DISCLAIMER: While the contents of the following chapters are my own, the characters themselves belong to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in his world of Sherlock Holmes, as modernly adapted in BBC's TV series Sherlock, aired on PBS Masterpiece. THIS IS FAN FICTION. And this is my fan fiction, originally.

With that said, there are a few things I must go over before you begin the story.

One: TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM DEPICTED IN THIS PIECE OF FAN FICTION

Two: I enjoyed writing this a lot. It was difficult to get into their rhythm of communication, but I feel that I did a decent job.

Three: There are a lot of Sherlock self-harm stories, and while I see the ease with which one could write one about Sherlock's suspicious long-sleeve attire, I find that it is overdone and often not done well (in my opinion). With that being said, I wanted to see what might happen on the other end of the spectrum, with John. His potential for self harm is just as high, and is much less explored. Although it is unlikely that he would have actually hut himself, I would ask you to overlook that and tell me what you think of this adaptation.

NOTE/ This happens before the Richenbach (spelling?) Fall, because it's the easiest time period to write for. I didn't want to write a lot on crime or with other characters, so it's more like an isolated work, dealing mostly with Sherlock and John, their relationship, and the difficulties of self-harm.

I enjoyed this so much. Tell me what you think! More chapters to ensue.

Finally, I will ask again that you not read if self-harm upsets you.

Thank you. Feedback greatly appreciated.


Medical Knife

Jolting in his sleep, slightly, barely raising a voice in his night-hours, John's eyes opened wide as he woke from another bad dream. His chest unclenched and the pent –up breath residing at the farthest-end of his throat finally let out, like the tension in a tea kettle before it finally cried out. But John didn't cry out, and he never did. Even when he lived alone—when he was truly alone—he didn't ever make a sound. He'd breathe heavily, sometimes bolt upright when the dream was too intense and in-the-moment, sometimes take a moment to regain his mind by walking around or taking a shower. But he was mostly quiet, now more than ever. He knew that Sherlock was aware of his nightmares – actually, they'd eased off for the most part, only coming when he was under stress at work or otherwise—but he still liked to keep his privacy where he could. The man could read his every facial movement, every nervous mannerism that John, mostly, was uninformed of. He could tell when he was upset at the secretary, the reason behind his hesitance to attend certain crime scenes, when his sister, Harry, would call and why. He even knew when John had a bad night. He knew everything, so he might as well have this one, lonely, temporarily-terrifying moment to himself.

John sat up in his bed, more shaken than usual from his nightmare. He had no reason to be dreaming like that now, not under such calm circumstances. Sure, Sherlock was being himself, whining about how dull he was, how boring things around the flat were without an interesting case, conducting experiments at all hours, though, thankfully, not shooting up the walls. Work wasn't even so active, with so many people on holiday and his taking a few personal days for himself. He shook his head, then stretched his unclothed arms above his head.

"Ow," he said immediately, dropping his arms to his mattress. His muscles were so wound tight that he couldn't even stretch without causing a ripping sensation between his shoulder blade and neck. His spine felt close to fracturing. He was probably just being dramatic, but, still, that moment in his dark room was still a painful one. Splashed in the backdrop of his thoughts was the blood of the friends he couldn't save, back in Afghanistan, with the residual pain he sustained long after his commission. "Damn." He wouldn't be getting much sleep. A fast look to his bedside clock's glaring face showed it to be half past three in the morning, and judging from the lack of commotion down stairs, Sherlock was either sleeping or out. He would most likely be out, as sleeping was boring and wasted too much time. At least he would be able to walk about without a barrage of questions being thrown at him, and a thousand different tasks to be asked—no, demanded. John stood and flicked on his light, then thought better of getting dressed. He was alone. No need for too much modesty, he decided, content to his long sleeping shorts and bare chest. Beside, he needed to cool down, as he worked up a hot sweat in his unconscious hours. Descending the stairs, sighing with a strange kind of joy as his uncovered chest met the cooler air of the rest of the flat, he took a quick look around to confirm that he was alone. Sherlock was quite and unobtainable when he wanted to be, and at half past three, that is exactly what the consulting detective wanted to be: nonexistent.

John's unruly, dirty-blond hair stuck out at unflattering angles, as he caught from his reflection in the restroom. He took his assumed position in his chair and took out his laptop, not quite sure what he wanted – update the blog? Nothing has happened… - but there at least was the potential for distraction. The room was filled with clutter, all of which was left to rest where it was by none other than the hand of Sherlock, which usually annoyed John, even as he sat there. But his shoulder hurt too much, and the night was too agonizingly slow for him to set off to do such a tedious chore. He contented himself to staring at an empty search engine bar until inspiration strikes. His eyes fluttered, shame and embarrassment shining in his irises as he considered what he was considering. He really wanted to do it. He was going to do it, even without knowing his own motivation. He looked up, listening to the flat, praying he truly was alone before typing in his and Sherlock's name onto the flashing line. Times when he was lonely, he was thankful for his flat mate's presence, however pretentious and evasive that presence may be.

So, he reasoned, it made sense that he wanted to see his friend, even if it was just an image on a screen of flashing LEDs. Several pictures of him and Sherlock were brought up instantly, and he felt more at ease to the two of them together. He chuckled at the memories associated with the pictures. Sherlock hated every public event he attended solely for the fact that none would forbid photographers from attending. His half-grin failed him as, as he feared – yet knew better than to think oppositely of – a hovering gaze leaned over his shoulder, over the edge of John's seat. Curious inquiry over why John laughed out loud and, supposedly, disturbing Sherlock from his deep thought, Sherlock simply stared, dragon-like stillness in his bent posture, onto the results page on his blogger's computer screen.

John's heart, surviving traumas such as war and death, momentarily stalled to a dead-stop when he finally noticed the statue of a man, nearing the screen in the pursuit of more detailed information.

"Jesus," John mumbled, blinking twice. "I thought you were out."

"Hm. How very observant, doctor, of you to think I was out. Even you should have been able to find me in the closet – I'm aware of a game children play wherein they find ridiculous and obvious hiding spots in hopes of outlasting their peers as a chosen child is forced to hunt them down one by one. I'm more than positive you participated in this activity as a child because, really, John, what child, normal child, I should say—what normal child hasn't at least once tried to hunt down his friends? Did it even occur to you to think why my shoes weren't gone? You think I would stalk down the streets of London in the dark without shoes? And a coat? Leaving my hydrochloric acid out when it clearly needs attending?" Sherlock knew he went on long enough, and waited for an answer, giving up quickly when it was certain he would receive none. "I could go on, but I thought I'd list the clues of which even you would be capable of drawing a rudimentary deduction."

"What were you doing in the closet?" John was curious only about the closet comment. Sherlock looked defeated for just a moment.

He tilted his head to stare slantways at the semi-flustered John Watson. "You, as much as I expect, fail to see the point. Now, I ask, why are you awake? Isn't this a time you normally spend asleep?"

John really had no patience for this, or the nerve to deal with being caught doing something he deemed to be embarrassing by the consulting detective. "Can you give me some space, eh?"

Sherlock sighed over-dramatically, leaving his side with the intention of seeking some form of mediocre entertainment. Quickly, John got up from his seat, thinking he should leave before getting lassoed into doing something for an experiment he had no interest in. Shutting down his laptop, filling the room with silence from an idle hard-drive, he set it aside and ran as quickly and silently as his protesting muscles would let him.

Eying his messy bed, he sloppily, lazily, hit the light switch so that he could bathe in the near-blackness of his room. Atop the covers he laid, and, with the strangest thoughts running through his tired brain, he rested the ends of his left hand's fingers on his thigh, running them up slowly as he connected with something even he considered dangerous. High and past the bottoms of his blue-striped sleep shorts, he felt to the old, far more private scars. These were the testimony of his own battle – of every battle he faced. And he was positive, absolutely positive, that they were the one thing he had to himself. His chest rose and fell a little faster when he brushed over the first bump. Inflicted upon his thigh's flesh by his own blade, vertical raises of scar tissue served as a permanent reminder of his past. It was one year that he had remained clean, since the last time he ever had the real urge to hurt himself. He'd done so in the war when he needed pain killer and was without any – endorphins, he justified, needed to be released. No, he wasn't addicted.

And at any rate, he remained clean for a long time. Never even a thought about harming again, even when he occasionally found himself looking at his scars. He had Sherlock to thank for that.

His eyes felt heavy, but something kept him up for just a little while longer. There was a clanging in the kitchen that startled him – as if he'd been caught thinking something, and a certain, seemingly mind-reading detective might know. He rubbed his eyes in frustration, wondering why the hell he even went down stairs, or why he wanted to see Sherlock. He'd been caught. It was harmless really. Sherlock certainly wouldn't care beyond a moment's curiosity, which, as the continued ruckus downstairs attested to, was already passed. He shouldn't have felt so exposed.

He was lying when he said he hadn't recently considered taking up his old habit again. He clutched at the weaves of his mattress when he knew he lingered too long over his scars.

It was one of the worst feelings he experienced. There it was, unprompted, the desire to bring the coldness of steel down on his skin. He refused to believe it was in the name of boredom – the most exhausted excuse, at least in his flat—so he searched his curtain for signs of light while, also, searching himself for a reason to be thrown back into his teenage emotions, his mechanism for dealing with trauma.

God, how he wanted to sleep. Strike that. No, that wouldn't be any good—he might dream again, and god forbid he dream about the war again, he might just have a dream about knives. No, he wanted a distraction. Anything. Unfortunately enough, he left his laptop downstairs, and the idea that struck him was too strong to deny. Muscles aside, he was determined enough to leave the comfort of his room in a private-ops mission to retrieve his computer. He looked, he really did—Sherlock was most definitely in the kitchen, making noise over with god knows what in pursuit of something John questioned even Sherlock knew. Boredom was a powerful and risky companion, but in that moment, it worked, just once, in John's favor, and he was able to escape with his dignity and privacy intact.

Another fortunate turn for John was that his battery was fully charged. In his room, dressed in a robe, he sat on the edge of his bed, just in the middle, legs crossed and dangling haphazardly over the edge as he set out to blog.

Though, this was a different blog. A new one, certainly, but completely different than the one he ran on his daily, exposed life which, now over the past year, included Sherlock and his fantastic forensic adventures. This one, under a pseudonym, was meant solely for his own good will. He hated wanting to hurt himself. He hated wanting to drink (sometimes) when he knew very well what that could do to a person, as his sister demonstrated often enough. He was a soldier and was supposed to be in control, and not loose visible sobriety or awareness. That's what made cutting so easy, so practical—the control, the secrecy, the ability to hide his certain type of drug and be his best in whatever situation may arise. It really was the best thing a soldier could do.

He groaned, realizing how much he was thinking about it, and set out with his newly formed blog for those with PTSD, self-harm issues, and depression. He didn't, currently, have depression, but he knew that with his sudden want to do himself some degree of harm, and his adamant stance to keep from doing so again, he would definitely have problems being and appearing happy.

And Sherlock couldn't know. About any of it. He could not be allowed to see, because then he would know, and he might think just a little less of John. Of course he knew he wouldn't fault him for it—he might not even mention his obvious change of mood just for the fact that it was too obvious a statement to make—but… John shook his head. He hated wanting to impress that faultless man. Yes, he had his faults, but they were what he liked about him, what he didn't mind to "tolerate". He was his best friend. And as any other friend, he would make sure to be his best for him.

The blog looked half decent, with only a few minutes of customization. He would tell no one about it. He would also help others in similar positions. He felt nervous to post his first post. He wasn't sure what to say, how to phrase it, or if it would even be the thing he needed it to be. But it was necessary. Maybe. He still couldn't decide on it.

He began to type. It started out rough, but he didn't have the mind to change it. These are his thoughts. They don't need to be so clean cut as his other blog needed to be.

My name is Sean and I don't really know what to say here.

He bit his lip and tilted his head. Good enough. No one following him, yet, anyway.

I am a man, and like any other person, man or woman, I have issues. These issues are considered weak, or strictly for those of the female half of the species, but nevertheless they are mine. I am proof that self-harm, depression, and PTSD are very real and affect all sort of people, regardless of nation, gender, or confidence. Uh. I guess, because I understand these things, I can help you, if you ever need someone to talk to. I would only ask your patience when you decide to check my blog, however few times you do, because I know for sure that these posts are going to be getting heavy. Just now, for the first time in a year (since my last trauma) I felt the need to use a knife. I don't know why, now, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I would want to. Well… I guess that's not the complete truth. I thought about it briefly a few days ago, but it was in response to nothing. Life has actually been pretty decent. I recently took time off work, even, and I've just been hanging around the house with my flat mate… sure, he's a little difficult to deal with. But. Honestly. I owe him a lot. It has been his difference in my life that took away a lot of my pains, a lot of things I didn't even know needed attention. And ever since moving in with him – I must stress that I am not gay, though I have no problems with anyone who is—ever since, I've not had these sorts of desires… and so I am completely baffled as to why I've started having trauma-flashbacks. Maybe that's part of it. Oh. My apologies. I've said far too much for a first post. Please, talk to me if ever you need help. I'm in the medical field, so I know a thing or two. That is all. – Sean

John stared at his post. Now his heart really did stop, or beat too fast that it appeared at a stand-still. He liked it, sort of. But did he want to release it for the world to see? What if someone saw it and recognized him? What if Sherlock found it?

But Sherlock never checked his blog, or any blog for that matter, but especially not his—at least, not without prompt from John or Lestrade when it became necessary. Necessity was a rare thing when it regarded John's crime blog. It was a tough first step, but he deemed it a safe, anonymous first step at that. Why would Sherlock even bother with something dealing with self-harm, help and advice? John smiled, clicking the "publish" button he'd been hovering over for more than a few minutes, a weight lifted from his chest. At least he didn't feel desperate anymore. Release was a wonderful thing. But, as with any pleasurable release, it brought on a wave of tire – more so, now that he checked his blaring clock, that it was nearly five in the morning. The black-out curtains behind him glowed at the uncovered edges as a slender beam of sunlight coasted over the sleeping face of London. He felt incredibly lucky still to be on holiday.

He listened intently as he set aside his turned-off laptop, amazed at the persistence of Sherlock. More sounds were issuing up the column of the staircase, things he wasn't sure how to pin—between a loud, pulsing vibration and an electrical hum? Was there violin playing as well? Whatever was the clicking sound? Like soles of shoes banging…

John laughed out loud, quite loudly, but couldn't help doing so. "The closet!" He exclaimed, and fell asleep quickly with one of the most peaceful smiles on his face that he'd ever worn to bed.