Chapter Text
Sherlock had always been known to indulge in…destructive habits. The drugs, the cigarettes, the gambling with his life he did so casually. He had been known to indulge in those things, but not these things.
When he was particularly bored, or when he was in withdrawal, or when he needed to blow off some steam after a high-stakes case, there was always a little razor blade waiting patiently, buried deep in his bathroom drawer.
It had started out as a guilty pleasure (that’s how the drug addiction started, too), a once in a while solution to a pressing problem. With fumbling hands, he’d watch as blood dripped from his hip. The frequency at which he was hurting himself grew as his life began to unwind. Soon, there was rarely a moment of the day his leg wasn’t throbbing.
John took relatively no notice. There were the very occasional odd looks he sometimes shot Sherlock when the latter winced after accidentally brushing his hip against a table or chair. Or the time he questioned Sherlock about the dried blood on the floor of the shower.
Experiment, Sherlock had said. In a way it was. He was testing his limits, the limits of his body and mind. He was testing how far he could go without it, and how far he could go with it before he started to be unbearable.
It was a banned experiment, however, in the Holmes-Watson flat. John had banned self experimentation after Sherlock had tried to put his head in the oven (“It’s ridiculous!” John had said. “Common sense, that’s what you need.” Sherlock had tried to argue. “John, it’s an experiment. It's not my fault you can’t see my genius.” “It’s not genius, it’s a suicide attempt.”). From thence forth, no self experimentation.
Even if it were allowed, Sherlock knew John wouldn’t be too keen on Sherlock’s replacement for drugs. John had spoken disgustedly of the suicide attempts in war. Empathetically, yes, but ignorant to the appeal. A “disease” he’d called it. Sherlock disagreed. It was his body to do what he saw fit, and their body to do what they saw fit.
“Sherl, it’s a mental thing. They don’t understand what they’re doing. They aren’t thinking clearly,” John had said when Sherlock fought in favour of the soldiers. “They can think for themselves, though,” Sherlock argued. John just sighed, “They’re sick, they aren’t in their right mind.” Then the talk of war upset John and he went to sit quietly in his room.
Sherlock didn’t feel sick, and he knew he was thinking quite clearly. Even if he wasn’t, his foggy was the average man’s genius. Sherlock convinced himself he knew exactly what he was doing. John was the one who had no clue.
So Sherlock continued on his path of self sabotage, convinced it couldn’t be anything but harmless. After all, it's not like he was hurting anyone but himself. He did it nearly every night, just a couple deep cuts. It became as routine as taking his medicine. Just a couple pills; just a couple cuts. Just until he’d bled enough. Erking him was a little voice in the back of his head (that sounded a horrible lot like John) telling him it’d never be enough. He could bleed all the blood in his body and it wouldn’t be enough.
He ignored it, that was the Holmes way, after all.
—
Sherlock Holmes was out of his damn mind if he thought John hadn’t noticed his dissent to…not okay-ness. He’d become withdrawn and he looked sick all the time. Dark circles cutting into his under eyes made him look like a skull. His skin had grown pale and he’d certainly lost weight, which was concerning. The man was already slender.
He’d been exceedingly restless, often stalking around the flat at ungodly hours of the night. It wasn’t like he’d been with drugs, though. He wasn’t frantic or agitated like he was when he was begging John to give him cigarettes. He was irritable and fell into long silences before he locked himself in the bathroom, then excused himself curtly to go to bed.
He didn’t play his violin half as much. He didn’t seem to be thinking half as much. He just sat in his chair and waited like a dog for Lestrade or John to give him a case.
And his recent behaviour on cases was eerie, at best. He often needed to be told information multiple times, though he wouldn’t ask for information to be repeated. He was still hopelessly determined to be independent.
It didn’t take him any longer than usual to actually solve the cases, but his approach to solving them was worrying. He just sat in his chair and mulled the case over until he calmly took his phone out and texted Lestrade the answer. He wasn’t excited by the cases like he was before.
John didn’t know how to fix whatever was wrong with his friend, he didn’t even know what was wrong. He was replaying every interaction they’d ever had and was reinterpreting all of them.
Maybe the blood in the bathtub didn’t belong to the pig Sherlock said he was experimenting on. Maybe he hadn’t read deep enough into the sticking-his-head-in-the-oven thing as he should have? Had he been missing all the obvious signs? Sherlock did seem the kind to be prone to tragedies. Young, brilliant, handsome, antisocial, drug-addicted guy like him.
Then there was their talk about the army suicides. Sherlock seemed to fully believe it was their choice. He argued fully in favour of the depressed army men, sounding scarily like he was pro-assisted suicide.
John was worried, too, about the pain Sherlock seemed to always be in. His legs were tensed up and locked and he winced when anything seemed to touch him. John had toyed with the idea of the man being sick, but he couldn’t think of any illness matching Sherlock’s odd behaviours.
Except depression. Except self-destructive mental illnesses. Except suicidal ideations.
John vowed to himself he’d take better care of his friend. As soon as he figured out how. In the army it had been no problem weeding out who was at risk and who was hurting themself. There had been minimal privacy, so no chance of hiding anything.
The procedure after that always just consisted of sending them home. There was no intervention. John sighed loudly, folding up the newspaper he hadn’t finished and tossing it on the floor. He hadn’t been trained for this.
Sherlock was out, probably confronting a murderer with not so much as a means to protect himself. John stood from his chair and stretched. He had business, himself, to attend to. Editing his blog, etc. etc. etc.
—
“What the hell, Sherlock?” Lestrade called as he converged on the consulting detective.
“Hm?” Sherlock said, distracted by who knows what. Sherlock was sat on the back of an ambulance parked outside the crime scene looking like a kicked puppy. Paramedics dabbed at a cut on his leg and Sherlock uncharacteristically didn’t resist. “‘What the hell?’ what?”
“You just decided to confront the known murderer who is armed with a gun in a secluded place with no back up, no bullet proof vest, and no one who knows where you are? What the hell are you doing?”
“My job? Detective, you arrested him and I assure you I am smart enough to know how to not get myself shot,” Sherlock challenged, passionless.
Lestrade sighed. “Your job is to stay alive and tell us who the criminals are so we can arrest them.”
“Uh, yes…” he said, already unfocused. “Well, good talk.” Sherlock gave a pointed look to the paramedic dabbing his leg and she packed up.
Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked away, off into the streets of London. It was strange of him, as of late he hadn’t been keen to confront criminals. He usually just texted Lestrade the answer.
Lestrade looked at the man (vaguely limping) into darkness without really seeing him. Sherlock had always been independent, but he wasn’t stupid. No man in his right mind would do what the consulting detective had done. He was being reckless.
Lestrade considered texting John and telling him of Sherlocks weird behaviour, but thought better of it. Sherlock was a smart man. Surely this was just an occasional instance of poor judgement. Not something serious. Right?
—
Sherlock didn’t know how long he’d walked around the streets of London. He was certain Mycroft was watching him and tried not to feel unnerved. He’d been feeling much more lately, it bothered him. He regarded himself as a cold murder-solving machine. Feelings had never gotten in the way of that.
But as of late, he’d felt so immensely for everything. When he woke up he was instantly crushed by the weight of the emotions he’d pushed down for his entire adult life. He gazed sceptically at a camera and could picture Mycroft and a team of tech people slouching behind a screen, watching his every move.
Sherlock turned and began walking the other way (not before indiscreetly flipping off the camera), making to go home. He’d walked for several hours and there was really nowhere else to go but back to 221b.
He craned his neck to look at the tops of the buildings he passed. Calculating quickly, Sherlock came to the conclusion that the building he passed next to was nearly 58 feet high. He’d surely die if he fell off.
Sherlock wondered dully about who would find him. Surely some shopper in the boutique across the street would see him first. Who would tell John? Lestrade or Mycroft, Sherlock guessed. How long after his fall would it take for John to be called to the scene? Would he cry? Mrs. Hudson would. Molly would. Lestrade even might, but John might want to be brave about Sherlock’s jump.
Sherlock stopped. Jump? When did the hypothetical turn from falling to jumping? The detective didn’t realise he’d stopped in the street, staring blankly at the building until a man bumped into him.
Sherlock muttered an apology and kept walking. He needed to get home.
—
John was asleep in his chair when Sherlock got back. He woke with a jolt as Sherlock creeped into the flat.
“Hey, Sherl,” he slurred. “‘Time is it? Where'er you?”
“Catching that killer.”
Sherlock clattered around in the kitchen, fumbling with a cup of water. John turned in his chair to watch as his flatmate practically chugged the drink.
“You okay?” he asked, suddenly feeling much more awake. “Sherlock, what is it?”
Sherlock just shook his head and set the glass down on the counter roughly. His hands were shaking, though he tried to hide them.
“Sherlock,” John said warningly, “I’m not stupid. Something’s up.”
Sherlock shook his head, denying John an answer and he bode his friend a hasty goodnight before scrambling to the bathroom and closing the door.
“Sher–” John started, but was cut off by the definitive ‘click’ of the bathroom door lock. John sighed and rose from his chair. He debated about knocking on the door and insisting Sherlock tell him the truth then thought better of it.
Sherlock wanted to be alone. He would need space to work through whatever it was he was dealing with.
John slowly sank back down into his chair.
—
Sherlock paced in the bathroom razor in hand. Ripping into his upper arm, he cried out slightly, then stopped to listen if John heard. Deciding he hadn’t, he continued his previous pursuit. Growing frenzied, he continued to cut the flesh of his tricep.
He was so frantic, he couldn’t even reflect that this was an incredibly inconvenient spot to cut himself. Even if he always did wear long sleeved shirts and a thick coat, he couldn’t risk letting on that his arm was hurt.
Blood slid slowly down his arm and several drops stained the tiles as he leaned against the door. Moving suddenly, he rummaged through the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet. Would a band-aid be good enough? He assessed his arm blandly. Better play it safe with a bandage, he was bleeding quite a bit.
Sherlock paused. Would he need stitches? That would be incredibly inconvenient.
Wrapping his arm tentatively, he tried to listen to John’s breathing in the other room. Was he asleep again? Had he been alerted by Sherlock’s cry of shock and gasps of pain?
Peeking his head out of the door when he’d done satisfactory work on his arm, John turned to look at him. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. ‘Everything alright?’ it implied. Sherlock gave an acknowledging and obviously forced smile.
He fled to his room, similarly closing and locking the door. John rose from his chair again and moved towards the bathroom. Inspecting the sink, the mirror, the drawer, it all seemed fine. Slightly unsatisfied, he’d turned to leave when he saw it.
Deep red drops of blood littering the tile by the door. John stared, not daring to move a muscle. He came to himself eventually, though. Moving very suddenly, he left the bathroom and banged three short knocks on Sherlock’s door.
“One minute,” John heard Sherlock’s distant voice call.
“Now, Sherlock. Open up now,” John demanded, banging twice more on the door.
The door swung open and a messied-hair Sherlock stood expectantly. He had clearly been changing. He had his normal black work trousers, but a half buttoned sleep shirt.
John moved back a few steps and pointed to the floor of the bathroom promptly. Sherlock frowned.
“What?”
“Look at the floor, Sherlock. Use your genius brain and tell me what you see on our bathroom floor,” John almost shouted.
Sherlock moved hesitantly to stand by John. His face morphed into a mask of cold indifference.
“I had a nosebleed,” Sherlock said, too casually.
“No you didn’t,” John countered.
“I don’t know what to tell you, I did.”
John stared, scarily intense, at Sherlock’s face for a second. Sherlock’s ears flushed but his mask didn’t fall. He strode back to the doorway of his room and was already swinging it closed when John blurted, “Take your shirt off.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take your shirt off.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows calmly, but his eyes hinted at panic. He swallowed thickly and said, “Bit keen, aren’t you John?”
“Piss off, I’m not joking. Take. It. Off,” he hissed.
Sherlock stood, half in his room, with his hand on the door. He was clearly considering closing it.
“If you lock yourself in your room I swear to God I will break your door in,” John snapped. He took a few steps closer and gestured at Sherlock’s nightshirt in a ‘go ahead’ sort of way.
Sherlock swallowed again and opened his mouth to say something. He closed it again, then opened, then said, “I…will not?”
“No, you will.”
“No, I won’t,” Sherlock said, sounding a little more sure.
“Sherlock, so help me, I will never let this go,” John swore.
John could practically see the gears behind Sherlock’s eyes turning as he said, “I was injured today, I didn’t want you to worry so I didn’t say anything. Clearly, though it has led to more anxiety than I had wished for you.”
“Let me see.”
Sherlock’s hands shook slightly as he removed the shirt, showing John his bandaged arm.
“A professional did this? Wrapped it?” he asked.
“Uh, no. I did it.”
“Great,” John replied, studying the bandage and moving to undo it.
Sherlock jumped back and half closed the door.
“Can’t take it off, sorry. Doctor’s orders,” he lied lamely.
“You just said you didn’t see a doctor.”
“Ah, yes. The doctor is me. On my orders, you can’t take it off,” Sherlock tried to remedy.
And Sherlock shut the door. John stood baffled for a second before banging on the door again. Calling Sherlock’s name again, John heard the man’s muffled call.
“If you break that door down, you’ll never get your safety deposit back!”
John stopped. He sighed, turned, and walked back into the bathroom. Taking a box of wipes from below the sink, he glumly began to clean the blood. He needed to start watching Sherlock closer.
—
Several nights later, John stood at a crime scene with Lestrade as they watched Donavan yell at Sherlock. He had, once again, talked too much.
“Should we tell them to cut it out?” Lestrade asked hesitantly.
John shook his head. “Let them go for a couple more minutes. Sherlock put a dead horse head in my bed this morning.”
“Like the Godfather?” Lestrade grimaced incredulously. “Like the–uh–God, what was it? Something Corleone? Was it a threat?”
“Expiriment , probably. If Sherlock was gonna do something to me, he’d have done it already. No, I’m confused about where he’s getting the stuff. What butcher just has horse heads?” John spurted flustered.
They both laughed and looked back at Donavan and Sherlock. Sherlock was just standing there, taking it. He almost always clapped back, he took pride in how devastating these fights could end for the opposition.
But now, he was just looking at Donavan, staring blankly into her face with glazed eyes and a defeated demeanour.
“Last serial killer– uh, the one killing those prostitutes,” John started.
“Yeah I remember.”
“When Sherlock caught him, was he injured at all?”
Lestrade thought for a second then said, “Um, just a cut, I think. We made him get checked up by the paramedics. He was fine.”
“Just a cut,” John echoed. Sherlock was telling the truth then. John still felt unnerved.
“Yeah," Lestrade said suspiciously. “Hm, John are you concer–”
“You freak!” Donavan shouted.
John grimaced as their fight climaxed.
“One of these days I hope it’s your murderer scene!” she hissed, cruelty dripping from
every syllable.
“Hey, piss off!” John shouted angrily. “Sally, too much,” Lestrade reprimanded.
Donavan stormed off and Sherlock stared at some point in the far distance, brow furrowed.
“Sorry, Sherl. You okay?” John said and walked over to stand by his friend.
Sherlock seemed to come out of a stupor and sucked in a deep breath before he answered.
“Yes, fine. Why wouldn’t I be? Dinner?” Sherlock asked.
“Sure,” John said slowly, eyeing Sherlock sceptically. “How ‘bout that Chinese take-out place you like?”
Sherlock nodded and looked over John’s shoulder at Lestrade. Then he looked back down at his room mate.
“Shall we?”
—
John picked up the Chinese while Sherlock stayed at the flat. The entire walk home John was lost in thought. He was worried about Sherlock. Worried about the cut on Sherlock’s arm, worried about his friend’s sudden apathy, and mostly worried that Sherlock wouldn’t go to John if something was wrong.
Sherlock wouldn’t go to anyone. He was much too stubborn to ask for help, let alone support. John sighed. He wanted– no, needed– to have a conversation with Sherlock. Ask him what was going on in his brilliant mind.
John climbed the steps to his flat. Entering, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch and nearly dropped the bag of takeout.
Sherlock was lying, staring blankly at the ceiling, twirling the gun in his hand nonchalantly. There were two fresh bullets in their wall.
“Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice.
“Ah, wonderful. Food,” Sherlock muttered and sat up.
“Sherlock,” John said again, this time much braver. More like the soldier he was trained to be.
“Yes?” Sherlock prompted after a beat of silence.
“You’re gonna need to give me that gun.”
Sherlock blinked and raised his eyebrows. “Why would I need to do that?”
John opened his mouth and closed it a couple times, gaping like a fish, then just as he had chosen careful words– he didn’t want Sherlock to think he was patronising him– Sherlock interrupted.
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll keep it.”
“Sherlock,” John stressed, seriously.
“What?” he cried. “What? It helps me think!”
John strode up to his flatmate and held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
“No, it’s mine,” Sherlock said childishly.
“Sherlock, I don’t know if you can really be trusted with a weapon like that right now,” John burst.
The detective looked offended, just like John knew he would be.
“What is that supposed to mean? ‘Trusted’?”
“Y’know, with how you’ve been as of late. I’m worried about you with access to a loaded weapon. This just doesn't feel safe for you,” John asserted.
“And how have I been ‘as of late’?” Sherlock mocked.
“Depressed! You’ve been depressed!” John accused. Sherlock looked shocked. He stared blankly at the army doctor. “You don’t play violin, you don’t get excited about murders, you haven’t been showing off. You’re completely different! You need to talk to someone about…this.”
“...So because I don’t play violin, or show off…I can’t have a gun?”
Sherlock jumped up very quickly and scooped his violin off his chair and played a few bars of a very fast, very impressive song.
“Good? Now can you get rid of these accusations of ‘depressed’?” Sherlock scowled.
“Very nice playing,” John dismissed, waving his hand like he was swatting at bugs, “but it’s not just the violin. It’s you you’ve been…”
He gestured very vaguely at the other man.
Sherlock waited expectantly. “What? I’ve been what?”
“You’ve just been…weird,” John tried.
“When haven’t I been, doctor,” and dumping his instrument back on the chair, he resumed his seat on the couch. The way Sherlock stowed the gun in his robe-pocket wasn’t lost upon John.
“Sherlock,” John began again, not giving up, “Please, just for the sake of my sanity, give me the gun.”
Sherlock glared at the Chinese food bag and didn’t move.
“Sherl, why do you even need it? Surely I can just hold on to it until you’re feeling better.”
“I’m feeling fine now,” he grumbled.
John held his hand out again.
Sherlock, still staring broodingly at the floor, pulled the gun from his pocket and held it out for John to take.
“Thank you, Sherl,” John said kindly.
John pulled the orders out of the bag with his free hand before muttering a quick, “Be right back.”
He deposited the gun in a drawer currently being used to hold his socks and underwear. This was too obvious. Sherlock was a genius, there was no place in the damned country John could hide the weapon Sherlock wouldn’t be able to guess.
John cursed his too-incredible-for-his-own-good roommate. Did he ever tire from being the most outstanding person on Earth?
Sherlock was sprawled back on the couch again, to-go box set on his chest. He looked glum, but his mask of normalcy slipped on when he saw John had entered the room again.
John sat in his arm chair and watched Sherlock pick at his food calmly as he asked John trivial questions about his opinion on the case. It hit John like a train that Sherlock was initiating small talk.
Sherlock listened politely as John answered his questions, somewhat sceptically.
“Well, how was your day? Y’know when we weren’t chasing that murderer,” Sherlock inquired, still picking at his food.
“Sherl– I’m sorry, is this an experiment? What is this?” John burst, utterly lost.
The detective raised his eyebrows bemusedly. “All I did was ask how your day was?”
“Yes, I’m just confused. You told me once that you’d rather be tortured nonstop until you died than have to partake in small talk. And now you’re doing it… willingly?”
Sherlock blinked. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
John stared and Sherlock stared back.
“Well what did you want me to do? Ask you about your PTSD? You’re being awfully weird, John. Maybe I ought to take the gun off you,” Sherlock quipped dryly as he stood and made his way to the bathroom.
John watched, still catching up to what was going on. “What are you doing?” he asked finally.
“I’m going to brush my teeth then go to bed. Goodnight.”
And the bathroom door lock clicked with finality.
—
Sherlock felt like shit as he patrolled the aisles of the grocery store. John had dragged him along with him. He was currently off getting eggs, leaving Sherlock in the can foods aisle.
“Don’t go anywhere,” John had mumbled before he left with the basket.
Sherlock stared blankly at the cans on the wall. Who organised this? It was crap.
The detective scratched at his arm. He’d slashed three new cuts in his left arm. They were very deep and not at all sufficient. He had not bandaged them so there was nothing between the slowly healing cuts and his purple button up.
He hated how the cuts itched as they healed.
John said a soft, ‘hey’ as he turned into the aisle and stood next to Sherlock.
“Find what you needed?” Sherlock asked, scanning the basket.
John nodded and looked at the cans. “Did you want any of this soup, Sherl?”
Sherlock scratched numbly at his arm and answered, “No, but see how poorly organised it is? No rhyme or reason to any of it.”
John smiled and looked towards Sherlock, silently prompting Sherlock to explain further.
“Well, look at the tomato soup, the general brand is on the far left, then they have Baxters tomato soup off in the middle,” he said, pointing emphatically. “But of course, it was organised by a man– mid fifties, average build, caucasian, balding– going through his second divorce.”
Sherlock leaned down next to John’s ear for dramatic effect. “He’s losing custody of the kids.”
John laughed. “And how in Hell did you know–”
John stopped and he gazed blankly at Sherlock’s sleeve. Looking back up to his friend, he asked, “What’s that on your sleeve, Sherl?”
Sherlock looked down at his arm. Blood, of course it was. He silently cursed himself for not putting a bandage on. How would he lie his way out of this one?
“Experiment earlier. I got blood on my sleeve, I suppose,” Sherlock lied coolly.
John stared at Sherlock so intently it was like he was trying to scan his face.
“Right, you liar,” John lashed quietly. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and began leading him to the front of the store. Setting the basket by the door, he pulled them both into the mens room.
Four stalls in total, all empty. Pushing Sherlock into the first one, John quickly entered after him, turned, and locked the door.
Sherlock cleared his throat. John and him were awfully close and John seemed to be radiating heat.
“While I'm quite flattered–” Sherlock started.
“If you make a sex joke right now I swear to God I’m going to lose my shit.”
Sherlock shut up and instead stared at the ex–army doctor in front of him.
John began fumbling with his roommate's sleeve, hands shaking violently. Sherlock pulled away and held his arm against his chest in a defensive position.
“You pull me into a bathroom, don’t say anything, are trying to get my shirt off. I’m entitled to one sex joke,” Sherlock tried to deflect.
“I’m not trying to get your shirt off, you major prick. I’m trying to roll up your sleeve,” John said and he reached for Sherlock again. The taller man pulled away and coughed.
“Why?”
“You know why, Sherls,” John said, reaching more slowly for Sherlock. He held his friend’s arm gently as he fumbled with the buttons on his sleeve.
“John, you really don’t want to..” he trailed off.
“I want to know.”
“John..” Sherlock whispered, putting his hand over his friends and pushing it away caringly, “You already know.”
John’s eyes were wet as he looked at his friend. He opened his mouth to speak, but what would he even say?
“Please..it’s not..that, right. Please, Sherloc–” But he was cut off by his own seeming lack of breath.
Pushing at his sleeve, John continued his futile attempts at seeing his arm. His hands were shaking worse than ever, and Sherlock didn’t stop him.
Neither of them knew what to expect. John didn’t move when he finally got to the cuts.
Sherlock hesitantly pulled John into a hug. The latter didn’t react, he just stood shell shocked as he took in the gravity of his discovery.
“You fucking–” John started, but he was cut off by his own sobs.
“Shh, I’m fine, John.”
“You dick, you’re not fine! You’re hurt you– shit.”
Sherlock didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to get out of this situation. He couldn’t outsmart John at this point.
John carefully tugged Sherlock’s sleeve back down and buttoned it.
“We’re going home,” John said, trying to calm himself.
“What about the groceries?”
“I don’t give a fuck about the groceries now.”
John pulled Sherlock out of the bathroom and they left the store in a hurry.
The walk back to the apartment was quiet and tense.
“John, I’m not–”
“Save it, Sherl,” John said, not unkindly.
Mrs. Hudson was cheery when they got back. She chirped about the neighbors for a whole of ten seconds before John cleared his throat to interrupt her.
“Mrs. Hudson, this is very serious, I’m afraid. Sherlock– well, Sherl do you want to tell her?”
“Mrs. Hudson, I have been doing an experiment. Some would call it distasteful, or problematic, but I find no harm in it.”
“There’s plenty ‘harm’ in it,” John muttered.
Mrs. Hudson looked confusedly between the two.
“No, John, I assure you it’s fine. If you would kindly just forget about it–”
“I won’t ‘forget about it’ you–”
“Are you two going to keep talking in code or are you going to tell me what's going on?”
“Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock’s been hurting himself,” John said grimly.
She gasped, clutching her chest. “Sherlock! Why?”
“Experiment,” he mumbled. “And it makes me feel better.”
“Makes you feel better? Are you mad?” Mrs. Hudson cried.
“Mad? Maybe, I’ve been called worse. Good day, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock turned and rushed up the stairs to the flat.
“Mrs. Hudson, if you could just lock up all the pills and, like, knives and stuff in your flat that would be great.” And John followed Sherlock up to their flat.
“Sherlock? Are you okay?”
The Holmes man was pacing the room, violin in hand, playing very loud and very fast.
“Sherlock!” John called over the violin playing, but Sherlock simply played louder.
“Sherlock, please just talk to me for one second!”
“Why? What’s the point?” Sherlock snapped, lowering his violin.
“You’re fragile, you need help, I’m just trying to get it for you–”
“I don’t need help!” Sherlock spat, tossing his violin onto a chair. “I’m not a damsel in distress, I’m not your patient, and I’m not fragile!”
“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said ‘fragile’ What I meant–”
“I know what you meant, and it's bullshit,” Sherlock muttered. He stared at the floor for a second. “I’m going to bed.”
“Uh,” John started, trying to remember the procedure for this, “Um, I’ll sleep on the floor by your bed so you can’t, y’know, kill yourself.”
“I’m not going to kill myself!”
“Great, and while you’re not killing yourself, kindly show me what you’re using to hurt yourself?”
“No.”
John huffed. “Sherlock, please. I just want to know you’re safe.”
“I won’t be complicit in this.”
“Fine, whatever.” John moved quickly to the bathroom and started rummaging through Sherlock’s drawers.
“Stop! You’re messing up my organization!” Sherlock said, appalled.
“You call this,” and John gestured to the completely disordered drawers, “organization?”
“There’s a method to it.”
John continued searching the drawers until he felt something poke him. Picking it up, he saw it was a tiny blade, the kind you’d pull out of a shaving razor.
“Is this it?” John said grimly, showing it to his roommate. Sherlock’s silence was as good as confirmation.
John straightened up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. The man seemed alarmed by the sudden hug, but he hesitantly wrapped his own arms around John, too.
They stood there hugging for a while until Sherlock felt something wet on his face.
Oh my God, he was crying. What? The Sherlock Holmes, sociopathic detective, was crying? Sherlock pulled away quickly and John glanced at him, pityingly.
“How are you doing, Sherl? What do you need?”
“I need to go to bed.” Sherlock pushed past John deeper into the bathroom, pushed John out, and shut the door curtly.