Chapter Two Re-Edit
•••
Three months later, things seemed to be going well for the consulting detective and his blogger. Three months later was also the middle of the Christmas season.
John walked down from his bedroom and into the decked-red-and-green main room of the flat to find Sherlock standing among holly wreaths and crimson silk decorations, composing what seemed to be a combination of obscure Christmas carols.
John quickly became lost in the music. It sounded sweet, calm, and oddly it had a hint of sadness to it. Sadness... John took a deep breath as he remembered why he came down here in the first place.
"Sherlock, You okay?" John asked his flatmate who was currently turned towards the mantle.
"Yes." He replied Sherlock in a monotone voice. Mentally he was screaming. Had John noticed? What was he going to do? He thought he'd done a fair job of hiding it this time.
He lowered his bow and turned towards John. "Why wouldn't I be?" He said with a small smile.
John gave a bitter laugh. He really did doubt that the man was human every once in a while. "Well, it's just..." He sucked in a deep breath. "You know, the case."
Sherlock felt relieved. John wasn't catching on after all. Sherlock turned around and started to play again. "I solved it, didn't I?"
John frowned. Was that really all he cared about? "A girl died, Sherlock."
"That could not be helped." Replied Sherlock quickly. He cringed at the thought of what happened.
•••
A girl, a mere child, had died because she had decided to investigate her bother's death instead of letting him and the rest of Scotland Yard look into it. Actually, she did come to them for help... at first. About an hour after she came to file a report the girl said she had to use the loo. Sherlock obviously knew that she was lying and was just going to leave. She was annoyed at the officers for not taking her seriously and for them not believing that there was someone out to get her and her family. The girl left before any of the other cops noticed.
She was shot as soon as she stepped out the door.
•••
John saw Sherlock tense up for a second. He most likely thought he was blaming him. "Sherlock, of course it couldn't be helped. It's not you fault or anything. You weren't the one to pull the trigger." John said trying to reassure his friend.
"I know it wasn't. That's what I said didn't I?" Said Sherlock trying to sound slightly annoyed. On the inside he was falling apart. It was all his fault and he knew it.
John sighed. Attempting to go down this path with Sherlock was always futile. He didn't know why he even bothered. "Right. Forget it. Look, I'm going gift shopping. I also need to stop by Harry's, so I'm most likely going to be gone a while."
"Mmm." Sherlock mumbled, as he did when he heard but wasn't listening to what someone had said.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Sherlock blinked slowly at John before snapping out of his daze.
"Glad to see that you pay attention." Said John as he slammed the door behind him, making a little more noise than he needed to.
Frowning to himself, John chased down a cab deciding that a bit of shopping would take his mind off things. Sliding into the back seat, he shook his head. It still baffled him, after all this time, that feeling no emotion whatsoever for other humans came so naturally to Sherlock. John knew that was just the way he was, but he could at least pretend to care.
•••
Sherlock waited until John's footsteps faded to set his violin down mid-song and throw himself onto the couch. He began to chew nervously on his lower lip. It had been such a horrible day.
That poor girl... Of course he noticed that she was going to leave. How on earth didn't everyone else? He'd been sure she would realize that if someone truly was trying to kill her, it would be safer to stay there. He assumed she would turn around as soon as she began to walk away.
She didn't of course.
Why hadn't he said something? That girl would still be alive if he had said something...
It had been a relatively long time since someone had died during a case if his. Even longer since he could have done something to prevent someone's death.
He'd nearly forgotten what this felt like. The guilt was like a black hole, slowly eating away at him from inside. It was so awful. The worst part of feeling this way, as he always did when he felt responsible for harm coming to someone else, was that he had to hide it.
No one, not even John, could think he had any concept of sympathy or sentiment. Emotions impaired mental function; that was just a fact. He would not allow anyone on Earth to think of him as anything but the highest level of intellect.
Unfortunately for him, that meant he was always alone when these waves of depression hit him. He was so very alone. He had been, his whole life, but it usually didn't bother him...
Sherlock involuntarily looked at his wrists, then began to stare around the room, searching.
He didn't want this to happen again, but physical pain was just so much easier to endure- and recover from- than emotional pain. All he needed was to distract his mind away from the death of the girl, if only for a little while.
He knew that Mycroft had sent in some people to confiscate his blades and dull their knives just in case, but there had to be something...
•••
The cabbie had taken John hardly a block from Baker Street when he noticed the distinct emptiness of his left pocket.
"Sorry, could you turn around, please? I accidentally left my mobile at home." John called up to driver. The driver immediately U-turned and began to take them back to the flat.
John hopped up the stairs and briskly stepped inside. "Sorry Sherlock, forgot my phone." He said before realizing he was speaking to an empty room.
"Hello?" John said unsure of the other man's whereabouts. Assuming that he was merely in the other room, John bent down to grab his mobile from the table where it sat beside Sherlock's abandoned violin and- a pencil sharpener?
John stared at the hand-held sharpener confused. He only kept that one around in case the electric one broke.
Then he noticed the missing blade and the screw that usually held it in place lying beside the discarded violin bow.
No, it couldn't be.
He wouldn't.
"Sherlock?" Cried out John frantically.
•••
Sherlock, standing over the sink in the bathroom, heard John call his name from the other room. "No..." He muttered under his breath.
'He said he would be out for a while!' He thought angrily to himself.
Sherlock opened his hand, dropping the blade to the counter with a metallic clink. He quickly rolled down his sleeves trying to cover up his arms so he could attempt to get John out of the house again.
•••
John thought he heard a noise from the bathroom. "Sherlock?" He called again. When no reply came, he grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it open. What he saw shocked and terrified him to his core.
Sherlock stood facing him, a deep red liquid slowly seeping through his sleeves and crawling down his arm to the visible part of his wrist. Just as John had suspected, the blade from the pencil sharpener rested on the countertop, but not all of it was silver; the edge was stained with a deep crimson color.
John's vision blurred as he tried to make eye-contact with Sherlock. In contrast to his, the detective's features were startlingly cool and complacent. He seemed not to register any emotion, though the bleeding wounds in his forearms spoke otherwise.
John stepped slowly towards him, holding out his hands to take and examine Sherlock's arms.
"John-" Began Sherlock.
"Don't." Whispered John.
"I-" Began Sherlock once again.
"Don't!" Yelled John.
John closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
"My God Sherlock. How long has this been going on?" He muttered under his breath.
Instinctively acting as a doctor, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt to better tend to his cuts.
He wasn't prepared for what he saw next.
Faint lines covered Sherlock's stomach and chest, and as he continued removing the shirt he saw the scars that also lined Sherlock's shoulders, back, arms, wrists. In some places single scars were not visible, only a patch of white scar tissue on Sherlock's skin.
Apparently, it had been going on for quite a while.
Without taking his eyes from the damaged man before him, John reached for the bandages that he stocked the medicine cabinet and began to wrap them around Sherlock's wrists.
Neither of them said a word as John stepped aside, motioning for Sherlock to get out of the bathroom.
•••
Sherlock silently cursed himself as he walked out into the living room.
This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid. He knew how John would feel about it and all he'd wanted was to spare his friend the pain. He knew that in that moment, it was hurting John more than it was him. Even so, the tears began to spill onto his cheeks as he sat gingerly on the couch.
•••
John sat beside Sherlock, barely able to think straight. How could this happen? How could he not have known, for so long? Sherlock, his best and only friend, had been living like this for years and he'd been completely unaware of it! He should have been able to tell, should've been helping! It should have been his job to get Sherlock through it, and he hasn't even been there for him!
He was unable to speak, but could clearly read the message in Sherlock's eyes. His bloodshot eyes that revealed pain, sorrow, remorse, and worst of all shame.
•••
Barely able to speak, Sherlock choked out a few words. "I'm so sorry. But it's okay. It will all be okay. And it's a conversation for another time."
•••
John decided to accept that last part. Another time. Another time they would talk. For now, he needed to make sure Sherlock was safe.
Without another thought, John crawled on the couch until he was practically sitting in Sherlock's lap. He collapsed onto the other man's shoulder, sobbing.
It took him a few moments to realize that Sherlock had thrown his arms around him and even more to realize he was crying with him. Neither of them could have said how long they sat there, holding each other as though nothing else in the world mattered.
•••
John woke up on the couch the next morning unable to remember the previous night. A few thoughts drifted through his mind, but when one of them involved Sherlock crying he wrote them all off as a dream.
Half-awake, John stumbled into the bathroom. He jumped at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were swollen beyond recognition due to a large amount of crying apparently.
It hit him like a tidal wave. Last night had all been real.
Lowering his eyes to the sink, he was suddenly struck by the absence of the pencil sharpener blade. He remembered that it had been sitting on the counter last night before they went in the living room.
John's stomach dropped and his eyes widened.
"Sherlock?!" He cried out.
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