This is the first fic I've ever posted, so please don't be too harsh! But please do leave any criticisms or comments you may have, I'd greatly appreciate it!
This story has been my head-cannon for a very long time and I needed to get it out. Sorry for any mistakes I've made relating to drug-use, I'm not very familiar with heroin-use but I did research some things. Also, this story has not been Brit-picked or beta'd, please excuse any typos or mistakes. Let me know if you have any suggestions on things I can improve.
Some of the things I put Sherlock through in this story are very personal to me, I've dealt with mental illness and self-harm for many years. I wanted so badly to write this from Sherlocks POV, but wasn't confident that writing the mind of Sherlock Holmes was within my capabilities.
I've written most of this fic, I have the first three chapters finished and am working on the last three plus the epilogue. I probably won't have everything finished before Season 4 comes out, so there's a chance the new episodes may effect how I end the story.
Enjoy and let me know what you think!
Trigger warnings: Self-harm and Drug-use
John was having a perfectly normal, boring day at work when he got a phone call from Mrs. Hudson. He was finishing up some paperwork and set it aside to answer his mobile. He thought it was odd, they didn't talk on the phone much.
Must be important.
"Hello Mrs. Hudson, how are you?"
"I'm just fine dear, but I think you need to come to Baker Street. Something's wrong with Sherlock."
John sighed, he could tell from her tone that it was serious. "I'll be over tonight after work. Did something happen?"
"Well, he's been smoking, and hasn't come out of his bedroom for over two days. I've tried bringing him tea and a few meals but he either doesn't say anything or yells at me to go away. Sometimes I can hear him talking to himself in there."
John taps his pen on his desk with furrowed brows. He thinks for a moment.
"That's nottoounusual, but I'll come see what's going on."
"Alright dear, I'll see you later. Goodbye now."
John gets back to work, trying to ignore the worry rising in him. It really wasn't too strange for Sherlock to pull something like this. When John was still his flatmate, Sherlock would go days without speaking or eating. He would sometimes lock himself in his room when he was trying to solve a particularly difficult case and would refuse to come out. John suspected something similar was going on, but Mrs. Hudson really did sound more worried than usual.
He almost leaves work early, but decides to stick it out for the rest of the day. Sherlock would be fine on his own for a few more hours.
When he finally finishes up a few last minute things, he has a quick chat with one of the nurses and then walks out of the building to catch a cab. He directs the driver to 221B and sits back to check his email on his mobile.
They pull up to the flat and John pays the cabbie, gets out, and heads for the door. He thinks about knocking, feeling a bit awkward. He decides to just let himself in with the key he keeps "forgetting" to give back to Sherlock.
Once inside Mrs. Hudson opens the door to her flat and John smiles at her. She warily smiles back and approaches him for a quick hug.
"It's not pretty up there, he's wrecked the place more than usual."
"I'm sure he's fine, probably just in one of his moods." John responds.
Mrs. Hudson looks like she's about to agree but something else crosses her face.
"John, I didn't mention this earlier but he's been acting up for weeks. Barely leaving the flat, hardly playing the violin, he's had a few of his homeless friends come by too which is worrisome. Shady-looking types if you ask me."
John reassures her that he'll deal with whatever it is that's going on and heads up the stairs.
He opens the door to a room a hurricane must have torn were sheets of papereverywhere, tea cups tipped over on their sides, files thrown about, cigarette butts, books abandoned in various places, or lying around looking like they had been thrown across the room. Some books look like they had been ripped apart. He saw Sherlock's violin sitting in a corner behind a bunch of boxes, the skull was on the sofa, and there was a pile of antique-looking daggers on the kitchen table next to Sherlock's many experiments. The place really was a mess.
And thesmell. The flat reeked of cigarette smoke, rotten food, and other unpleasant things he couldn't identify. He puts his sleeve over his nose and walks the short distance to the bedroom.
He knocks, not hearing a peep from inside the room. He says Sherlock's name loudly a few times, again no answer. He contemplates just going in, feeling uneasy about disrespecting his privacy. When he tries the handle he finds it locked, of course.
Damn his privacy.
John goes up to his old bedroom to look for his lock-picking kit. He's surprised to see that the room is also fairly trashed. Every other time he's visited his old room it had been kept exactly how he had left it, now it was covered in cigarette butts and ash, and the window was wide open, the wind blowing around balls of crumpled paper. He finds more daggers on the desk. Once he retrieved his kit from the desk drawer he closed the window quietly and went back to Sherlock's bedroom.
After fiddling with the lock for a few minutes he hears it click and braces himself for whatever is on the other side of the door.
The door swings open and John sees Sherlock lying is his bed, barely covered by the tangled sheets around his calves. He approaches the bed and what he sees makes him gasp audibly. His eyes widen, his body stunned into immobility.
Sherlock is slightly shaking and looks flushed. He looks like he hasn't showered in days, his hair a greasy mess of curls. He's wearing his usual robe, t-shirt, and pajama bottoms. He must have been tossing and turning because his shirt is lifted up a few inches revealing his stomach. John sees fairly fresh wounds all across his stomach and hips, dried blood on the edge of his pajama shirt. They're obviously self-inflicted, neat rows of slashes in different healing stages.
And thescars. There are so many on the small portion of skin he could see, there had to be more along his torso. And who knows where else.
He's known Sherlock for almost five years, lived with him for nearly two, and had never seen them. Now that he thinks about it, he's never even seen Sherlock with short-sleeves. He thinks he knows why, now.
I'm a terrible friend, how could I not have known? I don't have much experience with the psychology side of medicine, but surely there were signs? But of course Sherlock would have hidden them well. Why did he hide them from me?
John knew that was a stupid question.Of coursehe had hidden this part of himself, Sherlock was the master of disguising emotion and thought it was a sin to show any sign of weakness. He still felt horrible for not knowing.
Not to mention Sherlock was also showing signs of drug-use.
Probably why he had his homeless buddies over.
He felt such sadness for his best friend, and guilt. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in weeks and didn't make a point of checking in on him with even a text. He'd been so distracted with the new house and the baby on the way.
But he suddenly feels determined. He feels such protectiveness over the man and automatically propels into action.
I'm going to fix this. I won't leave until he's done with this nonsense, no matter how long it takes.
John leaves Sherlock to search the flat. It takes a while to sort through the mess but he fills a box with blades, scalpels, syringes, pills, knives, a gun, and drugs that were in very well hidden places. He even took all his lighters and matches. He decides to text Mycroft.
I'm going to be staying at Baker Street for at least few days, probably longer. Please have these items sent over, I am unable to leave Sherlock and probably won't be able to for a while. -JW
He presses send and starts a new message listing things such as groceries, bandages, antiseptic, and drugs he knew that helped with detoxing. He sends that off too.
He stands there a moment, thinking about calling Mary and what he's going to say to her when his ringer goes off.
It's all on it's way. I'll be in touch. -MH
John almost smiles, he knew Mycroft would be reliable without asking too many questions, in fact he immediately complied and that was that. He unlocks his phone and calls Mary.
He tells her he's sorry but there's something he has to do for Sherlock, he's gotten himself into some deep shit and he's afraid to leave him alone.
"Take as long as you need sweetheart. You're practically his only friend and you need to be there for him, it's completely understandable."
John starts to say that he doesn't want to miss out on anything relating to her pregnancy but she cuts him off and says not to worry. John asks her to pack up some of his things and that Mycroft will send for them, Sherlock's not in any state for visitors and probably won't be for a while.
"Of course. Let me know when I can come by or if I can help in any way. I love you, keep me updated."
"Love you too, and I will." He ends the call with a despondent goodbye.
John sends another text to Mycroft and starts making tea. When it's done he takes the two mugs and a large class of water to Sherlock's room. He's still asleep and completely oblivious. He sets down the drinks and goes back to the living room to drag his chair into the bedroom, pulls it next to Sherlock's bed. He opens a book, sips his tea, and waits.
After a few hours he realizes he left the box of dangerous objects on the kitchen table. He's about to get up and dispose of it when Sherlock stirs. He groans and dives deeper under the covers because of the light from the lamp and then notices he's not alone. He rolls over and John looks over his book at him curiously, momentarily forgetting the seriousness of the situation and feeling awkward to have been sitting there watching him sleep.
"How are you feeling?"
"Go away." is all the response he gets.
Sherlock pulls the sheet up and over his entire body, covering his face with it. John hesitates, but gets up and leans over to pull the sheet down, and sits next to him on the bed.
He feels a sudden twinge at the thought of being in Sherlock's bed but shakes it off. He looks at his hands, avoiding eye contact.
"Sherlock" he starts, "I'm a doctor, and I'm not stupid. I've seen what you've been doing to yourself and it has to stop."
Sherlock stays silent, face smushed into a pillow and not looking at John.
"I'm not leaving until I'm sure you're 100% better." he pauses, "Or I can call Mycroft and have him set up a stay at a rehab center. "
Sherlock throws off the sheet, and flings himself off the bed. He stumbles a bit but composes himself, looking at John with those piercing eyes of his.
"Get. Out."
John simply shakes his head and says "No." firmly.
Sherlock walks over to the bathroom and locks himself inside.
Why does he have to act like such a child?
John had already searched the bathroom so he lets him be for a while. He hears the shower running and returns to the living room to try and tidy up the place.
He's about halfway through picking up all the books when Sherlock walks out of his room fully dressed and with damp hair. He looks a little better already but this doesn't fool John, he has an idea of what Sherlock's trying to pull.
Sherlock makes his way to the door, mumbling something about going out.
Like hell you will, John thinks as he grabs the man by his arm and spins him around to face him. Sherlock winces at the pressure on his arm and tries to pull away. John let's go and grabs him by the shoulders instead.
"I'm serious Sherlock, neither of us are going anywhere until we at least talk about this. You've been hiding things from me."
"As if you were around to notice. Who sent you? Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft? No, must have been Mrs. Hudson. I bet she called you to complain about the cigarette smoke."
"Sherlock, she called me because shecares, you arse. She was worried about you. And for good reason it turns out."
Sherlock tries to get away from him again but John keeps a firm grip on his shoulders.
"Why are you doing this? You've obviously been doing drugs again, heroin by the looks of it. I thought you were done with that shit! And the... the cutting." He stammers, "You're going to kill yourself if you keep on with this Sherlock."
Sherlock looks away from John, and does something the army doctor has never seen him do. Sherlock has started to cry, silent tears running down his cheeks. He struggles to get away from the shorter man again, but John only holds on tighter.
John is shocked at the display of emotion, but pulls himself together when Sherlock crumples to the floor. The man is now silently sobbing, sitting on the dirty living room floor. John kneels down and envelops him in a tight hug.
"It's going to be okay, I promise." He says into his ear. Sherlock tries to shove him away but John isn't going to let go no matter what he says or does.
He lets Sherlock sob into his shoulder, and resists the sudden urge to place a kiss on the side of his head.
"Do I have to remind you again that I'm a doctor? You're going to detox at home, I'll be with you the whole time. And you're going to have to tell me how long the self-harm has been going on, why you do it, and how I can help. Please do this for me Sherlock. I..." he trails off, unsure of what he was about to say, why he wanted to say it now. But it can wait, and if Sherlock was paying attention he'd have deduced what it was anyways.
After Sherlock has calmed down, John helps him up and off the floor. He leads him to the bedroom and forces him to drink the glass of water. Sherlock's embarrassment peeks through the cracks of his mask, but eventually he holds a stoic, blank face.
John tells him to change and go back to bed, that he was going to clean the flat and would be back to check on him in a short while.