Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was, by all accounts, a self-destructive man. He would go for days without sleep, and countless hours without food, in the name of solving a case. He would look destruction in its very eye. And John Watson, though he got proper rest and food, would always follow.
Holmes’ hands were marred in large patches, scars and stains caused by his chemical experiments. They were additionally often covered with plasters, be it because he hurt them by accident, or needed a drop of blood for some experiment.
Excluding his experiments’ occasional need for blood, though, he had never been one to purposefully cause direct harm to himself. That was a business for men madder than himself, even if he had always been a tad bit mad.
Unfortunately, the business at the lighthouse drove him into a descent.
He felt appropriately mad as he stared at the blood on his leg, gushing out of a wound of his own creation.
It was not that he enjoyed the sensation of bringing a knife to his skin. He was only human, annoying as the fact was, and it was quite painful. But as he had initially accidentally discovered, it was very grounding. When he was swimming in shadow and delusion, unsure if the world around him was real, there was one thing he could be positive of: pain. The knife in his hand was clearly real, for it had cut him. And how could he have been hurt by it, if he were not? Yes, this was a knife given to him by Watson, and he was in their home on Baker Street.
Watson, particularly, was a sensitive thought in relation to this less than desirable habit. Sherlock took care not to harm himself when Watson, who routinely made sure to check on him, was home. He took care not to do it just before the man arrived home either, for surely one man with a limp would recognize another. It was easier to ground himself with Watson home, anyway. Sherlock tried not to bother him often, but Watson would truly drop everything to tend to the man. He could not ask for a better friend, nor a better partner. That was one of the reasons he had chosen his leg as his subject of abuse. He occasionally would let Watson tend him with an injection, though Watson had come to understand and respect his rejections of them, which exposed his wrist. His stomach would surely be too tender, and Watson would recognize any slight grips he made of it. However, even if he were unfortunate enough to bleed through his bandaging, it wouldn't mark visible through his dark pants. Hidden away from anywhere Watson would search, he had even begun to buy his own bandages, so the doctor would not notice his had gone missing. How could he notice if they factually were not? For all the reasons he had to hide this from Watson, he did.
After all, the last thing he wished was to scare Watson, or somehow cause the doctor to blame himself for Sherlock's tendencies. The doctor did know him better than anybody else, but even he could not have predicted this happening. There was the additional concern Watson would have him sent to a madhouse. He did not believe it something Watson would do, but the thought still lingered.
He had considered telling Watson at a point, but.. no, it was not a good idea. And so he bandaged his calf, after cleaning the blood from it.
-
Despite all Holmes' caution, Watson did, perhaps inevitably, find out. Painfully, the reason so being that they were so close now– and against his better judgement, Sherlock was hard-pressed to push the doctor away.
He could explain away why there were bandages in his bookshelf–which Watson had invaded in search of a book Sherlock recommended, his own doing there–because it was reasonable to have extra in the case of Watson running out. Sherlock was, he would admit, a bit self-destructive. What if Watson had just used his up when he had returned with a wound? This was a point Watson quickly agreed on. Though he suggested it would be more beneficial to keep extra bandages somewhere he would not have to search for them. Sherlock conceded, and also found a better hiding place, that Watson would hopefully have no reason to look.
Before Watson had become so involved in Sherlock's investigations, anything odd the landlady would wait to ask Holmes about, for an extra farthing. Now, though, it was whoever was leaving who was asked, or whoever happened to open the door. Watson was the fellow who happened to open the door, whilst Sherlock sat tucked away by the fire with a book in his lap.
“Now, normally I wouldn't ask, as it's your business,” their landlady began.
Sherlock had planned to ignore the conversation and let Watson explain if he had any questions, but now his ears perked up.
“but the trash got knocked over-”
Oh. That was not good.
“-and I can't think about anybody else who would have a reason to fill it with bloody bandaging. I've spotted it a few times here and there, but this was a much larger amount than usual.”
Sherlock did not look over, but he could see in his mind’s eye the way Watson would furrow his brows and purse his lips.
“If it involves me or Holmes, it is not something I am in on.”
John recalled Sherlock's hidden bandages, he was sure by his tone. As a doctor, and somebody who cared so deeply for Sherlock, the detective knew he would not give up until given the actual answer.
“Ah, well. If it doesn't concern me, you have no reason to tell– but I would certainly like to know about any blood in the carpets.”
Goodbyes, and the door shut.
Sherlock felt John lean over the back of his chair, peering at what he'd been reading.
“You were listening to all that, I'm sure.”
“I was.”
“Do you care to explain? Have you been going off to one of your old prizefighting rings?”
Sherlock mused to himself about how that was probably preferable, but not the actual answer. “No. They're a bit too bloody for that anyway, I'm afraid.”
A heavy sigh. “If you have been injured this entire time and somehow hiding it from me I would very well like to know. Clearly you are not treating it correctly, if it's not closed up.”
He often hid his expressions, in front of clients or strangers. For he was an expressive man, and it would be easy to read his confusion or horror, two things people do not want to see on the face of Sherlock Holmes. And that Sherlock did not want them to see. Watson had become the one person who wanted to see him as he truly was, and perhaps for the same reason John would follow him anywhere, he could not deny him that comfort.
That is why the gentle hand of a doctor met his shoulder as he made a pained expression, thinking of how to approach John's curiosity. And more delicately, his concern.
“You mustn’t think me mad, John.”
“No madder than you already are?” His tone was inappropriately light, perhaps even playful.
And that got Sherlock to smile, which he suspected was John’s intent, for he'd never called him mad before– denied the fact, even.
“No madder than I already am,” he agreed.
John squeezed his shoulder, and he leaned into the touch.
“Tell me you did not have any plans, for I fear you will not want to leave once you receive your answer.”
“I did not.” John moved his hand to Sherlock's upper arm, leaning forward to view the detective better. Neither of them flinched away, despite the intimacy of the arrangement.
Sherlock sighed, crossing his injured leg over the other. Both bore their marks, but one was his larger–and most recent–target. He pulled back his pants leg, revealing a bandage. It did not seem bloody at first, but more was revealed as he unwrapped it, until a wound that had scabbed over, but only recently, was revealed. It was surrounded by other even cuts, clearly deliberately made, lined up along his leg. Some were older, their appearance nearly gone from his skin, and others nearly as fresh as the one that had bloodied the dressings in Sherlock's hands.
He felt John’s hand tighten on his arm. It was not something possessive, nor a punishment of sorts, but born from the man's shock, for he apologized as his grip loosened.
“Do these-” John's hand hovered over Sherlock's leg, tentative about touching the wounds. “-suggest that you've done this yourself, Sherlock?”
“You may touch them, if it brings you any comfort.” Sherlock looked away, but felt the light brushes over his skin as John assessed their age, and likely how they were made. “And I have.”
“Why, man?”
He winced at the rough name, but knew it was warranted. “It was an accident, the first time. Do you recall when I accosted you as you came through the door for a wound on my forearm?”
“I do.”
“I had discovered that they-” Sherlock paused, thinking. “-bring one back to reality. It is easier, when you are here. But when I'm on my own, and the only things to tether me are my own actions, it has been effective.”
John was silent, and Sherlock could not bring himself to look at the man. He startled as a wet rag met his leg, then turning to look. “John?” He had not heard the doctor walk off.
“You have been cleaning them correctly, yes?”
“Of course.”
“There is that, at least.”
John fell silent again, recleaning and bandaging Sherlock's leg. It was tighter than Sherlock had ever done, preventing a full range of motion.
“I hope you are aware that like all things else, you couldn't have stopped me.”
“It is that that worries me, sometimes.”
Sherlock watched as John checked the inside of his pants leg for traces of blood. Content with the lack of them, he flattened the cloth back over the man's leg, taking the chair beside Sherlock's.
“There's nothing to tell Mrs. Hudson about, is there?”
“No, I took care to leave no traces.”
“You cannot continue this.”
Sherlock knew it was coming, and he again looked away.
“I do not care if I must take you with me to my appointments, it could damage your leg in a way beyond healing.”
Without responding to John, he stood, using his chair to support himself for a moment. Moving with this tight bandaging would need to be relearned. “Tea?”
“Will you speak once we have it?”
“It will help.”
It was somewhat of a non-answer, bringing a frown to John's face. But it was as close to a yes as he supposed he would get, and he stood to help the limping detective.
They met again, in their chairs by the fire, after it had been made. Sherlock noted that they had been pushed closer together, but made no comment. He had no conflict with it, anyway.
He held the tea to his face. It was real, the cup was hot in his hands, and the steam warmed his face. He appreciated the smell of it, one that could often be found in their flat, and one that usually coincided with John's presence.
“I had no intent to startle you,” he said, taking a sip of tea that had yet to cool, and stung against his lips.
“Put that down. You are here, I assure you.”
John reached across the short gap between them, setting a hand on Sherlock's forearm. He felt the radial pulse, making an audible indication of the beats he counted as they sat there. Every ten, he steadily trailed on.
Cautiously, Sherlock took the doctor's hand in his. John made no resistance, accepting it warmly, wrapping his fingers tightly around the other man's hand.
“I should like to follow you to your appointments, though it would be a questionable thing.”
“Our latest trip has left your health in a questionable state, one worthy of being monitored at all times.”
He hummed.
“You are no madman, you have come back from the unspeakable.”
“And yet I am unable to cope with it.”
“Most would not be able to.”
“You are doing well.”
“I saw little of what you did. The nightmares you described– I am unable to recite them, they feel so baffling to me.”
Sherlock looked to him, a vulnerability–one that once would have been hard to imagine from the young, cocky man–in his eyes. John looked back, squeezing the man's hand, and running thumb much smoother than Sherlock’s calloused ones over his knuckles.
“I consider telling you everywhere I have come up with to hide bandages, lest something like this return.” He took a sip of still-warm tea, but now cooled.
“We can start with where your current stock is kept.”