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Quiet.
For once, anyway.
The experiment called for 100 millilitres of hydrochloric acid. Not much at all, really, Sherlock thought as he knelt down to observe his measuring. Perfect, as always. He let the corners of his lips quirk up for a moment before they fell again, setting in a straight, serious line. He looked up quickly, the movement sending the beaker wobbling dangerously on the cluttered table. He thought he'd heard something, but the scene was the same as before. Sofa half-deconstructed and thrown across the room. Skull just where he was supposed to be on the mantlepiece. John sitting in his chair with his back to Sherlock, typing on his laptop. Taking into account the furiously heavy tapping (could it really be called that, though? It was more like hitting now) of the keys and the way he was sat ramrod straight, Sherlock assumed the army doctor was still mad at him. He didn't really understand why. All he'd done was take apart the sofa and shot the cushions a few times!
He shook his head, sighing as he stood up straight again. The Bunsen burner was flickering away, the orange flame flapping like a flag in the wind. The chemical he was going to test was bubbling away, and Sherlock didn't bother with gloves. He'd never needed them before. Pushing his goggles further up the bridge of his nose, he raised the beaker-
"Do you want a cuppa?"
In a rather undignified manner, Sherlock jumped about half a foot in the air. He hadn't expected any talking for another two hours at the very least. Absorbed in his shock, he didn't even notice the acid spill over the edge of the beaker onto his hand.
It happened almost in slow motion. It was painful instantly. Sherlock knew what he had to do: he closed his eyes, began breathing heavily through his nose and blocked out reality.
"Sherlock, did you just...?" John whispered before he realised just what had happened. "Oh my God, Sherlock!"
The army doctor rushed forward, lunging for the detective's hand. Just as his hand landed on Sherlock's skin, the younger man grabbed John's wrist, twisted it behind his back and held it there.
John let out a yell of pain, squirming as much as he could. The agony was already radiating from the tips of his fingers all the way up to his (scarred) shoulder told him it was a sprain.
"Sherlock, what the fuck!?" he screamed, twisting his head to look at his best friend. That's when Sherlock snapped out of his trance.
The detective let out a small, shrill squeal, immediately letting John go. The ex-soldier cradled his wrist protectively to his chest before remembering the fact that Sherlock had potentially serious chemical burns and grabbed the detective's hand. He shoved it under the tap, dousing it in the cold water.
"What were you thinking, you idiot!?" he scolded as the detective bit his lip, suppressing his pain. "Why weren't you wearing gloves?"
"Didn't think I'd need them," Sherlock replied quietly. "Are you okay?"
"Don't worry about me, you absolute dipshit," John snapped, perhaps a little harshly. Sherlock looked down, his polished leather shoes squeaking on the linoleum as he shifted his feet around. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just worried about you."
"I'm fine," Sherlock said again. His voice was hoarser and weaker.
"We're going to the hospital," John announced, releasing the detective's arm. Of course, Sherlock immediately tried to take his hand out, but John stopped him before he could. "No. Keep it under the water. I'm going to get some bandages and a couple of slings."
"Why do we need to go to hospital?" Sherlock whined loudly, shouting after John.
"Because you've got serious acid burns, and I have a bloody sprained wrist!" was the faint reply.
Sherlock looked down again in shame. Had he really done that? He hadn't mean to. To be honest, he didn't really remember grabbing John in the first place. He was just pulled out his mind palace to a wave of pain and to find himself restraining his best friend.
Most bizarre.
He didn't know how long he'd been thinking. He never really knew, at least not until someone told him. When he was younger, it was usually one of his teachers, or Mycroft. Now it was John. It was always John. Speaking of whom, he came back to reality when John came back and gently touched his shoulder. He blinked and immediately felt the cool water washing over his feverishly hot skin. He nodded silently.
John came forward and gently pulled the detective's hand towards him. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that one of his friend's arm was now in a sling.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, feeling his face heating up.
"You didn't mean it," John muttered in reply a little distractedly. He was running his fingers over the damaged skin slowly. Every stroke felt like a fireball skating over his skin, but he kept quiet, biting his lip until he could taste blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth, focusing on the smooth, straight texture rather than the burning, all-consuming pain...
Well done, genius.
"You absolute tosser," John proclaimed, shaking his head and grabbing some bandages. "You might need surgery to fix this, Sherlock! How do we go to the A&E reception and tell them that?"
"Well, rather easily, actually," Sherlock replied. "We-"
"Could call your brother," John interrupted. He looked rather pleased with himself. "Cuts out all the waiting. It's perfect!"
"No," Sherlock stepped in. His face was hard.
"Why not?"
"Because it's embarrassing. He'll find out anyway, but I'd rather he have to do some snooping for it rather than it being handed to him on a silver platter."
John nodded understandingly, a little confused perhaps, but at least he nodded.
"You're a prick, you know that?" he said as he went back to wrapping the detective's hand.
"You can stop insulting me now."
John laughed a little. Sherlock didn't understand what he'd done that was funny. Not that he really cared. He loved it when John laughed. He looked... happy. Sherlock wanted John to look happy all the time.
John slowly guided Sherlock's arm into the sling once he finished wrapping it. The detective didn't let out so much as a hiss of pain.
"Try not to fiddle with it too much," John instructed as the two ventured downstairs in a bid to find their coats: it was November in London, they would've froze if not. Guiltily, Sherlock snatched his hand away from where he had been messing with a loose end of the dressing.
"We really do look like we've been through the wars," the detective remarked once they had got through the difficult process of trying to put coats and/or blazers on ("Just bloody leave it, Sherlock, we're going to A&E, not dinner with her bloody Majesty!") and were standing in the street trying to hail a cab. The pair, with their almost identical strapped up arms, were gathering some rather strange looks.
"That we have," John murmured as he tried, and subsequently failed to hail a cab. "Why can't they just stop for us!?"
In response, Sherlock pulled out his phone with some difficulty, dialled a number and held it to his ear.
"Hello? Benji, is that you?.... Yes, it's Sherlock Holmes... How are the kids?" (He was rolling his eyes at this point) "Look, I need to call in my favour... I need you to pick me and a friend up outside of Baker Street... How long?... 2 minutes? That's perfect, Benji, thank you. And don't question anything when you get here."
He put his phone back in his pocket, and turned to John with a satisfied grin.
"I got Benji off of a double murder charge a few years back," he said as a way of explanation at the puzzled expression on the doctor's face. "Proved it couldn't have possibly been him as he was off having an affair with the woman who sells the Moroccan beads down on Camden Market. Disastrous for his marriage, but kept him from life imprisonment."
John shook his head, laughing.
"How many people owe you favours?" he asked. "You must be able to build an army by now."
"327, if my memory is correct," Sherlock replied. Before John could say any more, however, a cab pulled up and a man stuck his head out of the window. He was younger than John had expected a cab driver to be, with a head full of unruly tight curls which sprung out all over the place. His multicoloured jacket was bright against his mocha skin, and he smiled to reveal two rows of perfectly white, straight teeth.
"Sup, Sherlock!" he yelped, grinning toothily at the detective. Sherlock merely gave his I'm being polite smile back. "Jump in, where you two wanna go?"
"St Bart's, please, Benji," Sherlock said, climbing into the back of the cab. John followed suite, slamming the door shut.
"And step on it, please," the army doctor added.
Benji smiled and shot off down the road.
888888
Sherlock didn't recognise the receptionist when they got to the hospital.
For anyone else, this wouldn't have been a big deal. Oh, new person must've started, they would think. Not Sherlock. His brain immediately demanded to know who the damn hell this person was, and why Debbie from Colchester with the three cats and severe dandruff problem wasn't here.
"If you don't mind me asking, who on earth are you?" Sherlock demanded as soon as he reached the front desk. Luckily, John wasn't far behind, and as intimidated as the young girl looked, they still were somehow not thrown out of the hospital.
"Y'know, there's this really wonderful thing called politeness," John hissed in his ear as they sat down in the uncomfortably hard plastic chairs. Sherlock was already picking at his ID bracelet. "It would be great if you gave it a go sometimes," John added, gently slapping the detective's hand away.
"I didn't know her!" Sherlock said as a way of defense. "Why should I be?"
"We will talk about the expectations of general society later," John snapped. Seeing Sherlock's face fall, he instantly felt bad. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just my arm hurts and I really don't want to be here."
Sherlock, using his good arm, pulled John carefully towards him, putting his arm around the army doctor and creating an effective barrier. John was surprised to find himself snuggling against the detective, yawning heavily.
"You make a good pillow," he murmured as he dropped off to sleep.
Sherlock smiled softly despite the throbbing, excruciating pain in his hand, placing a kiss to the top of John's head.
"You two make a really cute couple," a young woman on Sherlock's left commented. Sherlock turned to her, alarmed.
"Oh, no," he stammered. "We-we're not..."
"It's okay," she laughed. "You don't have to be closeted around me." She stuck out her hand. "Aliyah."
Sherlock would've shook her hand, but one was bound in a sling and the other was trapped around John's waist. He looked her over, and deductions sprang out at him.
Only child.
Divorced parents.
Lesbian, has a girlfriend.
Self-harms.
The last one struck him hard. He glanced down at his own arms, but only for a second. He didn't like thinking about it. He looked at her again, really looked at her. She had jet black hair, nearly identical in colour to his own, but her's was straight as a poker and had purple streaks running through it. She wasn't wearing much make-up, only some black lipstick. A ring protruded from her nose. She was wearing nothing special, just some leggings and a t-shirt. One of her legs was stretched out in front of her, a pair of crutches balanced on the edge of the chair.
She had the most stark green eyes.
"Tripped down some stairs," Aliyah said as a way of explanation when she caught him staring at her ankle. "Stupid me. Wasn't exactly expecting to be spending my Monday night in A&E."
"Were you going to see your girlfriend?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't help but smirk as her jaw dropped. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."
"Sherlock Holmes!" she said excitedly. "You're the guy who faked his own death!"
"Yes, well, that is a little bit of a sore subject," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't bring up it whilst John's awake."
"Was he pissed?"
"I think if you look closely at my lip, you might still be able to see the scar."
They laughed, a little awkwardly due to the silence that seemed to cling to every wall in the waiting room.
"Why are you here, then?" Aliyah asked, turning herself towards Sherlock. "You look like two peas in a pod with those slings. Criminal?"
"No, Scotland Yard would be here if so," Sherlock replied. "Me, acid burns. I'm sure it's fine, but John insisted. Him? Well... I may have sort of accidentally sprained his wrist."
Aliyah's face turned dark, her eyes going hard.
"Do you hit him?" she demanded.
"No!" Sherlock replied, a little quickly. "No. I would never. I'd do anything for John Watson. Anything at all. I didn't ever realise what was happening until it happened."
She relaxed a little after that, settling back comfortably in her chair.
"Mind palace?" she said.
"Course. Helps with pain."
She gave him a sympathetic look, looking under his arm to where John was snuggled against Sherlock. The army doctor had now threaded his arms around Sherlock's middle in an almost possessive way.
"Are you really not a couple?" she asked incredulously.
"No," Sherlock said. "I... I'm gay."
She nodded.
"Yeah," she said almost dismissively. "And?"
"Well, I haven't come out to him yet," the detective continued. "Everyone else knows. Well, almost everyone. The people who know thought we were dating when we first met."
"I think he likes you," she remarked just as her name was called. Smiling at him, she got herself up, nearly falling over as she tried to get her balance. She waved to him. "Nice to see you!"
Then she was gone, and Sherlock was left with a sleeping John.
888888
The army doctor didn't wake up for another 45 minutes or so. Sherlock was half-asleep himself by this point, his cheek resting on top of John's head, but he jolted when he felt his best friend's breathing change ever-so-slightly.
"John?" he whispered. "Are you okay, love?"
John yawned, his eyes flickering open. He smiled when he saw Sherlock.
"I'm fine," John said. "How's your hand?"
"It's a little sore."
That was an understatement. The pain had gotten steadily worse, and considering it was bad to start off with, that wasn't ideal. John furrowed his brow, but accepted the answer at face value.
"Shouldn't they have called us by now?" John said, sitting up and stretching, his back popping.
"It's 8 p.m. on a Monday in a busy London hospital," Sherlock replied, only with the slightest hint of sarcasm. "What do you think?"
John rolled his eyes, casting a glance at his own strapped-up arm.
"I talked to someone whilst you were asleep," Sherlock said faintly. It was almost too quiet to hear.
"Sherlock! That's amazing!" John exclaimed. "I know you struggle so much with that!"
"Her name was Aliyah," Sherlock replied. He sounded almost shy. "She thought we were a couple. She self-harms."
John's face sobered considerably at that.
"I see," he said carefully (he didn't know about Sherlock's own scars at this point). "Did you mention it?"
"No," Sherlock answered. "Not after that woman slapped me in Sainsbury's. Aliyah was nice."
"That's good," John said. He sounded distracted.
"John, I'm going to tell you something now," Sherlock said after taking a deep breath, tapping John's arm. The army doctor nodded, turning his complete attention to his friend. "I've kept this from you since we've met, and I'm not exactly sure why. I'm not ashamed, I was just never sure how to approach the subject. However, everything that happened today, and seeing Aliyah and seeing what I saw in her, I realised that you deserve to know. Please don't-"
"Just tell me, Sherlock," John cut in, resting his hand on Sherlock's thigh. "Don't worry. I won't do anything."
Sherlock nodded, taking another deep breath.
"John, I'm gay."
John nodded solemnly, not moving his hand.
"I'm really happy you told me this," he said.
"You knew already, didn't you?"
John nodded again, but it was a little sheepish. He was smiling widely.
"I figured it out," he replied. "About two weeks after we met. Why else would literally everybody have assumed that we were dating? Why do you think I was so surprised when I found out you were dating Janine?"
"Was it really that obvious?" Sherlock asked, looking down.
"Afraid so, yeah."
The two giggled together. Sherlock's hand crept over his lap and gently grasped at John's.
"God, that feels good to get off my chest," Sherlock breathed.
"Why did you keep it from me?" John asked.
"I'm not really sure," the detective replied. "Can we talk about it later? There's..." he took a deep breath. "There's some more stuff I want to talk to you about."
"Okay, sure," John said. "I'm always here for you. You know that."
Sherlock smiled, but it quickly faded into a wince as his hand gave a particularly nasty jolt of pain. John was all-concern then, gently taking Sherlock's hand from the sling. Even through the dressing, he could feel the heat emanating from the wound.
"You really need to get seen to," the army doctor said worriedly. As if on cue, a small woman, with a thick Spanish accent, called,
"Sherlock Holmes?"
The detective smiled at John, getting up and giving him a little wave before he disappeared behind the swinging double doors.
The Spanish woman lead Sherlock to a small cubicle, and told him to sit on the bed. He perched on edge to show her just how uncomfortable he was. Did it work? Hell no! She sat right next to him, so close that their thighs were touching.
"So, what have you done?" she asked. The bags under her bloodshot eyes were huge. Sherlock deduced that she hadn't slept for about 24 hours.
"I spilled hydrochloric acid on my hand," Sherlock explained, gesturing unnecessarily to the injured appendage. "Washed it off almost immediately."
"And wrapped it up," the Spanish woman commented, sounding impressed.
"That was my roommate. He's a doctor."
She took his hand gently out of the sling, grasping the edge of the bandage and slowly unwinding it. The outer layers were okay, but the inner layers were stuck to the skin, and were extremely painful to prise off. Not that Sherlock let that show. The woman's name-tag read Maria, so he simply retreated into his mind palace and thought about the origins of the name Maria, and its use in history.
"You've done this well, haven't you?" Maria said, pulling him from his thoughts. His skin was stinging horribly, the raw, red flesh exposed. "Why were you messing with acid?"
"An experiment," Sherlock replied. "Really should've worn gloves, if I'm honest."
She gave him a look that said you think, turning his hand over in hers.
"You're lucky this isn't worse," she told him. "All we can really do is wash it off until all of the chemical is gone and put a dressing on it. Is that alright?"
He nodded.
"That's fine."
"This must be painful. Do you want some pain relief?"
Sherlock considered asking for morphine. Damn, if he didn't consider asking for morphine. He very nearly did, as well. But then he thought of John sitting outside, and how if he took one shot he'd only want more, and that had never ended well, had it? So no, he didn't ask.
"Have you got any non-opiates?" he asked, his cheeks burning with shame the whole time. "Only, it's just... well, I'm sure if you've seen my file you'll understand."
She nodded at him, flashing a smile.
"Of course."
Sherlock had never been more grateful to see a packet of paracetamol in his life.
888888
It took a long time for them to declare Sherlock's wound completely free of corrosive material. So long, in fact, that John had been called, assessed, treated and was able to come and stand with Sherlock as it was happening. The army doctor's hand was strapped a light-brownish casing, which was Velcro-ed together. Sherlock was avoiding looking at it. He was focused on the dulling pain in his hand.
"What did they say?" he asked John, glancing up into his flatmate's stark blue eyes.
"Just the usual," John replied. "Only came for the splint, really."
Sherlock smiled a little, watching as a nurse smeared an antibacterial paste on his wound and began to wrap it with clean bandages.
"I really am sorry," he said, his eyes not meeting John's.
"It's okay, Sherlock," John replied. He reached out with his uninjured hand and tilted the detective's head up. "Hey. Really."
"But you had to get a splint."
"It doesn't matter. I do have one question, though."
Sherlock gave him an inquisitive look.
"Go ahead," he said.
"Why?"
That caught Sherlock by surprise. He blinked a few times before screwing his eyes shut for a few seconds, presumably thinking.
"It's a defence mechanism," he said slowly, once he'd opened his eyes. "Sort of like the old fight-or-flight response. My mind sort of shuts down to deal with the pain."
"But why did you attack as soon as I got near you?" John asked, unconsciously leaning forward.
"I used to be a drug addict, John. You have to have good reflexes to so much as survive in that world."
The nurse who was wrapping Sherlock's hand raised her eyebrows a little, and the pair both saw her eyes drift across Sherlock's bare arm, clearly looking for track marks. However, Sherlock had covered as much as his arm as possible, and it was twisted so the inside of his arm was not visible.
John shook his head slowly, in a sort of pitying way.
"Why?" he murmured. "Why you?"
"Who knows why anything happens?" Sherlock said. "That's all history, anyhow. I'm not like that anymore."
He aimed the last statement partly at the nurse. At the same second, Molly Hooper virtually sprinted through the door. Her hair was askew, and she was still wearing slightly blood-stained gloves.
"I just heard," she panted, ignoring the strange looks she was getting. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Sherlock replied, seemingly unperturbed. "Peterson murder autopsy?"
Molly nodded.
"Death seems to be-"
"The giant flamethrower that ripped through his chest as if it were nothing more than paper? The murderer was the best friend who was in love with the victim's wife and couldn't take the jealousy any more. He works as a blacksmith. Obvious, really."
Sherlock said all of this very quickly, not even pausing for breath as he did so. The nurses in the room went slack-jawed, but Molly and John simply nodded, used to these kind of outbursts.
"I'll let Lestrade know," Molly said, smiling at him before bidding them farewell and leaving the room as suddenly as she had entered.
The nurses, officially freaked out by the interruption, quickly finished wrapping Sherlock's hand. They dished out instructions to John, and upon hearing he was a doctor, gave him the materials to change the dressing so they didn't have to go to the GP's every day. They were to go the GP's in a few days time, just to check it was healing okay.
"What was that thing you wanted to talk about?" John asked as they walked out of the hospital's revolving doors into the balmy night air.
"When we get home," Sherlock said quickly. Yes, whilst he did want to tell John everything, and finally put everything right between them (no secrets anymore), he did want to put it off as long as possible. He knew that it would be an unpleasant, emotional conversation, with a strong possibility for tears from himself as well as John, so he wanted to put it off as long as possible. Obviously, he was going to tell him. Eventually. And only when they were alone. Completely alone. He knew where all of Mycroft's hidden cameras were: the cheeky bugger thought he was being sneaky, but it hadn't worked. Whatever. It didn't matter now.
It was dark out despite it being only 6 in the evening, but it was a surprisingly clear night, the kind of which you were often hard-pressed to find in London. Sherlock glanced upwards, his eyes darting from satellite to stars to aeroplanes heading off towards no-doubt exotic locations. Sighing, he looked back down in hopes of finding a cab.
People were beginning to emerge from the hotel across the street. Women, dressed in their extravagant dresses, men in tuxedos trotting obediently at their arms. Students from the university were coming around the corner, already smashed out of their faces and singing some sort of chant as they walked along. Therefore, cabs were in short supply. He knew he wasn't going to be able to pull off the trick with Benji again. He let his eyes flick over to John. The army doctor's eyes were drifting up to the roof of Bart's, making their way over from where they had been transfixed on the ambulance station. Ah. Yes. He'd quite forgotten about that. Sherlock cleared his throat to get John's attention.
"We'll be hard-pressed to find a cab," he said, trying to ease the tension that had settled between the two of them. It didn't work, and the air remained thick. John wrapped his coat tighter around his shivering frame, stamping his feet in an attempt to re-introduce some warmth into them.
"Don't you have another cabbie you can call?" the army doctor asked.
"None on duty, I'm afraid. I won't get away with calling Benji again."
"Could we walk?"
"It'll take an hour. I don't know about you, but I don't fancy that."
The drunk students were walking past them. One of them, a plastered young boy with bright ginger hair and blocky glasses, all-but threw himself at Sherlock. His breath stank of alcohol.
"C'mon, Colin!" one of the others called. "Leave 'im alone!"
"No!" the drunk kid, presumably called Colin, shouted back. "I am Colin, God of Sex! I will have this man for my own!"
"I'd rather not," Sherlock said, his tone cold and clinical. He leant down and whispered in the kid's ear, "Now, unless you'd like me to announce your erectile dysfunction and internet porn addiction to all of your little friends, including your crush, I suggest that you scuttle."
Colin nodded, suddenly scared, and staggered off with his friends just as a sleek black car pulled up next to them.
"Of course," John chuckled, shaking his head. "Bloody typical."
Sherlock swore loudly, giving the side of the car a swift kick before pulling the door open with his uninjured arm and moving backwards so John could get in. The army doctor grinned, already anticipating the shit-storm ahead.
"Stop spying on me, you absolute piss-wank, or I'm calling Mummy," Sherlock said the minute he got into the car, glaring towards his brother.
"And hello to you to, Sherlock," Mycroft said, giving the pair his infamous shark grin as he fiddled with his umbrella. "Nearly two months with no hospital visits, brother dear. I think that might be a new record."
Sherlock gave his brother a sneery smile before his face collapsed into a scowl.
"I'm sorry you were dragged into this yet again, Dr Watson," Mycroft continued, now addressing John and ignoring his brother, who was sulking in the corner as the car pulled off. "Is the wrist okay?"
Before John could answer, Sherlock interrupted.
"Why are you even bothering to ask? You probably already know all the answers to these questions anyway."
Mycroft grinned at Sherlock, who glared back.
"It's called courtesy, Sherlock. I'll teach you one day."
John placed a warning hand on Sherlock's chest as the detective tried to lunge for the government official.
"Boys," he said, glancing between them. "Not here?"
Sherlock huffed, curling up as best he could in the leather seat and concentrated his anger into trying to bore a hole in the window with his eyes.
The rest of the journey was conducted in relative silence, the only sounds being Mycroft tapping his umbrella and Sherlock's phone occasionally going off. John guessed that it was probably Lestrade, going by the fact that Sherlock had just solved a pretty high-profile case (the death of a prominent party leader's son).
When they reached 221B, John naturally thanked the government official and climbed out of the car, fumbling in his pocket for keys. Sherlock tried to follow, but Mycroft closed the car door before he could. The detective's keen ears registered the subtle click as the doors locked.
"So, I hear you solved the Peterson murder?" Mycroft said, crossing his legs and regarding his younger brother.
"Cut the crap, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "What do you want?"
"I heard that you're planning to tell John," Mycroft replied.
He didn't need to say any more. Sherlock stiffened, freezing like a deer in headlights. It took a few seconds for him to come back to himself.
"Just... be careful, brother mine," Mycroft said, his voice soft.
The doors unlocked, and Sherlock scrambled out of there as fast as he could.
Memories can resurface; wounds can re-open. The roads we walk have demons beneath , and yours have been waiting for a very long time.
His brother's words, spoken to him on that fateful day before Sherrinford, reverberated around his head as he went to join John at the steps. The army doctor had now successfully found his keys and was fumbling with the door. Sherlock took them in silence and unlocked the door, letting them into their own sanctuary.
They climbed the stairs without a word. Both were tense, knowing something huge was about to happen, something that would change the way they looked at each other forever. Sherlock kept giving his flatmate nervous little glances as he kicked off his shoes, something he very rarely did in the house. That's when John knew this was serious.
"Sherlock..." John said, not knowing what he was going to say next. "I..."
"I think, considering what I'm about to tell you," Sherlock said slowly and carefully, leading John to the sofa, "it would be best if you left all questions until the end. Is that okay?"
John just nodded.
Sherlock sat down next to him with a heavy exhale, as if he were weary with the world. Slowly, as it were laborious, he pulled off his blazer and rolled up his sleeve, exposing his pale arm. He took John's hand and made him take his arm, inside-up.
"I want you to look at my arm," Sherlock said, only the slightest hint of a tremor in his voice. "Really look at it. Study it. Tell me what you see, and make a deduction."
John's brow furrowed and he looked up at Sherlock, confused.
"Sherlock, I-"
"What did I say? No questions. Just do it. Please?"
The pleading look in Sherlock's eyes, and the pure vulnerability which was displaying itself on his face made John realise just how important and massive this was to Sherlock. Nodding a little, he looked down.
Sherlock felt his cheeks burn as John finally looked down at his arm. He'd purposely chosen his right arm to show him. Even though injecting was something he had become rather ambidextrous at, the other... scars were deeper and more prominent on that arm. He closed his eyes. If John was going to stop loving him, he didn't want to watch it happen in front of his eyes.
John gasped softly as he ran a gentle finger over Sherlock's arm. Despite the fact that Sherlock had such pale skin, almost like paper, the scars stood out like burning brands on his skin. The first thing that sprung out at him was the track marks, studded along the detective's veins, which were virtually on the brink of collapse. John softly pressed his finger to each scar every needle had left, wondering what the story behind every mark was.
He was trying to ignore the faint white lines that were prominent next to the track marks. They were organised, all in neat little rows. Each was barely a centimetre long, but John winced to think how deep they could have been.
Then he saw them.
Deep, long white lines, running right from wrist to elbow. John had seen the type before, from old army buddies who he sometimes ran into at the pub. Their sallow skin and gaunt, haunted eyes crept their way into his mind, and he had to physically shake his head to make them disappear.
"Sherlock..." he breathed, unable to say anything more.
His best friend had tried to commit suicide. For real. He didn't know when, he didn't know why, he just knew that he had. Sherlock Holmes, one the greatest men he had ever met, had thought so little of himself that he had tried to end his own life.
"So, doctor," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse. John looked up just in time to see a tear drip from the detective's eye. "What is your conclusion?"
John didn't answer, instead pulling Sherlock into a tight hug.
Sherlock was confused. Was John angry? Sad? Disappointed? He bit his lip as he tried to think, his arms tentatively coming up to rest on John's back.
"I... I don't understand," he whispered.
John giggled a little, but his voice sounded suspiciously teary when he spoke.
"You should never have to feel like that," he said, holding Sherlock tighter. "No-one should."
He let Sherlock go, leaning back to watch him carefully. Sherlock wiped his eyes shakily: he hadn't realised he'd been crying.
"I can't lose you, Sherlock," John said, his hand still resting on Sherlock's free one. "Not again."
"It's been a long time," Sherlock replied. "I promise."
"How many times?" John said. His voice was harder than intended, yet still soft.
"I'm sorry?"
"How many times did you try to-"
John choked on his words, and had to stop, swallowing a couple of times before continuing. "How many times did you try to kill yourself?"
Sherlock gulped. He'd been anticipating this question. He looked down, fidgeting unconsciously with John's fingers.
"Six," he whispered.
"How?"
"The method, you mean?"
John nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. Sherlock took a deep breath, and started to speak.
"The first time was the scars you saw on my arm. I was fifteen at the time, and I was panicked, so I didn't cut quite deep enough. It was my mother that found me. She cried and cried for days on end, blaming herself even when I told her she had nothing to do with it. That only made her cry more.
"The second time was four years later, when I was at university. I'd just got a car. Attempted carbon monoxide poisoning, by running a simple rubber tube from the exhaust system to the car. Very nearly worked, as well. I would've been dead in less than a minute if one of my chemistry professors hadn't been walking by and seen me. I was on a psych ward for only three weeks that time.
"It was less than a year later that I attempted again. Hanging. Couldn't see it going wrong. But then I forgot that my pesky brother was watching me through those secret cameras he'd secreted in various lamps and bookshelves. He was the first thing I saw when I woke up."
He was crying again. He wiped his eyes furiously, sniffing deeply. John squeezed his hand, reassuring him that it was all alright: he was safe here.
"When I was twenty-three, I tried to electrocute myself. Pretty stupid decision, I know. Ended in a severely burnt hand and me coding for a couple of minutes. A month on the ward that time. Apparently they thought I was getting creative.
"After getting out of the ward, I got hooked on drugs. That's when it started, really. I'd took cocaine recreationally during university, but I was getting into the hard drugs now. Crack. Heroin. Oh, I loved heroin. It shut my mind up, let me think effectively. Not effectively enough, however. Less than three months after getting out of a psych ward, I tried to kill myself by overdosing on amphetamines, crack-cocaine, heroin and fentanyl.
"It was Lestrade that found me, actually. He was on patrol, I was in a street corner... meant to be, hm?"
He knew it was a poor attempt at humour, but he gave a wry smile anyhow.
"He wouldn't allow me to start cases until I was clean. Thus lead a stint in rehab and check-ups on everything every few weeks."
"Wouldn't they have noticed if you were still cutting?" John blurted before he could stop himself. "Sorry, that was insensitive, I-"
"No, it's okay," Sherlock said. "I was good at hiding it. They had me on anti-depressents, and I was on methadone for a little while before I decided to go cold turkey. Unpleasant, let me tell you.
"The last and final time was only six months before I met you. I was back on cocaine, addicted like a baby to its mother's milk. My depression was spiralling out of control, I was homeless, I saw no way out... I stole an automatic handgun from Scotland Yard, went to a graveyard and held it to my head."
He had to stop as the memory flooded through him, overtaking his mind.
He was so fucking done with this bullshit world.
This was it , he thought. No way out.
"No saving me this time, Mycroft," he yelled into the night air, laughing hysterically as he did so. His statement echoed back to him through the eerie shadows of the graveyard.
His finger played with the trigger on the stolen gun like a child might play with a favourite toy. This was a game to him. That's all it was. Everything was just a game, and this was the way he planned on winning.
With shaking hands, he raised the gun to his head. In the moment, the very same moment he had been dreaming about ever since that very first time he took a razor to his arm, he was scared of what was to come. No-one really knew what came after death, did they?
Maybe, when he was dead, if there was something, he could ask all of those people who murdered, who were murdered, how they felt when they died. He'd taken his inspiration after the death penalty, hadn't he? Working his way though the five methods they employed in America?
This? This was just completing his collection.
He could sworn he heard a noise at the end of the graveyard, like someone tripping over the spiky vines at the hidden entrance, just like he had. His swollen, dilated eyes swivelled round, watching for anyone who could disturb this precious, private moment. The gun dropped momentarily from his temple before raising again in defiance.
" Whoever's there, I've got a gun!" he shouted over towards the source of the noise.
" I know you have."
Piss, shit , fuck, wank, arse!
That was Lestrade. Of course it was Lestrade. Sherlock had anticipated him discovering the missing gun, but he'd anticipated him finding it so soon. He clicked the safety off as quickly as he could, lifting the barrel from his temple and firing into the ground. Just as a warning.
" Sherlock , don't do something stupid !"
That was his brother's voice, wasn't it? He shook his head, his hands shaking madly as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes .
"No," he whispered. "It's not you, it's not you!"
He let out a long, low guttural scream, staggering as he put the gun to his head again. Tears were streaming down his face, and he was looking down. A flashlight was shining on him, oddly like a spotlight. Of course. Even his death had to watched by a judging audience.
"Just piss off!" he screamed at that. "Leave me alone!"
"Sherlock, don't do this!" Lestrade shouted back. Sherlock looked up to see the police officer edging towards him, his hand raised palm-forward to show that he was unarmed. "C'mon, mate. You've got such a brilliant mind, such a good future ahead of you. You just... took a bit of a wrong turn, that's all."
"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock retorted. "You can't talk me out of this. It's the kindest thing to do. You'll think that too, eventually. Once I've done it."
" What about your mum? Your dad? Your brother ?" Lestrade replied.
"I called my parents earlier. Told them I was sorry for anything I ever did to hurt them."
"I know," Mycroft interjected, coming forward now. He was still carrying his umbrella. That made Sherlock laugh a little. That man took his umbrella everywhere.
Even to his own brother's suicide.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft," Sherlock said. The hand holding the gun was shaking incessantly now. "You can't talk me down from this. It's the only sure-fire way for me to die."
"Tell me Newton's third law."
That caught him short. He had been closing his eyes, ready to take the final deadly shot, but he opened them again, regarding his brother curiously.
"You already know it."
" You're the one who spent a month learning about physics for no good reason. I want to hear it from you."
"For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction," Sherlock said, puzzled. "I don't see what this has to do with anything."
He didn't realise that the hand holding the gun was lowering.
"Okay, good," Mycroft encouraged, a small smile growing on his usually emotionless face. "Now tell me about barium."
"Barium is a chemical element with symbol Ba and atomic number 56, atomic mass 137.327. It is the fifth element in group 2 and is a soft, silvery alkaline earth metal. Because of its high chemical reactivity, barium is never found in nature as a free element," Sherlock recited. His hand dropped to his side , his whole body slumping . Mycroft nodded subtly to Lestrade , who crept forward and gently took the gun from Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock stumbled forward, only managing about three steps before he collapsed to his knees. He looked up at the two men before him, tears pouring down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
"Sherlock!"
The detective was brought starkly back to reality by John screaming his name. He sucked in a deep breath, panting a little as he looked at his army doctor.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock," John whispered. His hand was soft and warm against Sherlock's own. "I promise."
Deciding he had nothing to lose (John probably didn't want to be associated with him anymore, anyway), Sherlock leant forward and gently pressed his lips to John's.
John's first thought was what the fuck. His second was SHERLOCK HOLMES IS KISSING ME WHAT IS GOING ON!?!?!
Sherlock's hand was resting on the back of John's head, his fingers entangling themselves in the army doctor's short hair. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes flickering a little. John, as a final thought, thought what the fuck, and kissed Sherlock back.
In that moment, when he felt John shrug a little and start kissing him back, he finally fully appreciated Lestrade and Mycroft finding him on that fateful night.
He finally appreciated being alive.
He broke away from John slowly, resting their foreheads together and allowing his hand to find a position on John's neck.
"So?" he whispered. "Any questions?"
The two broke down into a fit of giggles, holding each other close.
"No questions," John clarified. "None at all, as long as I can have you."
"I was always yours, John," Sherlock said. "From that very first moment we met. I was always yours."
And, even if it was just for a moment, all the hurt was forgotten.