sees Sherlock as that lonely boy still, with sad eyes and wearing too large clothes that were usually black and hung off his too thin frame. Sometimes he would forget that Sherlock’s a grown man who had created a legend out of himself.
“Thank you, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, picking at the blanket on his lap with dissatisfaction. “You have stellar timing, I must admit.” A beat of silence as Sherlock bit his lip, uncertain, hovering at the doorway between trust and the prison of solitude he'd created himself.
Let me in, Sherlock.
"Will you stay with me?" he finally asked, eyes wide as he looked up at the older man. His earlier aloofness crumbled, and Greg saw the vulnerable boy that hid behind the mask of coldness, the boy Greg would kill to protect. William . “Please. I'm scared," he admitted softly, eyes open and unguarded, young and pleading, as if he were afraid that monsters would come and drag him away if he was left alone for a single second.
I don't know how to fix this, Greg. I don't know how to make this better.
Greg nodded with a soft sigh. “Of course. I'll stay as long as you need me.”
Then I’ll help you, just like all the times before.
Sherlock nodded, bit his lip, then looked away. He inhaled deeply, the fabric of the hospital gown shifting against his body for a second. “I'm sorry. I didn't think this would spiral out of my control.”
Greg stared at him for a few seconds, eyes filled with sadness. He looked small on the hospital bed, the hospital gown too big and doing nothing to hide the collarbones that jutted out. Clearing his throat, Greg shook his head. “Don't be sorry. There's never any reason to be sorry, but… can I say something?” When Sherlock nodded, he continued.
“Don't force yourself to be this cold unfeeling machine, Sherlock. You're human, and that's okay . You keep holding yourself to this impossible standard and refuse to ask for help when you need it, because you think you should be able to handle and control everything and that's bullshit . You don't have to bear this alone. You never have to go through anything alone.
“ How many more times -” his voice breaks loudly, and Sherlock averted his eyes as Greg cleared his throat and tried to control his breathing. “How many more times do I have to tell you I'm here ? Any time you need me, I'm here. It's okay to have a relapse, it's okay to not be okay. It's okay to be human , so please just… let me in. Let me help you.”
A small nod was his response, a pale hand reaching out for his own. Greg stared at their joined hands for a second before he nodded, knowing that this was the closest thing to an answer he'd get. This small action- just a touching of palms, fingers entwining- was Sherlock dropping his armor. We're in this together.
One day at a time, they'll get through this. They always do. Sherlock's stronger than he'd like to believe and Greg believes wholeheartedly that they'll be okay. It may take a while, but they'll get there, just like all the times before.
“Tell me about the latest crime scene,” Sherlock demanded suddenly and Greg grinned. Some things will likely never change.