A/N: This story deals with the subject of self harm material of this type may be triggering to you. If you suspect that may be the case please exit this story.
Also if you struggle with self-harm please get help immediately. Go to an adult friend or parent, or you can PM me if you need too :)
Also if you find any mistakes in this please notify me.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.
"John?"
John, looked up from his book at the sound of his name. The sound had come from his flatmate Sherlock, who was currently flopped on the couch limbs flying everywhere.
"Yes Sherlock?" John sighed he knew what was coming. After all he had heard it countless times over the last few days.
"I'm bored" Sherlock said, John mouthing the words along with him. Sherlock didn't whine this time, just simply stated the words. That usually meant he was desperate.
"I don't know what you want me too do, Sherlock, I've tried everything to keep you entertained.
"Not everything" said Sherlock "if you were really trying to keep me entertained you'd have given it to me."
John knew the "it" Sherlock was talking about was the bag of cocaine he had taken from him earlier that morning.
"No Sherlock that's not what friends do."
Sherlock rolled over to face John, "Please John"
John swallowed, Sherlock's light grey eyes burning into him. John wanted to give in. Oh, he really wanted to give in, Sherlock really was desperate. John could only imagine what was swirling around that head of his. Millions of thoughts churning around, all the time. Never stopping unless there was something to focus on. Too grasp onto, like some hungry beast that was never quite full. It must be torturous. And there was nothing John could do about it.
Unless...John rested his hand on his front trouser pocket, where he felt the packet of the white powdery drug through the fabric.
If he just gave him a little. Just a pinch would it help his friend?
No. He couldn't let him destroy himself like this. What kind of friend would he be then?
John shook his head "No Sherlock."
Sherlock exploded. That is the only way to describe it. He shot up from the couch, and ripped John's book out of his hands. He chucked the book across the room, hitting the awful colored wall, hard enough to crack it.
Sherlock stormed to his room slamming the door behind him.
John sighed, and stood up to retrieve the vacuum for the plaster that was trickling out of the crack onto the rug.
Sherlock want this. He needed this.
He knew it was inevitable, there was no stopping him now. But that didn't stop him from trying to fight it as long as possible, pacing his room for a good twenty minutes, before ripping open his dresser drawer. He dug around for a minute before his fingers felt what they were looking for. He pulled out a small Altoids tin, flipping the lid he pulls out what he wants. What he needs.
He sits down on the bed with a sigh the metal object in his hand glistening in the light.
...
John was irritated. After his tantrum in the living room. Sherlock had locked himself in his room, and hadn't come out. The problem is, that was two days ago.
Two days, and John was pretty sure Sherlock hadn't eaten anything, and John was starting to worry he has more drugs hidden in there.
So John was going to do what he had to do. He was going to force Sherlock to eat. That is not a task so easily accomplished.
He was standing outside of Sherlock's door, plate of spaghetti in hand. "Sherlock!" John shouted knocking on the door with his free hand. He waited for a minute without a reply from the other side of the closed door.
"Sherlock! I know you're in there, if you don't open this door I will not hesitate to break it down."
John stood for another minute, and was about to knock again, when he felt his phone vibrate in pocket, indicating he had a text. He sighed, and fished his phone out of his pocket, as best he could without dropping the plate of food. He pressed the button to turn his phone on, blinking as he read the text.
"John, as always you are failing to think, or maybe it's
your sense of heroism, that makes you think you have to
break down the door rather then get the key.
-SH"
John sighed shaking his head he tried again "Sherlock! Open. This. Door"
Silence.
John mumbled under his breath, he reached up and slid his hand across the top of the doorframe, until he felt cold metal on his fingers. He pulled down the little silver key, and slotted it in the keyhole. He wiggled it around for a moment before he felt the lock give. He tentatively reached for the doorknob nodding his approval when he felt it turn. He slowly pushed open the door.
John wasn't sure what he expected to see on the other side of that door, but definitely not something this...mundane.
Sherlock was laying on his back on his bed, head resting on the headboard feet crossed at the ankles. Reading a book.
"Sherlock, I, uh, I brought you some food."
Sherlock lowered his book, and locked eyes with John, Grey eyes to Blue.
"I'm not hungry."
"Well, you are going to eat"
"No. I. Am. Not."
"No Shelock! You will eat this. I made this for you because I care about you. I know caring is a foreign concept for you, but can you at least pretend I mean something to you for ten minutes? Please Sherlock."
Sherlock swallowed hard before speaking hesitation laced in his voice "No John."
"You bastard" John spit out throwing the plate of pasta on the floor, before turning and storming out. The door slamming behind him.
Sherlock sighed, and leaned his head back against the headboard. That wasn't supposed to happen. He closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the grumbling of his stomach.