It had probably started a long time before this; if Sherlock was seeking to hide something, it would stay hidden. Even so, John couldn't help but find himself surprised. Hurt, even, that his friend would keep something like this from him. But then again, maybe he had been dropping hints, wanting John to find out for months, and he had just been ignoring them, subconsciously hoping for it not to be true.

There was that time when he'd found it difficult getting up the stairs, John suddenly recalled. He had hobbled up a few steps, leaning heavily on the banister, before finally accepting John's helping hand, but not without glaring down at the carpeted floorboards as if the world was conspiring against him. And that other time he refused to take his coat off even though the sweat was beading on his forehead. Or the time, even before that, when Mycroft made that jibe about his wanting pain more than anything, and Sherlock had gone suddenly silent, before kicking his brother out of the flat with a sudden ferocity. And he was forever tapping his leg, or banging his arm against something and wincing with a sudden, shameful pain that always took John by surprise. He always refused to talk about it afterwards, of course, and John would just push it from his mind. But not this time.

This time, John took the hint.

Turning the razor over in his hand, he found some bloodstained fingerprints smeared across the handle. A sudden revulsion and disbelief sent the cursed blade tumbling from his shaking palm to land with an enormous clatter in the silent apartment. He sat with a thump on the white tiles of the bathroom, leaning against the side of the bath, and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

How could I have not seen this before? he couldn't help asking himself, but he already knew the answer, and it repulsed him: because he hadn't cared to look.

His best friend - Sherlock Holmes - had been hurting himself, all of this time, and he - John Watson - had not cared to look for clues, no matter how obvious they may have been. What a sorry excuse of a detective he was.

…

"John? What are you doing here? I thought you'd be home with that wife of yours."

"Uhm, yes. I mean, uh, I called Mary. Told her I'd be home late."

"Why? Are you going somewhere?" He looked as normal as ever. Then again, Sherlock always looked normal (unless he was cooking up one of his grotesque experiments, or brandishing a gun). That was the problem.

Taking off his beloved coat and ever-preasent scarf, the great detective leaped straight onto the sofa by the the bare wall at the side of the room and began tacking up random bits and pieces over the wallpaper. Preasantly, he spoke.

"Have you come to help me with this case? I sent you a text about it. It's really quite interesting, which makes a nice change, don't you think?" He threw a lopsided smile over his shoulder, then pulled out a marker pen to draw rings and arrows through and around his bits and pieces.

"Er, no. As a matter of fact, I'm not here for the case." He stopped drawing suddenly, and turned to face John.

"No?" Genuinely disappointed, he pulled a face at his sidekick. "Fine, then. What are you here for? It can't be all that interesting, I suppose." Brandishing the marker, he fell back to his task of linking and circling.

"Mrs Hudson phoned. She said she was worried about you."

"Worried? That daft woman gets frantic if I tell her it might rain. I can't tell her a single thing! You'll have to be a little more specific." With the last few words, he capped his pen and hopped off the sofa.

"Yes, but Sherlock, usually these 'single things' are your deductions on possible terrorist plots, or criticizing the poor woman's clothes! Anyway, that's not the point. She said she, uh, found something that I should take a look at. So I came over." Suddenly, he stopped. What was he supposed to say? It was a delicate subject, after all.

Looking up from where he was starting his laptop, Sherlock caught John's anguished expression and straightened up.

"And..?" He prompted, his forehead creased, eyes narrowed.

"And, I, uh. I think Mrs Hudson was right to worry."

"Oh, get to the point, John. I have a case to solve! Which, incidentally, I am doing on my own because a certain someone cannot be bothered to help me out." He smirked.

"Sherlock! I have a family now! What'll happen if I end up dying while I'm out solving one of your god damned mysteries?"

"You won't." Sherlock muttered distractedly, attention already being drawn back to his laptop screen. "Anyway, you enjoy it. It's only a matter of time before you're back helping me with a case." he promised, raising an eyebrow at his laptop, and typing a quick string of letters.

"Look, I – Anyway. That wasn't the point."

"And what was the point?" He straightened up again, grabbing John by the shoulders and pushing him aside so that he could stride pat him into the kitchen.

"The point was, I saw, Sherlock."

"Saw what, sorry?" came the response. He appeared back in the room, clutching a bundle of papers, dropping them on the table before consulting his laptop again.

"Your things, Sherlock. In the bathroom." Everything was suddenly silent, the entire flat listening for Sherlock's response. John took a breath. "Look. I understand that being as..." he struggled for a word for some seconds, filling the silence with a drawn out 'ahhh...' "brainy, as you are, things tend to be a bit more difficult for you. I just..." another pause. This time, he waited for Sherlock to say something. He didn't. "I just wish you had told me. I could have helped you. Or at least tried."

Again, he waited for a response. None came. The silence had completely taken over the flat now. Only the slight humming of the laptop tried to break the eerie quiet, and it sounded incredibly lonely in such a silent room. The world outside Baker St seemed to have fallen under the spell of silence as well: no ambulances zipped past, no people shouted, no taxi cabs honked.

"Well?" John finally demanded, "say something." But Sherlock seemed frozen, like a victim of rigor mortis. "Sherlock? Why did you do it?"

"I...uh..."

Well I never, John found himself thinking, Sherlock Holmes lost for words. I never thought I'd see the day! But he quickly banished the thought when his friend looked at him. A shamed look, like a cowed dog, begging for mercy through its eyes.

"I'm sorry, John. I just can't help it." This made absolutely no sense to John. It just didn't compute with anything he'd seen at all.

"Can't help it?" he exploded, "can't help slashing yourself, Sherlock?" (he noticed that Sherlock winced at that, but couldn't help himself) "Can't help picking up that bloody razor and making yourself bleed? You can't – bloody – help – it?" Clenching his fists, John glared murderously across the room at his friend. "I was here, Sherlock. Right bloody here! And you didn't once – not once! - consider telling me, your best friend!" Sherlock's face was impassive.

"I don't understand why you're overreacting like this, John." He eventually remarked, sitting himself down in the wooden-framed chair by the table.

"Overreacting?" John spat out in disbelief.

"You were in the army, and you're a doctor! Surely you've seen things like this before!" he watched as Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, obviously confused and upset. He found himself shaking his head.

"Yes, but that isn't it, Sherlock."

"Then what is?" John forced himself to take a few deep breathes. Yelling wasn't going to get him anywhere.

"How long has this been going on?" He demanded.

"I don't know. A while." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, like a scientist watching a test subject for unprecedented results.

"You're Sherlock Holmes! How do you not know?"

Sighing like an exasperated child trying to explain technology to a confused and largely deaf grandfather, Sherlock rocked back in the chair, tipping his head back to gaze at the ceiling.

"A few months. I didn't think to tell you. I'm sorry."

"You- I- You didn't think to tell me?" John spluttered incredulously.

"Yes, I apologise. Now, can we please talk about something else?" he asked the ceiling.

"No. No we can't. Sherlock, this is serious."

"I didn't think to tell you because I knew you'd want me to stop!" he cried suddenly, like a desperate man on the top of a cliff, a step from the edge. "I'm sorry. I said that already, didn't I? Now can we please drop the subject?" He was watching John with a look of such confused irritation and wretched pity that for a second, John could barely stand to face him.

"Where?" He choked out finally.

"Hmm?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, attempting his default sarcastic expression. It just made him look even worse, like a dying actor pretending he was as fit as a fiddle for the sake of his audience.

"You know what I mean. Where. Where have you cut yourself?"

Sighing, Sherlock let a hand drift to his head, where it massaged his temple.

"I don't want to talk about this, John. Please, stop."

"No."

"Please."

"Look, Sherlock, I just-"

"John, stop. If you carry on about this I will be forced to remove you from the premises."

"What?" he demanded, dumbfounded.

"You heard what I said." he glared, with an intensity John was not accustomed to.

"No, I will not stop. We need to talk about-"

"Fine." He jumped from the chair so suddenly that John took a step back. "Get out." Holding out both arms so that he couldn't get past, Sherlock bustled him out of the doorway and onto the landing so quickly John wasn't entirely certain of what had just happened.

"Sherlock-" but that's as far as he got. The door swung shut in his face.

…