Hello. This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, so I'm sorry if John and Sherlock are a bit OOC. I did the best I could.
So, this could be considered slash, or it could just be bromance. I didn't put anything severely romantic in here other than a couple hugs.
Anyways, on to the story. Enjoy!
Warnings: Self harm. May be triggering.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and am in no way, shape or form earning any money from writing this story.
Why did it hurt so much?
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Caring is not the advantage.
So why do I feel this way?
Bored.
Staring at the ceiling for hours on end wasn't exactly mentally stimulating though, was it?
There had been no cases for three weeks, with nothing other than John to distract him. And now that John was asleep, that slight distraction had left him.
And he was bored.
He knew he should sleep. Of course, he should eat too.
The problem was, he wasn't tired. Or hungry.
He never was. He had to force himself to do both. And even then, only after nudging from John.
He longed for a cigarette. Or something stronger. Anything to cure the plain nothingness he felt.
Sometimes he wondered if he was even human.
No that wasn't right. He was human. He felt emotions. He had just learned to distance himself from them. Learned how to ignore them.
But there was still those moments, where everything came crushing down on him, and his entire wall would collapse. The fear and disgust from all he'd seen... the guilt and sadness from unsolved cases, from every life he was unable to save.
Caring was not the advantage. He knew that.
But in those moments, he couldn't bring himself to care.
At those times, he would need something to stave off the feelings.
Most of the time, that something was drugs.
But the times where they were inaccessible, he turned to something else.
He knew, if anyone ever found out, they'd be thoroughly disappointed in him.
The great Sherlock Holmes, resolved to do something so stupid.
So he took great care to make sure no one ever found out.
Lately, the moments where everything slammed down on top of him had been coming more and more often.
Most of the time late at night.
The sheer weight of everything he felt would be enough to drive off any hunger or drowsiness he might have felt for days.
That night was another one of those moments. He hadn't solved his last case fast enough, resulting in hundreds of people losing their lives. Innocent people.
His shoulders slumped under the stress of it all.
It was his fault. If he'd just been faster, he could have saved those people.
When he began to feel the now familiar prickling behind his eyes, he knew what he needed to do.
Standing up, he made his way to the bathroom, trying not to stumble in the dark. He couldn't risk John waking up and seeing what he was about to do.
He walked in to the small room, and reached up above the cabinet for the object that had comforted him multiple times.
A small, silver razor. Kept in pristine condition, even after all the years of use.
Keeping a stoic expression on his face, he brought the razor down to his wrist and sliced. The stinging sensation of the blade piercing his skin gave him immediate relief. The emotions were beginning to ebb away. Soon he could relax.
He sliced the blade across his wrist two more times. By then, the last of the weight was gone. The annoying emotions left behind.
Mesmerized, he watched the trickles of red liquid rolling down his arm from each cut. Fascinating, that something so strangely beautiful could be so important to life - boring and cruel. He watched for a few more moments before he shook himself out of his daze. It was almost seven a.m., John would be up soon. He had to clean up so he couldn't see what had happened there that night.
Quickly, he cleaned off the blade and put it back in it's hiding place. Smiling at the stinging sensation of disinfectant soaking into his wounds, he bound his arm and made his way back to the arm chair in the sitting room. Placing his finger tips together under his chin, he allowed himself to fall in to the depths of his mind. Thinking was the perfect way to wait for John to wake up. Anything to pass the time.
Sherlock was so deep in thought he didn't notice his friend stumble out of his room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
John Watson observed the 'high functioning sociopath' for a few moments before deciding not to disturb him. Instead, he followed the demands of his stomach and walked to the kitchen to make himself breakfast. He hoped he might be able to get Sherlock to eat, now that the case was over.
Working quickly, John made a few pancakes and a couple pieces of toast before shuffling back into the sitting room, plates in hand. Setting the food down on the table, he tapped Sherlock's shoulder. The man jumped, twisting his head to look at John, before relaxing back against his chair. "Ah. Good morning John."
John gave Sherlock a smile, before holding one of the plates in front of him. "I made some pancakes and toast, if you want some."
Sherlock nodded, but a frown touched his features. "I apologize John, but I am not hungry at the moment."
John slumped, a tint of disappointment in his eyes. "You sure?" he asked
Sherlock simply nodded, before reaching for the blond's laptop. "Quite." he murmured
John sighed, and took the extra plate back to the kitchen. He walked to his chair, and ate his meal in silence, the only sound being the clicking of the keyboard as Sherlock typed. He stole a few glances at Sherlock as the quiet continued, wondering what was going through that brilliant head of his. "Anything interesting?" he asked
Sherlock hummed in response, continuing to read and reply to emails. "Nothing at all."
John nodded, watching the curly haired man. Something was off about him, he just couldn't figure out what. "Are you okay, Sherlock?" he asked
The typing paused for a moment, before he continued. "Fine, John. Why?" he looked up at his flatmate, blue eyes calculating.
Trying to move on, John shrugged. "No reason."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Well obviously there is a reason, other wise you wouldn't have asked that question in that way. Normally you would say 'How are you?' or something of the sort. Judging from your expression, and the glances you've sent my way in the last few minutes, I'd say you were worried about something. What's troubling you John?"
John rolled his eyes. "It's nothing important."
Sherlock scoffed. "'Nothing important?' Don't lie to me John."
The man currently being scrutinized under the calculating gaze sighed, and shook his head, but couldn't help the small smile that found it's way onto his lips. "It's nothing really Sherlock. You just seemed to be acting a bit different today."
Sherlock tried to act like those words hadn't affected him at all, and rose an eyebrow in question, but John didn't miss the tensing of his shoulders. Nor the slight glance at his hands. He found himself growing more concerned when the detective averted his eyes, and refused to look at him, opting instead to gaze out the window.
"Alright Sherlock. Now I definitely know something's wrong. What is it? Did something happen while I was asleep?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "No, nothing happened."
It was an obvious lie.
John raised his eyebrow. "Really? Because something tells me otherwise."
"And what would that be?"
"Well Sherlock, I've learned from the best. I've simply been observing you. I'm sure I haven't found half of what you could, but it's enough to know something's bugging you. So spill, what's on your mind?"
Sherlock shook his head, a small smile gracing his face at John's awareness. "I've just been thinking about the last case, is all."
John's features softened. "Oh." he said quietly
Sherlock nodded, and turned his attention back to the laptop, while John went and made tea for the two of them. After another few moments of silence, John spoke up again. "You know Sherlock, none of that was your fault. You couldn't have done anything."
John jumped as Sherlock slammed the computer's lid shut, and stood up. His shoulders were tense, and there was a slight tremble in his hands. "That's not true John."
John did a double take. "Excuse me?"
"That's not true. I was too slow. If I had just been a little faster, I could have saved those lives. They were innocent, John! They did nothing, and they were killed!" Sherlock sat down with a huff, crossing his arms, and John found himself speechless for a few moments.
"Sherlock, you know that's not true."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh, care to explain?"
"You were working as fast as you can Sherlock. This man was clever, he knew you'd fall for that trick of his. He was smart Sherlock, but in the end you were smarter. He may have set off the first bomb, but you managed to uncover the trick in time to find him before he could set off the second. Sherlock, the deaths of those people was not your fault. You saved a lot more lives by catching the man. Scotland Yard found another six bombs hidden around London. Sherlock, you saved thousands of lives. You caught a criminal no one else could."
"But I couldn't save the others."
"No. Most of the time you can't Sherlock. You've got to understand that. You can't save everyone. Save who you can, and accept those you can't."
Sherlock shook his head. "I can't just accept it though." he spat
John shook his head. "I know it's hard. Trust me, I've dealt with this. You feel guilty Sherlock. You're grieving for the lives you were unable to save. But you saved far more lives than was lo-"
John was cut off as Sherlock abruptly stood once again, walking to his room. At the slam of a door, John sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. Standing up, he made his way to the detective's room. "Sherlock?" he asked
There was no reply, and he tried again. "Sherlock? Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I'm going to go out and do some shopping, I'll let you think about all this. We'll talk later."
When he again received no reply, he sighed in resignation, and went to take a quick shower. Once he was dressed, he called to Sherlock that he was leaving and would be back later. The genius needed time alone, and John could respect that.
Once Sherlock had stormed into his room and locked the door, he walked to his bed, curling up on top of the blankets. It wasn't fair to John, he knew, to act like this. His friend was simply trying to help. As expected, John followed him, apologized for nothing, and announced that he was going shopping. Sherlock listened to his footsteps as his friend walked away, and the hiss off the running water as he started the shower.
He knew John was trying to comfort him, but all his words had done was bring back memories - and emotions. A little voice in his head told him that John was lying, that he secretly blamed Sherlock for everything.
You're pathetic. You know it's all your fault. John knows it too, he's just taking pity on you. Taking pity on a poor, poor, weak little boy.
Sherlock shook his head. No, that wasn't true.
You know it is. John hates you. Everyone does. You're a freak.
The words still stung, even though Sherlock had heard them hundreds of times before.
When he heard the front door close, and felt tears prickling behind his eyes, he knew once again what he needed to do. Apparently, that night hadn't been enough to keep the emotions at bay.
He opened his door, and walked through the empty flat to the bathroom, to his trusty razor.
To his relief.
Alrighty, so the hurt/comfort part will come in the next chapter(obviously). Got some angst in there. I can't write a story without angst, it's impossible for me.
Anyways, how'd I do? I'd love to know what you thought, and constructive criticism is always welcome. Feel free to drop a review!
When I get the next chapter up will depend on the response I get for this chapter. If I get a good response, the faster I'll post. Since it's only a two shot, that's not really threatening, but eh... I don't care.
Thanks for reading. Until next time!