A/N: So this is my second JohnLock fanfic. I'll warn you now it's rated M for self-destructive behaviors (i.e. possible self-injury, drug use, sexual situations, and possible violence). Please review and/or give me feedback!

Possible spoilers as well if you haven't watched all the episodes so read at your own risk!

AU in the sense that Sherlock's father is actually a totally asshole and not a nice old man.

This is also a songfic because I believe music is magic and has the ability to give the ultimate feels. I own nothing.

Chapter One: Black Spells

.o.o.

.o.

All your dreams are made

Of strawberry lemonade

And you make sure

I eat today

Oasis – Talk Tonight

.o.o.

.o.

John looked over at the empty couch that usually had Sherlock's tall, slender body sunk into it. He hadn't seen his friend in almost two days but he knew that the consulting detective was still in the flat; he was just in his own room. These dark days weren't rare for Sherlock, John knew. Ever since the two of them moved in together, John quickly became aware of his companion's black days where he didn't talk to anyone or step into the kitchen to eat. The latter issue bothered John Watson more than the former and he tried his best to get Sherlock to eat but to no avail.

He closed the book he had been reading and stood up, walking over to Sherlock's bedroom door before he gently knocked on it. "Sherlock? Is there anything I can get you, mate? Tea? A bit of toast, perhaps?"

Silence.

John bit his lip nervously, wondering if Sherlock had anything that could be considered weapons inside that room. As a doctor, he'd seen it all and the worst cases for him were the suicides, or worse yet the attempted suicides. He was well aware of what a severely depressed person could do if they were desperate enough.

He tried to knock again. "Come on, Sherlock… at least say something."

He heard his friend groan before a growl came from the other side. "Go. Away."

It wasn't much but at least it was something. Hearing Sherlock's voice, angry or not, put John's mind at ease. At least his friend was still alive. This thought gave him solace for a flittering moment before he realized that he had to somehow get inside the room to check on him. Not eating or drinking for two days wasn't good.

John waited another half hour before he walked into the kitchen and made up a small tray of toast with jam and tea. He cleared his throat in front of Sherlock's door before speaking again. "Come on, now. Let me in, Sherlock. At least have some tea."

He waited, standing at the door, refusing to move. John sighed, slowly becoming impatient as his worry increased again. Then, he heard the soft click of the door being unlocked and saw the door open a bit. John peeked inside to see Sherlock wrapped in his white bedspread sheet, sitting on the bed. He took this opportunity to bring the tray in and placed it on the bed before he carefully sat down next to him.

With the sheet wrapped around him, John couldn't tell how Sherlock's body was fairing unless he looked directly at Sherlock's chest and neck area. His bones were raised slightly against Sherlock's pale skin and John could see dark circles under his friend's red and puffy eyes as well. So he hadn't slept. Or ate.

John looked at Sherlock with concern in his eyes and then gently pushed a piece of toast towards him. He looked at it before he sighed heavily, as if the very idea of picking it up was too much to handle. Perhaps it was for him in this moment but John's worry wasn't going away.

"Come on, Sherlock. You know you need to eat. You can't ignore your body's needs. It's dangerous and quite frankly, it scares me," he confessed softly in the dimly lit room.

"I don't feel hungry, John…" he nearly whispered, looking vacantly at the toast.

He bit his lip and gave him a small, sympathetic smile before he placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know but if you don't eat anything soon, you're going to pass out, if you haven't already. You must be dizzy and exhausted and not eating won't make either of those things go away. Please eat for me, Sherlock. If for no one and nothing else, do it for me?"

Sherlock's face softened and he looked up at John with sad eyes before he picked up the toast and took a small bite of it before he reluctantly chewed it. John felt relief fill him up before he smiled and nodded.

"Good, thank you. I appreciate that, Sherlock."

"I know you do," he replied, matter-of-factly. "I can't keep feeling this way, John."

The doctor poured him a cup of tea and handed it over to him before he felt his heart sink in his chest. "You wouldn't if you just took your medication. You have antidepressants. I don't understand why you won't take them."

Sherlock gave him a look of contempt and shook his head. "No, I can't take them. They make me feel… off. I can't focus with them and they make me feel tired all the time. They make me want to crawl out of me skin. I can't possibly concentrate on a case if I'm on them."

John looked at him with disapproving eyes. "Maybe sleep would be a good thing for you, Sherlock. I can see you haven't slept for at least two days. Is there a reason why you're having insomnia?" he asked, taking a sip of his own tea.

Sherlock was quiet for a while, taking another small bite of his toast before he shrugged and looked out the window as the English rain came down outside. He knew the reason but he couldn't tell John, not yet at least. He replaced his shrug with a shake of his head. "No. I don't know why, John. It could just be the depression."

"Fine then, don't tell me," John retorted, being able to tell when there was something Sherlock Holmes wasn't telling him. When he saw the slightly hurt look in his friend's eyes, guilt instantly consumed him. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sherlock. Tell me in your own time, that's fine. I just want you to try and take care of yourself. I know that's ridiculous of me to ask of you when you're in this state but I just care about you a lot and it pains me to see you like this."

Sherlock looked down at his hands and the toast that was still in them. He placed the toast back on the tray and took a drink of his tea, quiet for a long time. He just wanted to be alone. He didn't want to be around anyone else for the moment, at least not until he got over this patch. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.

"You don't have to be in here with me, John. I know what you're worried about and I promise that you're worrying for nothing. I have no intention of ending my life today," Sherlock confirmed.

John relaxed a bit and nodded. "Right… good. That's good to hear. I'll just leave the tray in here with you and you can just… pass it out when you're ready." He got off the bed and was almost to the door when he turned around to look at Sherlock. "You don't have to be alone in this, you know. I'm right here. I'm outside this door and I don't plan on going anywhere. If you need me, just… call out. All right?"

Sherlock seemed surprised and taken back by John's offer but he nodded and then turned his attention back towards the toast, taking another small bite, obviously for John's benefit.

Once he saw him swallow the bite of toast, John left the room but left the door open a couple inches. He hadn't gotten back to his chair when he heard footsteps and then the bedroom door close all the way. He sighed but didn't go back to force Sherlock to keep it open. He wasn't a child, even if he acted as stubborn as one most of the time. He was an adult just as John was an adult.

He opened his book back up and then tried to focus on the words but his mind refused; his thoughts kept trailing to how all he wanted to do was get out of the flat. He'd been cooped up here with him for so long that he was getting cabin fever. They hadn't received a decent case in nearly a week and it was probably the cause of Sherlock's depressive state. John rubbed his temples before he looked through his phone and dialed Gregory Lestrade's number.

"Hello?"

"Greg, it's John. Umm… I realize you're probably busy at the moment – "

"You're kidding, right? Christ, it's been dead here at the station, if you'll forgive the pun. I don't know what's going on out there but I bet we've had the lowest crime rate in half a century this week. Anyway, what's going on, John?"

John felt a bit better about calling the Detective Inspector now, even if it meant just another person to talk to. He stood up and walked into his bedroom before he closed his own door to get some privacy, in case Sherlock could hear his voice. "Sherlock's going pretty mad, Greg. Without a case to occupy his mind, his depression's set in and I'm worried about him."

Greg sighed on the other end but John could tell it was out of mere exhaustion and the same cabin fever he was feeling. "Well, you're a doctor, aren't you? Have you tried prescribing him something?"

"He has antidepressants. He just refuses to take them and it's not like I can force them down his throat! Are you sure you don't have any cases at all for him?" John asked, feeling desperate.

"No, John. I'm sorry but the cases we do have are open and shut ones that don't require a consulting detective. If you really want, I might be able to find a cold case Sherlock could work on. It might keep him busy for a couple weeks at least," Greg offered.

John thought about this for a bit and found himself unable to come up with any other ideas. "That'll have to do. We both know how he feels about cold cases but maybe this time will be different. Do you mind bringing them over or having someone else bring them? I just don't feel right about leaving him alone when he's like this."

"Yeah, sure. Nothing else going on. I'll just bring them over myself. He'll probably be more likely to accept them if he doesn't have to deal with Anderson or Donavan. I'll be over in a bit then."

"Cheers, Greg…" John hung up the phone but still felt apprehensive. It took a lot for a case to appeal to Sherlock and cold cases that no one else could solve were either too easy for him or proved nearly impossible with every ounce of evidence either lost or disintegrated.

John walked back out into the living room and walked over to Sherlock's bedroom door again but didn't knock. He pressed his ear against the door and only heard the sound of Sherlock stirring sugar and milk into his tea. Good, at least he was drinking something.

It wasn't nearly ten minutes later when John heard a rapping on the flat door. He walked over and opened it before greeting Lestrade. "Thanks for coming, Greg."

"Yeah, no problem," Gregory replied, handing John three manila folders. "I… wasn't sure which one would get him out so I just brought the ones I had in my desk. Err… how's he doing?" he asked, nodding towards Sherlock's room.

John shrugged as he took the folders from him. "About as good as can be expected, I suppose. I got him to eat a bit of toast and he drank some tea too so… I think he'll be okay."

Greg nodded. "Good… that's good." He looked at John with almost questioning eyes but didn't say anything for the longest time. "This is going to sound strange, but would you mind if I came in for a bit? I wasn't kidding when I said we had nothing to do at Scotland Yard. I could do from a break from Anderson anyway."

John stepped out of the way to let the DI inside. "No, of course. Come on inside. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks, John. I'm all right."

John now stood there, biting his lip. He needed to get out of the flat or else he was going to lose it but he had promised Sherlock he wasn't going anywhere. He had felt more hesitant about leaving him earlier but now there was someone else here. He looked at the older man. "Hey, umm… I have to pop out for a bit and get some groceries. Do you think you could just stay here until I get back?"

Greg looked unsure for a few moments but then nodded. "Oh, sure. Go ahead. Yeah, I can stay here with him. No worries."

"Are you sure? If you'd rather not, I won't blame you. I know you two don't exactly get on well or anything…"

Greg thumbed the cigarette pack that was in his pocket and looked at John. "I'll stay if it's okay if I smoke in here," he half-teased. He wouldn't seriously light up in the flat if John wouldn't appreciate it but he felt the need to break the tension in the room.

John chuckled and smiled. "Smoke away, Sherlock does anyway. If you need me, you know my number. I'll be back soon." He grabbed his coat and pocketed his phone before he hurried out of the flat, looking up at their window before hailing a cab to the grocery store.

Sherlock heard the sound of a door slamming shut and then felt his heart sink slightly. He pushed the tray away and got up out of the bed before he walked towards the door, still holding the long white sheet around his body. He looked down at the floor and saw the dark shadow of black shoes and soon smelled cigarette smoke.

He slowly opened the door and peeked out before he straightened up and looked at Lestrade. "Geoff? What the hell are you doing here?"

Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Sherlock's voice but he exhaled the smoke before he looked over at a pale, tired and frail looking Sherlock Holmes. "It's Greg, for the millionth time, and I thought I'd stop by. I brought some case folders for you."

Sherlock glanced at the coffee table and sat down on the couch before he started looking through them. An impatient look spread across his face and he looked up at Greg. "You must be joking. These have all gone cold! What do you expect me to do with them?"

Lestrade took a drag off his cigarette. "What do I expect you to do? Solve them! Do whatever it is you do and solve them, Sherlock. Isn't that what you do? Or have you retired early?"

Sherlock threw the folders back down on the coffee table before he stood back up and walked over to him. "I don't have the energy to go running around London on empty clues, Lestrade. I can only suspect that this was John's doing, trying to get me out of the flat. Where did he go?"

"Out to get the groceries. Christ, you look like hell, Sherlock…"

"Yet another brilliant observation made by Scotland Yard," Sherlock remarked icily. "Why did you agree to stay here with me? I would've thought that me offing myself would've been something that would appeal to you."

Lestrade looked like he was about to scold him for the assumption but his face softened now. "Are you feeling suicidal? If you are, then… you need to talk to someone about that…"

Sherlock rubbed his eyes tiredly and searched Greg's face. "Did… did you tell him?"

"Tell who what?" Lestrade took another drag off his cigarette before blowing the smoke out and away from Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "Did you tell John about my previous suicide attempts, from before?"

Lestrade suddenly looked a lot older than he actually was, a sad scowl appearing on his face and his body slumped over slightly. He shook his head. "No, actually. I haven't, but I'm guessing you haven't bothered to tell him about those either. Jesus, Sherlock! These are things you need to talk to your doctor about, and when I say doctor, I mean John! He is your flatmate after all…"

Sherlock relaxed a bit. "No, he doesn't need to know about that yet. I don't want him to know. He'll have me committed for sure. I'll die in an institution like that, Lestrade; I can't stay locked up somewhere."

"Really, because you've done a pretty good job of that staying locked up in your room for two days, from what I've been told! Sherlock, I might be part of Scotland Yard but I know you better than John does and that's not fair to him. What you tell him or don't tell him is your own business but just keep in mind that sooner or later, he's going to find out all your secrets and it won't have been me who told him," Greg warned, not unkindly.

Sherlock nodded once and pulled the sheet closer to his body, as if willing it to swallow him up. "I realize that. I'm just trying to not scare away one of the few people who still talk to me."

"You won't scare him, Sherlock. He might be upset at first but he's your mate, and he'll forgive you eventually."

The detective nodded in understanding and looked back over at the cases, wetting his lips before he looked back at Greg. "Send those to my brother. He has more connections and he'll be able to close all three cases within a week."

Lestrade took a final drag from the cigarette before he put the butt out in the glass ashtray on the coffee table. He took the folders and looked back at Sherlock. "You aren't going to go out and solve them, then? I understand you're having a depressive episode at the moment, Sherlock, but John's really worried about you. At least go out somewhere to give him the impression that you're all right, even if you aren't. Do it for his sake."

Sherlock suddenly couldn't stop the anger that had boiled up. He let the sheet drop down but kept it tight at his waist. "For God's sake, stop telling me what I need to do, Lestrade! What I say to John is none of your goddamn business and I'd appreciate it if you kept out of our business, especially mine! I already have a father and I don't need another one trying to tell me he knows what's best for me!"

The outburst caught Greg off guard but he kept his calm. He just sighed heavily and searched Sherlock's sad eyes. "I know all about your father, Sherlock, and you know as well as I do that he wasn't the best man in the world. I'm as good as a father to you so I'd appreciate it if you gave me just a little bit more respect than you give every other person in London! Lest you forget, I'm also your superior and I'm the reason you're able to live in this flat with John."

Sherlock's anger dissipated slightly and he cast his eyes downward, despising being put in his place but knowing that Lestrade was the only person besides John that he'd let do that. He just nodded curtly and swallowed hard before he looked away, not letting Lestrade see the tears that had appeared in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat and trudged towards the window.

As Lestrade looked at him, he felt guilt rise up. He shouldn't have done that, not in Sherlock's state. He knew how the detective got into these black spells and he also knew all too well what one of the results could be from the depression. His stomach cringed when he saw Sherlock's shoulder blades rise through his skin on his back and felt uneasy again.

"Come on, Sherlock. Eat something. I know you haven't eaten very much lately. I'm not a doctor and even I can tell," Greg remarked, walking into the kitchen to look for something. He grabbed an apple and walked back into the living room. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned around and caught the apple Lestrade tossed to him. He rolled it around in his hands before he took a bite from it. He was quiet now, thinking about John.

"I'm not telling you to tell him every single thing, Sherlock. I know that'd be asking too much of you but I just think he needs to know about how you… almost died."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't tell him about my past suicide attempts, Lestrade… especially not after my fall off of Bart's. He thought I was dead for two years. How do you think he's going to react when I tell him how I really did try to take my own life multiple times and almost succeeded?"

Lestrade half shrugged. "I don't know, Sherlock, but I know you can do it."

Sherlock paced before he turned on the DI again. "Why should I tell John? It's not going to change anything! It's just going to bring him misery and he won't be able to trust me again!"

"Fine then. Whatever, don't tell him! What do I care? I'm only the damn person who saved you both those times! Why listen to me?" Lestrade shot back at him.

Sherlock growled in frustration and then moved over to him just as he heard John coming back. He stopped short, nearly tripping on his sheet. He brought his voice down to a whisper now. "F-Fine, I'll tell him. Just… don't tell him about the other things… please."

Lestrade waved him off just as John entered, his arms carrying two brown paper bags. He set them on the counter in the kitchen and started to unload.

"Well, I'm off then unless there's anything else you need from me, John!"

The doctor glanced over at him and shook his head. "I think we're good. Thank you for dropping by, Greg…"

"Sure thing… I'll see you around!"

"Cheers, mate."

Sherlock waited until Lestrade left and then walked over to where John was unloading. He felt his heart pounding in his chest and got close enough to smell the doctor's spiced cologne. He closed his eyes, breathing it in. There was something that stopped him from spilling his confessions onto John now. What if he got too freaked out and left? What if he wanted no part of Sherlock anymore? He couldn't handle that, not now when he was just realizing his feelings for this man. This wonderful, amazing, patient, and caring man…

He just couldn't do it. "Do… do you want help?"

John looked at Sherlock with surprise; it wasn't like him to offer to help with anything ever. He gave him a warm smile and nodded. "That'd be great, Sherlock. Thank you…"

Sherlock started to silently put things away, having tied the sheet around his waist tightly so it wouldn't fall down on accident. He brought out his tray and cleaned it off, making sure to finish off the toast in front of John so he could see him eat and quit nagging him. Sure, there were things about the doctor that irritated Sherlock but the very fact that he had made him something to eat in the first place told the detective how much he did care about him. For once, it felt good to have someone else who took care of him, someone who wasn't Greg Lestrade.

Someone who was John Watson.