A/N: Thank you for following my story and for the reviews! It means a lot to me. Writing this story is turning to be pretty therapeutic for me so I'm glad you guys are enjoying reading it.
Chapter Two: These Confessions Will Drown Us
.o.o.
.o.
And on and on from the moment I wake,
To the moment I sleep,
I'll be there by your side,
Just you try and stop me,
I'll be waiting in line,
Just to see if you care.
Coldplay – Shiver
.o.o.
.o.
Sherlock lay in the fetal position with the white sheet still wrapped around his body and head, the black storm clouds still unrelentingly hanging over his head. He watched John intently, seeing the doctor shifting in his seat as he looked down at his phone.
"Is it from your sister, Harriet?" Sherlock asked curiously, trying his best to take his mind off the depression that had consumed him for the past three days now.
John looked at Sherlock almost with impatient eyes. "What? What on earth would make you think it's my sister?"
His suggestion made him uneasy now. He felt his insides twist again and he shrugged under his sheet. "That's the seventh text message you've received in the past two days. Every time you look at it, you tense up and look perplexed. Obviously it gives you some kind of emotional reaction. It's possible something could be wrong with someone you care about, someone who needs help and someone who you love. If it was a friend, you might text them back but because it's most likely your alcoholic sister, you choose not to message her back because you still resent her for past mistakes."
John looked at his friend with a look of disbelief but shook his head, sighing. "Actually, no, Sherlock. It's not Harriet. I'm sorry but you're not always right. You can't always be that clever."
Sherlock was quiet for a bit, racking his brain as he tried to think who it could be. "Parents?"
"No… it's… it's no one important, Sherlock. I'm going to meet up with them. You're not feeling well and I want to stay here with you until you feel better."
The detective felt his chest ache with something he assumed would be guilt. "I'm only just a bit under the weather. You don't need to babysit me, John."
The doctor raised his eyebrows. "A bit under the weather, is that what you're calling it? You have severe depression, Sherlock. Stop trying to downplay it!"
Sherlock flinched slightly and felt the sadness he felt rising back up. "You're upset with me. Why are you upset with me?"
John's frustration and impatience flickered upon his face and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, Sherlock. I'm not upset with you. I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell."
He held the sheet around his body tighter and looked out the window to see small, soft fluffy white flakes falling outside. The thought of snow made him feel even colder than he already was. "Go run your errands, see whoever it is you want to see. I'm okay here."
John looked sad for a moment himself, the anger gone from his eyes now. "Are you absolutely sure? I don't want to leave if you need me here. You're more important than these messages."
Sherlock's curiosity was overwhelming now but he didn't want to be yelled at again so he kept his questions to himself. He nodded against the sheet. "Of course I'm sure." Then another thought occurred to him after a short pause between the two men. "Call Lestrade if you must. He doesn't seem to be doing anything as of late."
John looked at him thoughtfully before he bit his lip. "That's… not a bad idea. I don't want you to think that he's a babysitter for you though. I just want someone to be here that you can talk to," he explained as he pressed the buttons for Greg's mobile number.
Sherlock thought about challenging John and adding 'because you're afraid I might do something to myself,' but he quickly remembered calling the head of Scotland Yard was his idea. He remained quiet as he listened to John explain the situation to Lestrade and then hung up. He walked over and grabbed his coat before he looked down at Sherlock with what looked like guilt in his eyes.
"I'll try not to be too long. Be nice to Greg."
Sherlock's eyes shifted from the coffee table up to John. "Mmm… who?"
"Lestrade… how can you forget his name all the time? It's not that difficult a name to remember, is it?"
"Oh, right. I don't normally refer to him by his first name…"
John gave a small chuckle as he sat on the edge of the couch and looked at Sherlock. "You've known him for nearly six years and you've never called him by his first name?" he asked skeptically.
Sherlock thought for a while, trying to remember the days right after Sherlock's attempted incidents. He had been so angry at himself for having let himself get caught and he had been so angry at Lestrade that he only referred to him by his last name, just like all the other times he had encountered him.
"No, never. It doesn't seem to bother him, though."
John searched Sherlock's face with guilt in his eyes again. "Well, I suppose he wouldn't actually let on that it bothered him that you always call him by his surname."
"What is it, John?"
"Hmm? What's what?"
Sherlock shifted his body so he could look properly at his friend. "Why are you looking so miserable? You look like you feel bad about something."
"Oh," John cleared his throat nervously and shook his head before giving Sherlock a small smile. "It's nothing. I just feel bad about doing my errands instead of staying here with you. You're the one who's miserable…"
Sherlock was smart enough to know a lie when he heard one, or rather in his case, saw one happening. There was something else scratching away at the doctor but he couldn't exactly pinpoint it. His thoughts were still clouded by his depression and the ache in his bones didn't help matters either.
"I'll be fine," Sherlock assured him, going along with his friend's lie. "Lestrade will watch over me, and most likely get on my nerves like he always does."
The joke made John smile again before he seemed fully assured. "Do you want me to make you anything before I go? Do you want to have some fruit or something?"
"No, thank you, John. I'm all right."
John walked over to him and placed his hand on Sherlock's pulse. He looked down at his watch as he counted mentally before he looked at him. "Your heart is racing. Your body's working overtime on nothing. You haven't eaten today yet, have you?" he asked knowingly.
Sherlock sighed, trying to embrace John's nagging instinct. "I'll eat something while you're out if it'll get you off my back." He forced a half smile to try and make the situation feel less serious than it was.
"Good, then do that… and Lestrade will tell me if you actually ate or not too. Oh Jesus, it really does sound like he's a babysitter," John chuckled as he stood up again.
Sherlock said nothing just before he heard Greg knock on the flat door. John and him exchanged casual words before he saw his friend left and saw the Detective Inspector walk inside, his hands in his pockets and looking around as if he hadn't been here yesterday. He couldn't believe he didn't feel the awkwardness in front of this older man who had been the first one at the scene when Sherlock had cut his wrist opened vertically and lay on the bathroom floor. By all means, Sherlock should feel uneasy about Lestrade having seen him like that, but he didn't and he couldn't figure it out, which frustrated him.
Several minutes went by before Lestrade gave Sherlock a small smile before he turned on the small television that sat in front of John's armchair. He turned the volume down but in Sherlock's mental state, the dull tone of voices unnerved him. He groaned and closed his eyes.
"Can you please shut that off?"
"Sorry, Sherlock; the football game's on and I have money on it. I'm afraid you're just going to have to deal with it until it's over," Greg replied, obviously not sorry at all.
"That's ironic… a police officer who illegally bets on games."
Greg glanced over at him. "Who says it was done illegally? I didn't do it in some shady back alley…"
Sherlock didn't even open his eyes again as he spoke again. "You arrived here awfully quickly, which means you weren't too far when John called you and asked to watch me. You smell like fish and chips and the nearest proper restaurant with fish and chips is Lacey's pub but that's at least twelve minutes away by cab and you arrived here in seven minutes flat, which tells me you were at the nearest gambling building that is four minutes away. The only people who gamble are ones who are tight on money or looking for danger and you seem to have fit both those categories since the severe lack of crimes you haven't had to solve. You wrote down your bet, placed it, and then rushed over here, according to the slight perspiration on your neck collar and your forehead."
Lestrade looked at him in what was a mixture of shock and awe. "Blimey, how the hell how do you do that, Sherlock? I mean, I know… by observation, but that's just something truly incredible. I will say you have quite a gift." He admitted, shaking his head but allowing a small smile to appear on his face.
Sherlock also smiled to himself, but it was a sad smile. He couldn't get his mind off of John and what it was that he was hiding. He lay on the couch, only half paying attention to the football game on the television, finding it mindless enough. He watched it for a good half hour before he finally forced himself to stand up, stretching.
"I'm off to go shower. Help yourself to whatever," he offered before he dragged his sheet into his bathroom and shut the door.
"Don't lock it, Sherlock!" Lestrade called from the living room, his voice making it sound more of an order than him just asking him not to lock it.
Sherlock knew this routine quite well. Ever since that one night, Greg always told him not to lock any doors, his trust in Sherlock having flown out the window. He wasn't feeling up to messing with the DI so he kept it unlocked and jumped in the shower, letting the hot water warm his icy body, feeling the cold down to his very bones. That had to be from the little food he had eaten in the past few days.
After he had rinsed himself of soap, he shut the water off and then started to dry himself off. He wrapped the towel around his waist and started towards the sink when a wave of dizziness hit him hard, and caused him to tumble forward, hitting his head on the sink slightly before he fell on the floor.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me? Holmes!" a panicked voice yelled at him.
He moaned and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Lestrade kneeling over him, holding something to his head. He looked around, blinking a few times to try and get his vision back. "I'm… I'm fine…"
"Like hell you are! What happened?"
Sherlock blinked until he regained his full vision again and then cringed, feeling his head throb unmercifully. "Damn it… I… I felt dizzy and I must have fainted…"
Lestrade looked at him worriedly and looked down to examine the cut on his head. "It doesn't appear to be bleeding very much but you might have a concussion. Maybe we should go to the hospital."
That was the last thing he needed right now. If he went to the hospital, they'd keep him there and probably force feed him through tubes. It was likely Sherlock would get force fed anyway whether he went to the hospital or stayed here at Baker Street but he would eat for John here without a severe struggle. He couldn't guarantee as much at Bart's hospital.
"No, Lestrade… I'll be okay. Just… get me a glass of water," Sherlock told him as he slowly got back to his feet.
The DI helped him up carefully before he hurried into the kitchen and came back with the water. He placed it on the sink but stood where he was, cautiously eyeing Sherlock in case he fainted again. Sherlock grabbed the bottle of painkillers and swallowed two down with the water before he examined himself in the bathroom mirror.
"It's superficial. It'll stop bleeding soon…" Sherlock deduced as he grabbed his razor and lathered his face with shaving cream. He saw the look of concern out of his peripheral vision when he saw Greg eyeing the razor. "Don't worry, Lestrade. I wouldn't try and slit my own throat in front of you. Besides, it'd be quite a mess for John to have to clean up."
Greg looked at him with hard eyes. "That's not bloody funny, Sherlock, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't treat your attempted suicides as some damn joke!"
Sherlock let his smile fade now and just nodded curtly before he started to shave the stubble off his face. The two were silent for several minutes as the detective shaved and he couldn't even ask Lestrade to leave while he did so; he knew why he stayed, and he knew he had no right to question it. He knew he had lost Lestrade's trust and he wasn't going to earn it back any time soon. When he was done, he rinsed his face off with warm water and then dried it off before he turned back to him.
"Do you mind if I at least get dressed alone?"
Sherlock still wasn't feeling one hundred percent but he knew that getting dressed would at least stop both Greg and John from nagging him to do things. It was a step in the right direction, anyway.
"You have five minutes and I'm coming in, done or not," Greg warned, walking back over towards the television but didn't sit down.
Sherlock walked into the bedroom and got changed into what he considered to be casual clothes, clothes he wouldn't go outside in but clothes that he still felt comfortable to be in. He might've still been in a slump but he didn't think that was any reason to stay in his sheet for more than three days straight. When he walked back out, he saw Greg looking back at him with olive green eyes still laced with concern.
"Sherlock, you really should eat something. You're looking downright skeletal," he remarked, looking grimly at the detective.
He scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes, about to protest until he remembered what John had said to him earlier before he left.
"Lestrade will tell me if you actually ate or not…"
"How considerate of you to notice. Would you like something to eat or are you going to force me to eat by myself?" Sherlock asked, attempting to sound teasing but cringed inside when he heard the own ice in his voice.
Lestrade seemed used to Sherlock's demeanor towards him; he seemed completely unfazed as he walked into the kitchen with the younger man. He looked in the fridge and found some salmon. He looked thoughtfully back at Sherlock who was hanging out by the window.
"How does salmon strike you for a late lunch?"
Sherlock looked at the Detective Inspector with surprise but he nodded. "Sure, why not? That should get the two of you off my back."
Lestrade grabbed a pan out of the bottom cupboard and started to prepare it. He sprinkled herbs on top of it before he let it sit in a pan of melted butter. Once he flipped it over, he looked over at Sherlock.
"Yes, there obviously something on your mind? Go ahead, ask."
Greg clenched his jaw. "Have you told John about… you know?"
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. "No, I have not! Are we honestly going to jump back into this again? I told you, I'll tell him when I'm ready to tell him! It's not going to make any bit of fucking difference if I tell him about what I did or not though! Why should he care? It's not like it affects him or changes any of it…"
Greg gave a soft growl of irritation but his eyes were still soft. "You might not believe it makes any difference but to normal people it does. Put yourself in his shoes and pretend you can actually relate and empathize with other people for two seconds! What if you found out your flatmate and best friend had a history of suicide attempts and was hiding a big goddamn secret from him involving his hellish childhood! How would you feel?"
Sherlock thought about this, trying hard to put himself in John's place. "Well, I suppose I'd be worried about how I would be able to pay rent if my flatmate was serious about ending his life."
"You're putting me off now, aren't you? Please tell me you're not actually serious!" Lestrade barked.
He couldn't help thinking more of the rational logic rather than the emotional logic. It was ironic. Even though he felt more emotion he ever wanted to, he had difficulty relating to other people. The whole sociopath label was such a farce.
"I… don't know, Lestrade. I don't know how I would feel if John told me he was suicidal instead of it being me. It's an impossible situation that'll never happen and the fact that it is me instead of him who's severely depressed with suicide attempts in my past makes it especially hard for me to put myself in that position," Sherlock answered, the dark clouds coming back to hover over him again.
"I understand that you're different from other people, Sherlock. That's not a secret, but I'll tell you how he'll feel if you continue to hide this from him." Greg placed the salmon in the frying pan and turned the fire on low underneath it. "He's going to feel hurt and betrayed that you've kept it from him for so long. John's going to be terrified of losing you to your own thoughts."
Sherlock swallowed hard, picturing the scene in his head. He could see a frantic John Watson, trying to grasp it all, trying to understand how this could've happened to Sherlock Holmes. He could see John becoming upset once he told him about his childhood and the traumatic things he had gone through. Granted, Sherlock couldn't relate to other humans but he knew John well enough to know how he would react in certain situations. The thought of seeing the pain of betrayal and hurt in his best friend's eyes made his chest ache and his heart pound.
"I don't want him to hurt, Lestrade. He puts up with enough about me almost daily and dropping those bombshells might make him want to leave. He's forgiving, very forgiving, but it wouldn't take much to break his friendship. I don't want to lose him in my life," Sherlock confessed, his voice soft and low and his head started to pound again.
Lestrade nodded in understanding before he flipped the fish in the pan, turning back to Sherlock. "I know it's hard for you and I'll stop hassling you about telling him only because I know that it really affected you and I don't want you to go over the edge again." There was an awkward silence between them before the detective spoke again. "Go on into the living room. I'll bring it in when it's done."
Sherlock didn't argue, eager to get away from the amount of uncomfortable in the kitchen. He walked over and sat down on the couch, looking back towards the window, wondering where John was. He just wanted to see him again. He wanted him to come back so they could talk like they used to. About five minutes later, Lestrade brought in a small plate of salmon to him and the two ate in silence as Greg watched the football on the television, occasionally letting out cheers as the team he had bet on scored or cursed when the opposing team did.
Even once they were done eating, Sherlock fell asleep finally, his head on the back of the couch and only faintly felt Greg pull a real blanket over his body before he turned his attention back to the game.
Sherlock woke up abruptly to the sound of clattering and clanking. He looked at the clock on the fireplace.
9:30.
John had been gone for nearly six hours. Where was he? What kind of errands did he have to do that required so much time? Sherlock glanced over to see Greg washing the dishes Sherlock had left in the sink several days ago, just before his depression had really hit him hard, leaving him emotionally incapacitated to do any chores.
"You can go home if you want, Lestrade. Don't feel like you should stay here and look after me," Sherlock yawned sleepily.
Greg gave him a sympathetic look and shrugged. "I don't have much to go home to, honestly. The wife left with the kids a couple weeks ago when we had that really hot case so… it's nice to have someone to talk to. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here until John gets back."
Sherlock rested his head again on the back of the couch but still looked at him. He smirked playfully. "Wow, that's saying something… wanting to be in my poor company instead of being at home where you could actually have a decent time alone."
"Stop talking so rotten about yourself, Sherlock. You're not an easy person to be around at first but I've gotten used to your personality that it doesn't even bother me anymore. You're not as bad as you think you are, you know."
Sherlock felt sceptical about that but felt too tired to argue. It was like his body might finally let him be somewhat normal again. He exhaled before he thought about texting John to see where he was, just to make sure he was okay. The thought quickly was erased when he saw the very person enter the flat, looking dishevelled.
"Hey, you're home! You made it finally…" Sherlock greeted and watched as Greg came out to see who Sherlock was talking to.
John gave a smile and a polite nod to Lestrade before he took off his coat and hung it up. When he turned back to face Sherlock, the guilt in his eyes was gone and he looked happy, or at the very least, content. "Hello, Sherlock. Feeling any better then?"
The detective gave a small shrug. "I ate something."
John smiled a smile that went to his eyes as well. "That's great, Sherlock… I'm glad." His smile quickly faded though when he saw the cut on his friend's forehead. He moved in closer to look at it and his contented demeanor turned into worry.
"What did you do? What happened?"
Greg awkwardly scratched the back of his head and seemed to shrink slightly. "He fainted in the bathroom and hit his head."
Sherlock shot a dark look towards Lestrade now, willing him to burst into flames. "I'm fine! It stopped bleeding. I didn't need stitches or anything."
John was still examining the cut before he looked back at Greg. "You didn't think about notifying me about it? Or taking him to the hospital?"
Greg gave him a feeble shrug and scoffed. "He seemed to be fine! He just had a headache – "
Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "Will you please just shut up now, Lestrade?!"
"A headache?" John sighed impatiently, ignoring Sherlock. "That's a sign of a concussion, Greg." He finally turned back to the detective and searched his face. "Have you had any loss of consciousness since you woke up earlier or had an amnesia or anything, Sherlock?"
"No, John! I'm bloody fine, now leave me alone!"
John sat back and ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. You say you're all right, then I'll believe you but tell me if you can't remember something or if you start having slowed reaction times to anything, okay?"
Sherlock waved John away and watched as he disappeared into his room on the other side. He shot a look at Greg now. "You couldn't have just kept your mouth shut, Lestrade? Or have at least lied for me?"
Greg leaned in now. "That's what you would've had me do? Lied? You just live your whole life on lies, don't you, Sherlock?" Lestrade hissed at him so John wouldn't be able to hear them. "You can't keep lying your way through friendships or life or anything in this world and the sooner you realize this, the better off you'll be!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "I'm not lying if I don't tell him! It's just me not telling him!" he hissed back.
Greg straightened up now and put his scarf and coat back on. "It's lying, Sherlock. It's really amazing to me though how you can believe your own lies… believing that not telling John won't hurt him. Think about what I said."
Sherlock watched as the detective walked towards John's room and said his goodbyes before he left their flat, leaving him and the doctor alone again. He looked down at his hands and chewed on his lip, waiting for him to come back out. It was now or never.
"Err… John? Can you please come out here for a moment?"
John adhered to his friend's request and threw his arms up casually. "Yeah, what's going on?"
Sherlock felt his tongue twist into a knot as he admired the handsome man standing in front of him. Brave, courageous, intelligent-in-his-own-way John. He felt his insides turn to jelly as he trying to force the words out of his mouth.
"I have something I need to tell you…" Sherlock started, swallowing hard. "I… I believe I am… err… falling in love with you," he stammered awkwardly, chuckling nervously.
When he looked up at him, his insides hardened and he saw John become pale and the guilt flood his friend's face, worse than it had before now. His heart raced in his chest and he felt like the silence was about to drown him. "P-Please say something, John… I'm feeling like an incredible fool at the moment."
John looked down at the ground and sighed before he ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to look at Sherlock with a defeated look in his eyes. "I-I've… found someone… else."
