Disclaimer: Must it be said? I suppose it does. I do not own, nor claim to own or profit from, any part of Sherlock or its related characters etc.
AN: I needed to clear my head, so I wrote this for a prompt on LJ meme. Never wrote Sherlock before, so I do apologize if it's shit.
Warning: Attempted Suicide, Suicidal!John.
Out of Sorts
John had always prided himself on being able to trudge through life when others simply would have given up. He had always been strong, the one who did what had to be done.
But something changed.
It wasn't a quick change. It was a series of small changes in his daily habits and thinking that slowly built upon each other until one day he realized that his life had turned to shit.
John had found himself riding home in cab one miserable Tuesday afternoon alone, and while he watched the dismal scenery pass by, he began composing something of a list. It began as a list of things he had to look forward to when he got home, but when he failed to name anything, the list took on a new direction; it became a list of the ways he goes unnoticed.
By the time the car came to a stop and he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he had made a decision, one he didn't make lightly. He was tired and he wanted out, out of life, out of pain, out of it all. Was that so much to ask for?
Taking one last breath of the cool, damp London air, John made his way inside. The flat was quiet, very quiet. John frowned, blinking at the unusual sight of an empty flat. Sherlock rarely went to the store—rarely went out at all lately unless John was being towed along behind him.
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. Was he expecting Sherlock to be home, to interrupt his plans with some insane rambling or experiment? He couldn't say for sure, but then again, he didn't really care.
Shrugging off his coat, John made his way up to his room. He toed off his shoes and plonked down ungracefully onto his bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face. Could someone be so depressed they couldn't even be arsed to top themselves because it took too much effort?
He needed to clear his head. Getting up, he grabbed a pair of flannel pajamas and trudged toward the bathroom.
He filled the bath with steaming water in hopes that maybe the heat would be enough to make him feel again. Stripping off his clothes, he sank down into the bath, the heat stinging his skin.
He rubbed his thigh. His leg had been feeling worse lately. Psychosomatic, he tried to remind himself, but that didn't make it any less painful.
He laid his head back, looking up at the tiled wall and ancient showerhead, so encrusted with lime scale it was a wonder it even functioned. Someone should replace it, he thought. It was well past its prime.
He chuckled as he realized he was no different than that decaying showerhead, once useful but now in need of replacement.
Stretching out, a glint of metal in the soap dish caught his eye. The water sloshed as he leaned forward to get a better look. It was the straight razor Sherlock had been using on the pigskins last week.
There was a second thought to what he did next. It was like something in him clicked, and he was up and reaching for the razor.
It felt heavy in his hand as he sank back into the water. He turned it, examining it closely. There was still fleck of pig flesh stuck in the hinge. It should have repulsed him, but it didn't. He didn't feel anything, really.
A feeling of calm began to settle over him, the first really moment of relief he had felt in months.
Exsanguinating wasn't his first choice as far as ways to die went. It was rather slow and drawn out, but maybe that's what he wanted. Taking a handful of pills and slipping off didn't seem suiting to him for some reason.
He experimentally traced the edge of the blade along his forearm, following the path of the veins and arteries he knew lay beneath.
Placing the edge of the blade at the crook of his arm, he pressed and dragged it downward toward his wrist. He hissed in pain and looked at the wound. It wasn't nearly deep enough. He bit his lip and raised the blade again.
Swallowing hard, he began to press the blade against his skin. He was so concentrated on the task that he didn't hear the footsteps moving down the hall or the bathroom door open.
But suddenly, there were long fingers snaked around his wrist while another cool hand twisted the blade from his grasp, throwing it forcefully into the wall.
Shocked, John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze, his blue eyes cutting through him more deeply than any knife could.
John sat in a daze, no idea what to do or say. This wasn't something that he had even considered. Sherlock's disapproving stare wasn't something he had planned for.
The detective moved quickly, not a word passing over his lips as he grabbed a towel and pressed it against John's forearm.
John felt like he should say something. Sherlock shouldn't be worrying; he shouldn't feel like he had to try and save him. It wasn't Sherlock's job to take care of him.
"I'm okay," he said, but it only gained him a huff of disapproval from Sherlock. "You don't have to this," John continued. "You can go back to what you were doing. I want to die." The last part came out as a whisper, like a horrible confession. It lay heavy in the room.
"How incredibly considerate of you," Sherlock said, near mocking, "but has it occurred to you that I may actually rather you lived?"
Sherlock peeled back the towel, inspecting the damage. Whatever he saw made him scowl and press it down harder, making John wince.
"Sherlock, please, you don't need to do this." John thought his plea was lost on Sherlock, though, being far too consumed with the task of pressing a towel to the bleeding gash on John's arm.
Sherlock snapped his icy cold stare to John's face. "Obviously, I do."
John closed his eyes, resting his head against the hard, warm porcelain of the bathtub as Sherlock worked silently beside him. It was never John's intent to be found by Sherlock like this—at least not when he was still very much alive. John also never thought Sherlock would react like this, like he cared. It was almost … disconcerting. Sherlock was a self-proclaimed sociopath; emotions weren't his thing.
John reached for the towel, trying to take over the job Sherlock had started, but Sherlock wasn't having it. He pushed John's hands out of the way, scowling briefly at the doctor. "I think you've done quite enough, don't you?"
John dropped his hand and allowed Sherlock to slip his arm around John's back. Slowly, Sherlock guided him out of the pinkish stained water, keeping one hand pressing against the towel secured to John's arm.
"Sherlock, I'm—"
"Don't."
John let Sherlock guide him to the toilet where he pushed him to sit. He grabbed John's hand and placed it on the towel. "Hold."
John did as he was told. He watched as Sherlock fetched his robe from hook. It was then that it occurred to the doctor that he was, in fact, naked. Sherlock placed the robe over john's shoulders and pulled him to stand.
They walked in silence and Sherlock steered him towards the stairs. John was going to ask where they were going but thought better of it.
They made their way into the lounge and Sherlock nudged him to take a seat on the sofa. John watched in calm detachment as Sherlock took the throw from the chair.
The harsh lines of Sherlock face softened and he studied John for a moment before stepping forward and tucking it around him.
Sherlock stood, his head tilting to the side. "Tea?"
John opened his mouth to speak but he was at an absolute loss for words. "Umm … okay?"
Sherlock nodded and moved to leave the room, pausing and turning before stepping out. "Can I trust that you won't attempt anymore acts of great stupidity in my absence?"
John nodded, and again, Sherlock studied him. Seeming pleased, the detective disappeared to the kitchen.
While he waited, John was overcome by emotion. His great escape plan from it all had turned his life into even more of a muddle. What was he thinking?
Whatever calm he had been feeling upstairs was well worn off. His arm ached. The towel was cold, damp and pink from the water and blood. He shivered from the cold, goose bumps spreading over his exposed skin.
When Sherlock returned, he was carrying a mug of tea and the first aid kit. He passed the tea to John and sat down beside him.
"You know that if you wished to dissect something, you could have asked. I would have shared my resources. There are plenty of parts to go around."
"I never meant—I didn't plan it. It just happened."
Sherlock nodded. "I know."
"I'm sorry."
Sherlock glanced up to meet John's gaze. "I know."
John stared at the opposing wall, not able to watch Sherlock tend to his wound. He felt so embarrassed; he wanted nothing more than to disappear into the cushions of the sofa.
He felt the gauze being laid over his arm and then heard the tape tearing. He looked down as Sherlock secured the bandage in place, his deft fingers completely the task swiftly.
John swallowed, feeling that painful choking feeling that preludes any good breakdown into tears. He tried to fight it off, but he couldn't. He didn't have the energy or the strength.
His shoulders shook as the first sob broke, and then the tears came. He turned away, not wanting to look any weaker, more pathetic, than he already was.
He felt the cushion shift and then a long arm was snaked around him, pulling him into the world's most awkward embrace. Sherlock squeezed him tightly to his chest, resting his chin on John's head.
John fell apart, then. He fisted his hands into Sherlock's shirt and cried, so much hurt, so much regret; it all poured out of him. He was so tired of feeling alone.
And then, like he could read his thoughts, Sherlock whispered against John's hair.
"It's going to be all right, John," he said. "I promise."