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Sherlock steepled his fingers together under his chin, his eyes staring straight ahead as he lost himself in thought. He was sat in his chair at 221b Baker Street. John sat across from him, typing up their latest adventure onto his blog, his fingers moving quickly over the laptop keys, his bottom lip pinched slightly between his teeth in concentration. He glanced up at Sherlock and could tell by the look on his face that he was ruminating, boredom already beginning to consume him now their latest case had come to an end. The doctor sighed as he finished his sentence, closed his laptop and put it on the table beside him.
“Tea?” He asked, rising from his chair. Sherlock didn’t respond but John didn’t expect him to, he just made his way to the kitchen and pulled a couple of mugs out from the cupboard, filled the kettle with water and flicked it on.
“Haven’t you got to be getting back to Rosie?” John turned to look at Sherlock, he was still staring unfocused into the ether. The doctor's brow furrowed slightly. Something wasn’t right, that wasn’t Sherlock’s bored face. Usually by now he’d be shouting ‘bored!’ at the top of his lungs and shooting the wall. He was far too quiet.
“She’s with Molly at the moment, I’ve got time for a tea. Everything alright?” Sherlock stirred himself and looked at John. For a moment the doctor thought he saw what could only be described as a haunted look in Sherlock’s blue eyes, but the look was gone before it settled in and John wondered if he hadn’t imagined it.
“Fine, fine.” Sherlock rose from his seat and flashed John a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just don’t want to be blamed for keeping Rosie’s father away for too long. You know how Mrs. Hudson got on the last case.” John’s eye brows rose and he tilted his head in acknowledgement. Three weeks ago he’d left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson promising to be back within the hour, but he and Sherlock didn’t return to the flat until the next morning. Mrs. Hudson was not impressed to say the least, even if she was well stocked and prepared to have the little girl for a full week without needing to get anything, it was the principle of it.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” John flicked the kettle off and put the mugs back in the cupboard. He turned to look at Sherlock who was still standing in front of his chair, vacantly staring at the floor with that haunted, far away look in his eyes again. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock’s gaze snapped to John as though he hadn’t even realised he’d zoned out and he once again plastered that unconvincing smile on his face.
“Fine.” John gave him a look and Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, looking like the petulant child he so often embodied. “Seriously, I’m fine. Now get back to your family before I get an angry phone call from Molly.” Sherlock picked up John’s laptop and began putting it away in its case as John reluctantly collected his phone from off the table and checked he had his keys in his pocket.
“So long as you’re sure you’re alright.” Again Sherlock rolled his eyes as he rather haphazardly threw the laptop bag over John’s shoulder and began herding him towards the door. John readjusted the shoulder strap and grudgingly let himself be shown out.
“I’m fine John, honestly. Just tired. I’ll text you when we’ve got a new case.” Sherlock had that smile on his face again, like he was just telling John what he wanted to hear to make him leave, but before John could protest any further Sherlock had ushered him onto the landing and shut the door behind him. He stood there a moment, a little bewildered, before slowly heading down the stairs and out the front door. It was early evening and the street was bustling with people heading home after a long day's work. He stepped up to the road and hailed the next passing cab, all the while trying to figure out what was going on inside Sherlock’s head; a fool's errand, some would say.
*
As soon as he’d shut the door behind John, Sherlock held his breath and listened. He waited until he heard John’s footsteps die away and the sound of the front door closing before he exhaled a shaky breath, closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool wood, his whole body sagging until he felt he might collapse. Pretending to be alright was exhausting, but John had been through enough already over the years. He’d suffered more than his fair share because of Sherlock and he wasn’t about to put him through any more pain.
Besides, there was nothing John could do. Depression was a heavy weight that Sherlock would bare alone. It was almost always there, at the back of his mind, niggling away at him. When they were in the throws of a good case it was barely a whisper, drowned out by the giddiness of the chase. But as soon as the case was done the voices began to get louder. Some days they was hard to drown out, though the sound of gunfire and Mrs. Hudson admonishing him about more holes in her walls helped. But lately nothing seemed to stem the tide of all consuming darkness that seemed to push in from every angle.
Every inch of his mind seemed to diminish and cave under the waves of unrelenting anguish. He hadn’t felt this depressed since he was a teenager, and he’d put that down to hormones and still not having a purpose in life. Since he’d carved out his little niche as the world’s only Consulting Detective he’d found that the voices had diminished quite a lot and he was able to quiet them, even in his darkest times. But lately nothing seemed to work. All throughout the last case, as riveting as it had been, that nagging darkness had crowded in on him, making it hard to focus and even harder to enjoy the thrill that solving other people’s problems usually brought. And now the case was over he could barely breathe through the darkness it consumed him so totally.
For the first time in a long time Sherlock felt hot tears prickling behind his eyelids. Taking a deep breath he pushed himself away from the door and turned towards the living room. What had once felt like his sanctuary now felt like a tomb, the walls were pressing in, the shadows seemed to grow and disfigure all they touched. The emptiness was almost tangible.
Sherlock had turned to many things in his youth to try and stave off this feeling. Drinking and drugs had helped to take the edge off, but he’d promised John he wouldn’t do drugs again after leaving himself with kidney failure last time. So he went to the kitchen and pulled down a glass and a bottle of whisky. His hand began to shake so he made a fist in an effort to stop it, but it didn’t help much. He took the lid off the bottle and started to pour himself a large measure, but his hand started shaking so much he sloshed it over the side. Cursing he slammed the bottle down and balled his hands into fists so tight he could feel his nails dig into his palm. Still his hands shook. He clenched his fists so tight he could feel his nails pierce the skin of his palm. He tried to take a deep breath but the air felt so thick it was like he was drowning in it. Tears began to fall down his cheeks.
He screamed in exasperation and lashed out at the glass of whisky sending it and its contents careening across the kitchen and smashing on the floor under the table. He put his hands on the counter and bowed his head, desperately trying to drag air into his uncooperative lungs. After a few deep breaths he managed to get his breathing somewhat under control. His hands dropped to his sides and that’s when he saw it. Bloody handprints on the kitchen counter. He lifted his hands up and looked at his palms. He’d dug his nails in so deep he’d managed to draw blood and it was now smeared across his palms and the kitchen side. Something inside him went off like a switch and he found the voices of depression quiet briefly. That was something else he’d done in his youth to help with these feelings. Something he hadn’t done since he was about eighteen years old.
Turning from the kitchen he made his way to his bedroom and went to the storage cupboard on the far wall. Opening the door he reached up to the top shelf and moved the blankets out the way. Behind them was a small wooden box with a latch on the front. He hadn’t opened this box in years, and even then it had only been a brief look back at his past before snapping the lid shut and squirrelling it away. He took the box to the bathroom, turned on the light and shut the door behind him. He felt numb, like he was on autopilot, but the voices had stopped at least. Anything was better than the darkness, right?
He shut the toilet lid and sat himself on top of it, then placed the box on the edge of the bath in front of him. Slowly, almost lovingly, he turned the latch and opened the lid. Very carefully laid out inside was a box cutter, some dressings and bandages and some sterilising wipes. His eyes roved over the contents as memories flooded his vision.
He stole the box cutter from his parents' kitchen when they’d gone out to celebrate Mycroft getting a job in government. It was only a desk job, entry level, but it was the beginning of his very lucrative career and even back then they’d known he would quickly rise up through the ranks. Sherlock was only thirteen at the time. His depressive episodes had been getting stronger and longer lasting. Stealing liquor from his parents cabinet only just took the edge off, but they were going to notice if he wasn’t careful so he couldn’t do it often. He didn’t know what made him take the box cutter but something about it had just called out to him. As soon as he had it in his hand a sense of calm came over him and the angry, self deprecating voices in his head seemed to quiet themselves somewhat. He’d locked himself in the bathroom and took the blade to his arm, just pressing it to his skin, gently at first and then harder, until eventually the blade broke the skin and little droplets of blood welled up to the surface. Something about seeing his blood there on his pale skin made the voices quiet all together and the darkness gave way to a calm, numb feeling. He knew he’d have to be careful, keep it well hidden so as not to terrify his parents, but at last he’d found something that drove the darkness away.
Just seeing the box cutter again made him feel numb, made the anger and darkness creep away until all that was left was empty nothingness. He didn’t feel sad or lonely or angry anymore. He didn’t feel anything.
He unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up to the elbow. He took the box cutter and pressed it to his pale skin, gently at first, barely depressing the skin, and then harder and harder until the skin gave way and little droplets of blood began to pool at the surface. Cold numbness soaked through his every pore. He watched as the blood droplets clumped together to form bigger and bigger drops until eventually one slowly trickled down his arms. He took a deep breath and tried to think, but for once his mind was blissfully empty, no pain, no thought, just numb and empty. He took the blade back to his arm, slightly further up this time, and once again pushed the sharp edge into his skin, this time dragging the blade across his flesh and watching as the edges parted and blood rushed to the surface, pooling much quicker this time and sliding down his arm. A droplet formed under his arm, being stretched and pulled by gravity. Eventually it fell and splashed against the bathroom floor between Sherlock’s feet. The voices were quiet and the darkness was gone at long last, replaced by blissful numbness.
*
John had arrived at Molly’s and was sat on the sofa with Rosie on his lap and a tea in front of him on the coffee table. Molly sat beside him telling him about everything they’d got up to that day, but John hadn’t heard a word she’d said. His hand absentmindedly rubbed circles on Rosie's leg as she cooed and gummed at the teething ring in her hands.
“John. John? John!” The doctor started and turned to look at Molly, a concerned look on her face. “What’s wrong?” John brought his free hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes.
“I don’t know, nothing, maybe.” He huffed a sigh. Molly put a hand on his thigh.
“Sherlock?” John turned to her and she just looked at him knowingly. He nodded. “What’s he done now?” John shrugged.
“Nothing, yet, I don’t think. I don’t know. It was just this look he had.” He thought about the look on Sherlock’s face before he’d been unceremoniously kicked out of Baker Street. He’d seen Sherlock look angry, happy, bored, sad; every emotion he'd ever felt, or so he’d thought. But the look on Sherlock’s face was something he’d never seen there before. There was a darkness in those eyes, one that John now realised he knew all too well himself. It was the same darkness that had consumed him in the months after his return from Afghanistan, when his mind was a whirlwind of self pity and hate and anger and sadness and pain. He’d been at his lowest then, he had no friends, Harry was no help, he was going to lose his flat as he couldn’t afford it, and that bloody limp. So why was that look now on Sherlock’s face?
“Is he alright?” John just shook his head and shrugged. Every time he thought he finally knew Sherlock the detective would throw him another curve ball. “You don’t think he’s on drugs again, do you?” John screwed up his face as he thought.
“I don’t think so. But honestly I don’t know Molly, I never know with Sherlock. He just looked so...” John sighed “defeated.” Molly squeezed his leg encouragingly.
“Do you want to go back and see him?” John thought about it for a second before shaking his head.
“No, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got Rosie, I’ve got to put her to bed as soon as I get home.” John leant forwards and picked his tea up off the table, not noticing how cold the mug felt in his hand as it had been sitting there so long. “Sherlock’s fine, I’m sure he is. He’s a grown man, he’ll be fine.” John’s face was still screwed up in concern as he continued to slowly shake his head. Molly just smiled warmly at him and took the cold tea from his hand before he tried to drink it.
“Go back, check on Sherlock. I can keep Rosie overnight, I’m not working tomorrow.” John turned to look at Molly, wanting to go back and not wanting to abandon his daughter with Molly warring behind his eyes.
“I can’t just leave her here with you, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure he’s fine.” Molly gave John a look and pursed her lips.
“I think if you say ‘fine’ one more time that word is going to lose all meaning. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” John took a breath to answer but found no reply forthcoming. “Besides, I’m Rosie’s Godmother, remember? I’ve got everything I need here to keep her overnight, and we love spending time together, don’t we Rosie?” She tickled under the little girl's chin and Rosie squealed with delight, launching the teething ring across the coffee table and ramming her fist in her mouth as a replacement. John smiled down at her but there was still concern evident on his face.
“I don’t know.” Molly tutted and picked Rosie up off his lap, her little legs kicking at the air as she giggled again.
“Well I do. You’re Sherlock’s best friend and you clearly think he needs you right now, so go back there and find out what’s wrong. We’re fine here, aren’t we Rosie?” Rosie had both hands on her own leg and was trying to ram her toes in her mouth now.
“Only if you’re sure.” But John was already collecting his phone and keys from the coffee table and standing up.
“Just go. We’ll be alright, I’ll get her to bed soon and you can call me tomorrow and let me know how he is, yeah?” John was already at the front door, hand turning the handle, when he turned back and flashed Molly a smile.
“Thanks Molly. You’re brilliant.”
“I know. Now bugger off!” she took Rosie’s hand and made her wave at John as he blew her a kiss at the door, her other hand still tightly holding her foot in her mouth as she hummed contentedly to herself. The door shut behind John and Molly shook her head with a small smile on her face. “Oh Rosie. What are we going to do with those two, ay?”
*
John arrived back at Baker Street and let himself in the front door with his key. He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, unsure whether to attempt to sneak into the flat or stomp up the stairs to announce his arrival. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock was up to up there, if anything at all, but if it was drugs he didn’t want to give Sherlock time to hide them before he could get there so he opted for being sneaky, as wrong as it felt.
He crept up the stairs, being careful to avoid the creaky steps, and quietly opened the door to the flat. Everything was as he’d left it nearly two hours ago and John wondered if he wasn’t being a bit dramatic. He stepped into the living room and looked about for any sign of Sherlock, or drugs, but didn’t find any. When he looked into the kitchen he was a little surprised to see the bottle of whisky on the side because Sherlock wasn’t usually one to drink.
Still moving as silently as he could he crept towards the kitchen, but stopped short when he saw the blood on the counter next to the whisky bottle. Looking down he saw the remnants of the shattered glass on the floor. Dread began to build up in John’s mind. He examined the blood stain, not a large one so a superficial wound, and it looked like it had been there a while as it was dry around the edges. It looked vaguely like a smudged handprint, so maybe Sherlock had cut himself picking up the broken glass? He was no sleuth detective, so he’d just have to do some more investigating.
He turned and began to head to Sherlock’s bedroom, but as he passed the bathroom he noticed the light filtering through the crack around the door and stopped in his tracks. Was Sherlock doing drugs in there? Was he having a bath? Using the toilet? Cleaning whatever wound made that blood in the kitchen? Too many questions and not enough answers. He couldn’t very well just barge into the bathroom, that could end in a very awkward and embarrassing conversation.
John pressed his ear to the door and gently knocked on it. “Sherlock?” his voice was barely above a whisper as he listened for any sign of movement behind the door. He heard a sharp intake of breath and something metal and plastic clatter to the floor. A needle maybe? Instinct kicked in and he turned the door handle and, finding it mercifully unlocked, threw the door open, fully expecting to see Sherlock halfway through shooting up. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found on the other side of the door.
Sherlock was sat on the floor, his back up against the toilet, his legs bent up slightly in front of him with his feet resting against the bathtub, his arms were resting on his knees and the box cutter sat discarded on the floor between his legs, dropped at the sound of John’s voice. But John didn’t take much of that in, all he could concentrate on was the blood. So much blood.
Sherlock’s forearms were covered in cuts. Small cuts, long cuts, shallow ones, deep ones. Blood ran from all of them, covering his arms and hands. There was blood smeared on the toilet seat, the sink, the edge of the bath. There were small puddles of blood in several places on the floor and a larger one between Sherlock’s legs.
John couldn’t breath, his lungs simply wouldn’t inflate. He finally looked into Sherlock’s face and even that had blood smeared on it, as though he’d sat with his face in his bloody hands for a while. He was looking at John as though he didn’t quite see him, his eyes were distant and unfocused, and there was a look of alarm and confusion in his eyes, it was almost childlike.
“John?” his voice was barely above a whisper and it cracked as he spoke. John lunged forwards and dropped to his knees beside his friend. Firstly he grabbed the box cutter from the floor and threw it bodily out the bathroom door, getting it as far away from Sherlock as he could at the moment. He then pulled a towel off the rail on the wall and pressed it to Sherlock’s arms, trying to cover as many wounds as he could but failing miserably.
“Jesus Sherlock, what have you done?” he wrapped the towel haphazardly around one of Sherlock’s arms and then reached for the other towel on the rail and began to wrap his other arm, concentrating for the time being on stopping some of the bleeding. As the initial shock gave way to his military doctor training he noted that although it looked like a lot of blood, Sherlock was in no danger of bleeding out. He’d done a number on himself, that was obvious, but he wasn’t about to die of blood loss, thank God. He pressed down on the wounds and turned to look back into Sherlock’s face, looking for some reason as to why Sherlock had done this to himself.
Tears had begun to spill down Sherlock’s face, cutting paths through the smeared blood as they ran down his cheeks and dropped to the floor, mingling with the blood there. Sherlock just stared at his towel wrapped arms as if he wasn’t really seeing them, his eyes vacant. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times as if to speak, but no sound came out. He lifted his head slightly and looked into John’s terrified face. Finally his vacant expression broke and his face creased up with regret and sorrow.
“I’m sorry John.” He looked back down at his arms as if seeing them properly for the first time and took a deep, shaking breath. “I’m so sorry John.” His breathing hitched and the tears turned to torrents as his breathing got more and more erratic. It was like he’d been completely detached from his emotions and now they were back they were making up for lost time. John had seen this before in other soldiers, the dissociation followed by sheer panic. It was like Sherlock was suffering PTSD.
John put his arm around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him so his head was resting on John’s collar bone. Sherlock’s body began to shake with the effort of trying to breath while he moved into a full on panic attack. John began making soothing noises and running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s alright, calm down, it’s going to be OK. Breathe Sherlock, it’s going to be alright, I’m here now, OK? It’s going to be alright, just breathe. Breathe for me Sherlock, nice slow breaths now, come on.” He felt like he was rambling but he didn’t know what else to say, he felt like Sherlock was breaking apart in his lap and there was nothing he could do but try and talk him down off the ledge, and he’d failed so spectacularly at doing that last time. Tears began to spring into the corners of his own eyes as he pushed the image of Sherlock’s broken body on the pavement outside St. Barts out of his mind.
But as he continued his rambling platitudes and running his hand through Sherlock’s hair, the detective's breathing seemed to calm slowly. His gasping breaths soon turned into choked sobs as he attempted to take deep breaths and slowly evened out his breathing. John could feel Sherlock’s tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt and he pulled the detective closer to him, Sherlock’s side now flush with John’s body. Sherlock pulled his arms into his chest and grabbed a handful of John’s shirt, using it to help anchor himself and try to slow the torrent of emotions threatening to consume him. John wrapped his now free hand around Sherlock’s shoulders and rested his head on top of Sherlock’s, pulling him as close as he could without causing undue pain to his open wounds.
“I’m sorry John.” Sherlock’s voice was stronger this time, but it still cracked as he spoke and John couldn’t stop the tears now flowing freely down his own face.
“Its alright, I’m here now, its ok.” Sherlock shook his head and took a shaky breath, still clinging to John’s shirt like a lifeline.
“It’s not alright. You weren’t supposed to find me like this. I wasn’t supposed to take it this far. It was only supposed to be one cut. One little cut. But I just... I couldn’t stop John. I c-couldn’t stop.” Sherlock’s breath began to catch in his throat and he had to stop talking to try and even out his breathing again. John tightened his grip a little on Sherlock’s shoulders and buried his head a little further into Sherlock’s hair.
“It’s alright, you’ve stopped now. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, alright?” Sherlock just shook his head again, clenching his fist tighter in John’s shirt and gently pushing their bodies apart so he could look up into John’s face, the doctor's arms releasing their grip and his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders. Both of them had tears streaming down their cheeks, some of the blood that was on Sherlock’s face had rubbed off onto John’s shirt.
“I’ve put you through enough already John, too much.” Sherlock shook his head and brought his free hand up to John’s face to wipe the tears from his cheek, but all he succeeded in doing was smearing blood across his face. Sherlock grimaced and released his grip on John’s shirt, dropping both hands into his lap pitifully. “All I do is ruin everything.”
“No.” John shook his head and opened his mouth to continue but Sherlock cut him off.
“Yes, I do John.” Sherlock’s voice rose as he began to get angry with himself. “I made you think I was dead for two years. I killed your wife! I nearly killed myself just to get your attention!” He brought his hands up to his head and grabbed two fistfuls of hair as he buried his face out of sight. “I’m poison John. I’m poison and you deserve so much better than me. You should be at home with what family I haven’t taken from you yet.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hands and forced his fingers to let go of his hair before he pulled it out.
“Listen to me Sherlock.” Sherlock shook his head and refused to look up, but John took his chin in one of his hands and lifted his head. Sherlock still refused to look John in the eyes and instead fixed his gaze on the bath beside them. John sighed and ran his hand up Sherlock’s jaw until his palm rested on his cheek. Sherlock couldn't help but close his eyes and lean into the touch, as undeserving of it as he felt.
“You didn't kill my wife Sherlock, and I'm sorry I ever said you did. Mary chose to step in front of that bullet. She chose to save your life, even if it meant losing her own.” John's voice wavered but he couldn't lose it now, he had to stay strong for Sherlock. “And you nearly killed yourself to save me. I'm the one that let you down. I should never have let you get into that state in the first place.” Sherlock shook his head slightly, but not too much to dislodge John's comforting hand on his jaw.
“You're not my keeper John.”
“No, I'm your friend.” Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked into John's. Tears still streamed down the doctor's cheeks but his face was resolute. “I'm your friend and I should have been there for you when you needed me.” Sherlock raised a hand and placed it over John's, the towel wrapped around his arm falling away and revealing the state of his arms once more. John wrapped his fingers round Sherlock’s and brought his arm out in front if him to look at it again. The smaller cuts had stopped bleeding but some of the bigger ones still bled freely, and what little unblemished skin he could see was stark white against the red blood tarnishing his arm. “You shouldn't have pushed me out. I could have helped you through this.”
“I'm sorry.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper as he gazed down at his lap, shame making him avoid the hurt in John's eyes. John just sighed and pulled the towel back around Sherlock’s arm.
“Come on. Let's get you cleaned up.” John knew Sherlock wouldn't go to the hospital and so didn't even suggest it. He didn't want to risk the detective shutting down anymore than he already was. He pulled himself up onto his feet without letting go of Sherlock's hand and then offered him his other hand to help him off the floor. Sherlock placed his other hand in John's and the doctor helped to slowly lift him upright. Sherlock wobbled slightly as he got to his feet, a little light headed from the sudden change in blood pressure and blood loss, so John snaked an arm around Sherlock’s waist to steady him. Sherlock thought about putting an arm around John's shoulders, but he didn't want to put any more of his blood on the doctor so he folded his arms in front of him and attempted to hold the bloody towels in place.
“Ready?” John asked after giving Sherlock a moment to collect himself. Sherlock nodded and he and John made their way out of the bathroom.
As they entered the hallway John saw the box cutter on the floor and glanced at Sherlock. The detective had seen it too but he looked away, shame written all over his face. They made their way down the hall and into the living room. John walked Sherlock over to his armchair and helped him sit in it. Sherlock perched on the edge of the seat, still holding the towels mostly in place. John was reluctant to leave him but he had to get the first aid kit that was in a cupboard in the kitchen. As quickly as he could without running, John went to the kitchen to retrieve the first aid box. He glanced at the whisky bottle on the side and thought about how much he could use a drink right then, but the blood drying on the counter next to it was a stark reminder of the urgency he needed to use, so as soon as the box was in his hands he made his way back to the living room.
Sherlock was where John had left him, his hands still gripping at the towels, maybe a little too tightly, his eyes staring vacantly at the floor. John hoped he wasn't falling back into the darkness that had got him in this state in the first place.
He pushed his own arm chair closer to Sherlock’s and sat himself on it, placing the first aid kit on the floor beside him. He reached out for Sherlock’s hands and placed them on his knees, hoping that the contact would help ground him. As gently as he could he peeled back the bloody towels from Sherlock’s arms and discarded them on the floor the other side of him. John couldn't help the sharp intake of breath as he once again looked down at the damage Sherlock had caused himself, although thankfully it looked like the bleeding had stopped.
“Oh Sherlock.” his voice was soft and he placed his left hand on Sherlock's right hand and rubbed small circles on the back of his palm. Sherlock just stared into his own lap. John picked up the first aid kit and flicked the catches open with one hand. He opened the lid and pulled out some antiseptic wipes, ripping the packets open with his teeth. “This is likely to hurt, alright?” Sherlock just nodded slightly.
John spread his hand out over Sherlock’s to help hold him steady and then gently started wiping the fresh and drying blood from his arm, trying not to push too hard on the cuts but also knowing he needed to clean them thoroughly and get all the blood off. Sherlock sucked in a breath between gritted teeth but otherwise didn't react to the wipe. John was methodical in his ministrations as his training took over. He needed to use several wipes to get the blood off of Sherlock’s right arm, but after several laborious minutes he managed to get most of the blood of his skin and was able to start on the other arm. He placed his left hand on top of Sherlock's and started the process again.
“I don't have many friends.” John almost jumped when Sherlock spoke, he was so unprepared for it, but he continued cleaning the wounds for fear of stopping Sherlock from getting out what was on his mind. “I’ve never been good with people.” Sherlock was choosing his words carefully, pausing between each sentence to try and figure out exactly what he wanted to say. John had finished with the antiseptic wipes and took some dressings out of the first aid kit. “Whether I mean to or not I treat people terribly, and those few that call themselves my friends are no exception to that.” John had placed the dressings over Sherlock’s cuts and gently moved Sherlock’s other hand to hold them still while he reached for the bandages to bind them in place. “I hurt you the most John, over and over again. It doesn’t seem to matter how much I try to protect you, I only end up hurting you.” John had started wrapping Sherlock’s arm but stopped what he was doing so he could look up. Sherlock was looking at him with so much pain in his eyes, pleading with John to understand. “You’d be better off without me. Everyone would. I’m better off alone.” John frowned.
“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” John used his free hand to take hold of Sherlock’s un-bandaged arm and lift it up between them. Bright red cuts a stark contrast to Sherlock’s pale skin, some of them with fresh droplets of blood slowly oozing to the surface. “You did this when you were alone.” John’s voice was tense, caught somewhere between being hurt and being angry. “This isn’t better Sherlock, this is worse, so much worse than anything I’ve seen you do before.” Sherlock dropped his gaze, ashamed of what he’d done but mostly ashamed that it was John that found him.
“So why stay?” Sherlock sounded defeated, he pulled his arm out of John’s grip and rested it in his own lap. John sighed and went on bandaging Sherlock’s arm.
“Because I’m your friend, your best friend. And friends look out for each other.”
“But why are you my friend? I’m arrogant, I’m self serving, I never think of other people’s feelings or how my actions might hurt them. I’m a terrible friend, but still you stay. Why?” Sherlock looked pleadingly into John’s eyes, trying to convey just how stupid John was for staying but also begging him to stay at the same time. John smiled vaguely and gave a small shrug.
“You don’t chose your friends Sherlock. You just sort of gravitate towards the people that make your life better.” John finished bandaging Sherlock’s right arm and began applying dressings to the second arm. “And you do make my life better Sherlock. I honestly don’t know where I’d be right now if I hadn’t met you that day. But I do know I wouldn’t have Rosie, and I wouldn’t still be living in London, or have friends like Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson, and I wouldn’t be as happy as I am. Because you do make me happy Sherlock.” He took Sherlock’s free hand and guided him to hold the dressings down while he wrapped the bandage around his arm. “Running around London, solving crimes and getting into dangerous situations, but also just sitting in this flat, writing up our adventures and drinking tea and listening to you prattle on about tobacco ash and how bored you are.” He finished wrapping Sherlock’s arms, making sure they were tightly secured and wouldn’t come undone. Sherlock tried to pull his arms back but John took hold of his hands in his own and pulled them into his lap, forcing Sherlock to sit forwards and look at him.
“I love you Sherlock. Its not a conscious choice I made one day, it just sort of happened. You’re my best friend and I love you and I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Tears collected at the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “We’ve been through a lot together, and yes, some of that is your fault, but I wouldn’t change a thing. We are where we are now because of the choices we’ve made together, and nothing you say or do now is going to chase me away, got it?” Sherlock gazed into John’s eyes and saw nothing but sincerity there so he nodded slowly. “I’m here for you Sherlock. You don’t need to go through whatever this is alone. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you because you felt you couldn’t turn to me for help, not after everything we’ve been through together.” Sherlock nodded again, feeling like an admonished child.
“I’m sorry John. I didn’t mean to scare you.” John lifted his hand to the back of Sherlock’s head and wound his fingers through his dark curls, pulling the detective’s head towards him so he was able to plant a chaste kiss on his forehead.
“We’ll get through this Sherlock, together. You just have to let me in.” Sherlock nodded again, unsure of what else to do. “Come on.” John rose from his chair and Sherlock followed suit, a hand still held tightly in John’s. The doctor led him to the kitchen, being careful to stay away from the broken glass on the floor there. He pulled a flannel out of a draw and wet it under the tap then turned back to Sherlock and gently wiped the drying blood from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to look at John.
He wasn’t sure what he’d done exactly to deserve a friend like John, but he was right. You don’t choose your friends, and they had been through a lot together. Even now the darkness was closing back in and voices began to whisper disparaging remarks in his ears. Sherlock was used to suffering these problems alone, but John wasn’t about to let him do that anymore. They’d both been to hell and back for one another and this was no different.
Sherlock’s demons wouldn’t be easy to overcome, even with John’s help, but with him there it would be harder to allow the darkness to consume him. And even if it did, John would be there, his anchor, the light in the dark. He took a deep, shaking breath as John discarded the bloody flannel in the sink after wiping the smear of blood from his own face.
“Thank you John.” He opened his mouth to say more, to tell him he loved him too, that he was grateful for a friend like John, even if he didn’t think he deserved one, but somehow no words felt right, felt enough, to convey the emotions he was feeling. But John smiled at him, that big dopey smile he seemed to find so easy, and he knew that John understood. He knew what Sherlock left unsaid.
“How about that tea, ay?” Sherlock nodded and John turned and flicked the kettle on. As he put the whisky back in one cupboard, Sherlock took a couple of mugs from another and put them down on the side. John pulled two teabags from the box on the side and dropped them into their mugs, retrieving the milk from the fridge. Sherlock put his hands on the counters edge and noticed the blood stain he’d left there several hours before; such a small, insignificant thing that had set this night in motion.
“You’ll be alright Sherlock. I’ll make sure of it.” John placed his hand over Sherlock’s, interlaced their fingers and squeezed. The voices in Sherlock’s head quieted, the darkness receded slightly, and Sherlock felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He wasn’t better by any means, but with John by his side, eventually, he just might be.