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John opened the door pushing his way in back first, a bag of take out for dinner in hand. Sherlock laid completely still on the couch, John assumed he was in his mind palace.
"Hey, home a tad earlier than I thought, my last appointment canceled." No reply.
John began hanging up his jacket, "so I grabbed take out on the way home." Still nothing.
John finally turning around "Sherlock you realize I know you can still hear me even when you're- Sherlock... Oh my God SHERLOCK!"
food forgotten at the door John raced over to Sherlock who laid on the couch in a blood soaked shirt with one arm practically reduced to a mass of sliced flesh hanging off of the couch slowly dripping into a metal bowl on the ground.
John knelt beside the couch patting Sherlock's face, a desperate attempt at getting a response.
"Sherlock, come on, not like this come on wake up" he choked out in a desperate whisper.
Darkened blue eyes slowly blinked open.
"John if you couldn't tell, I'm trying to sleep, you slapping me is not very helpful" there was an attempt at normalcy but Sherlocks voice wavered and cracked as he spoke, almost hoarse.
"Jesus Christ Sherlock what the hell happened" John fumbled for the closest towel to stop the slow trickle of blood, finding one he quickly pressed it to Sherlock's arm.
"Happened with what?" Words slurred together.
"Sherlock what the last thing you remember?"
"I... um well I remember coming home from my case, and then I was at the microscope and I sliced my finger open on slide because it was chipped. Oh and then... it, well I supposed it starts getting foggy, I may have needed to throw up. Oh of course I saw the blade and, and I- well I must have...." tears started to stain the detectives face, John wiped them away with his thumb.
"Hey, Sherlock I'm here now okay. Nothing else is gonna happen I'm here. But I need you to talk to me, okay?"
"I'm sorry John, you shouldn't have to deal with this, I- I can clean it up. You weren't supposed to be home, you weren't supposed to know"
"Sherlock, I want to help you, that's what I'm here for, I love you, I'm going to help." He wiped another tear from Sherlocks face and then made sure that the bleeding had stopped, slowly he stood up to get the first aid kit.
Suddenly Sherlock grabbed his arm, now shaking, struggling through choked tears.
"NO, NO, JOHN PLEASE don't leave, I don't wanna be alone" voice ending in a whisper he stared up at John.
"I'm not leaving you Sherlock, I need to get the bandages though, the're just in the bathroom I'll be back in just a second."
Sherlock stayed quiet.
"How about we keep talking the whole time I'm in the other room, would that be okay?"
Sherlock nodded and let go of John's hand.
John headed for the kitchen reassuring yet again
"I'm going to tell you everything I'm doing while it happens, okay?"
"Yes."
"I'm walking down the hall right now and turning into the bathroom, how are you doing?"
"I'm- I'm okay."
He frantically grabbed whatever bowl was closest,
"I'm filling a bowl with water and grabbing a towel and the first aid kit. What color is the takeout bag I grabbed?"
Sherlock examined the bag John had thrown aside, "Its a white bage but the handle is black, so it's not the shop down the street but the one by your clinic. And the grease stains on the bottom quarter are only on the back of it, suggesting it was tilted, so you must have left it on the back seat. It smells like Chinese food."
"All correct yes, it is Chinese food yes, okay, I'm heading back down the hallway toward you and..." he poked his head around the corner "Hi, not too bad I hope."
"Could have been worse."
John hummed quietly as he began gently cleaning off Sherlocks forearm while Sherlock watched him carefully, more void of emotion than was typical. The washcloth slowly revealed neat, uniform lines. Cut in equal distance lining Sherlock's arm from the wrist to elbow. Cuts so perfectly placeed they alomost looked like an experiment. John started wrapping gauze around the wounds. As he finished bandaging the arm he place a gentle kiss to Sherlocks palm, but to his dismay Sherlock looked even more distraught.
"Something else?" John inquired softly.
"I'm sorry John, I believe I may have.." his voiced faded out.
" don't be sorry love, whatever it is. I'm still here" john's voice soft with worry.
John's attention was drawn away from the hand he was holding to the arm Sherlock had yet to move, draped over his stomach hand resting on his chest. A blood stain he had assumed was caused by the now wrapped arm, he noticed now was a little too hand shaped.
"Sherlock may I see your hand?"
"No"
"Sherlock I know it hurts. But please let me help"
"No, you were never supposed to know about any of this" he looked thoughtful before turning away, "just stopped thinking about what everyone else might see for a bit."
John chose the table as a seat and shifted the leg of his shorts to show a few faded lines, years old but still bright white.
"I know the feeling Sherlock, please, I want to help. I promise there's nothing you will have done that could make me think any less of you."
Sherlock nodded. John carefully peeled Sherlocks hand away from his now red shirt. Upon turning over his arm John was met with a far more gruesome sight.
Similar to the right hand there were neat uniform cuts from the wrist up to the elbow, however the palm of Sherlock left hand was covered in haphazardly drawn slices. They ranged greatly in size, depth and direction. They were almost desperate. John's face remained calm, understanding, and soft. He began repeating the process of cleaning and bandaging until there was no trace of the scars outside of the white wraps extending the length of Sherlock's arms and left hand.
"How about a bath, clean you up a bit. Then we can have dinner. Sound alright?"
" yes. I'd like that. You won't leave though right?" Worry crept in both his voice and face.
"Course not, I'll be right there the whole time. I promise."
John helped Sherlock up and took him to the bathroom where he started a warm bath and helped Sherlock undress and get in the tub. Not wanting the bandages to get wet, and not wanting an already exhausted Sherlock to do anymore than necessary, John carefully cleaned every inch of blood and dirt from sherlock torso, neck, and face. Once satisfied with that he moved on to his hair. John was careful to rinse out all of the hardened blood without pulling on Sherlock's curls, he massaged shampoo and then conditioner. Sherlock practically falling asleep through the whole bath kept awake only by the casual conversation from John and the slowly growing pain in his forearms.
John helped Sherlock out of the tub drying him off while the day spiraled down the drain in the form of blood and dirt. Helping him get dressed again, this time for bed. John was careful not to let anything bump against Sherlocks arms.
They ate dinner in bed, John had not yet had the chance to clean up the living room, that would be tomorrow's problem as would be the inevitable conversation regarding what had happened while John was gone. Slowly but surely the two fell asleep, Sherlock huddled into John, John's arms around him as gentle reassurance he would always be there.
It's not okay. But it is what it is.