TRIGGER WARNING!
Sometimes it is all too much for Sherlock. Sometimes cutting is the answer. Sometime, for reasons unknown to either of them, John helps...
The streets of London become a blur as Sherlock races through the back alleys and twisting pathways. As he runs on in the chase, every step sends a jolt of chemicals through his system. Sure there is adrenaline, endorphins, but then amongst it all there is pain.
They catch the man. Sherlock watches as he is taken away in handcuffs, shoulders gripped firmly by DI Lestrade, who looks over at Sherlock with a smile. The smile turns sharp, however, as he sees Sherlock carefully trying to shift his weight. He looks down at Sherlock's feet knowingly, his eyes suddenly sad. Sherlock notices - of course he does. But he says nothing.
John has noticed as well. He lives with the man. How could he not?
But what do you say when that is happening? It would be difficult enough to say anything to anyone, but Sherlock Holmes?
That evening, John Watson leans against the door of the bathroom, watching sadly as Sherlock sits in a shivering heap in the middle of the floor.
The army doctor, who has seen so many horrendous sights, can't help but wince, as Sherlock glides the scalpel down the arch of his foot with near-clinical precision. The line is almost invisible at first, though soon becomes clear as the first trickle of blood creeps through, running down onto the white floor tiles like a whisper.
Sherlock's face is emotionless, as always, his cold features betraying nothing of what is inside his head. There is only the shimmer of salty tears streaming over his sculpted cheekbones.
John inhales, as quietly as he can, debating whether or not to speak. He can smell the blood.
The consulting detective turns his head.
"It's ok, John. I know you're there. And I know you've seen."
"I want to help."
"Can you really help? Would you do what I want you do to?"
John isn't sure why he does what he does. Why he kneels in front of this remarkable man: his flatmate, best friend and sometimes lover. Why he runs his fingertips gently over the white, slightly raised lines that are scattered over Sherlock's feet, ankles and calf's, and then again over his wrists.
John isn't sure why he takes the scalpel out of Sherlock's hand, or why he murmurs that one, terrifying word.
"Where?"
Neither of them are completely sure, but it happens.
Later that night, Sherlock stands naked in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom. His body is covered in old scars. Self inflicted ones. Acne scars. Self inflicted ones that he claims are acne scars. A gunshot wound. A burn.
But he does not notice. Tonight he stands transfixed, staring at the two red lines which follow the contour of his collarbone, framing them like a twist of crimson ribbon.
John sits on the edge of the bed, staring too. He doesn't say a word. He can't. Neither of them can.
Even when Sherlock walks over, straddling his lap, wincing as John ghosts his lips as gently as he can over the new marks, neither of them say anything. He feels John's eyes burning into him. Looking for any sign of untainted skin. He finds very little.
The next day, Lestrade notices the crimson twist as Sherlock leans across the desk in Scotland Yard. He glances at John, but says nothing.
No-one ever says anything.
Sorry for the senstive subject. Though please feel free to leave reviews.
Virtual cuppycakes as always :3