"I was bored, John."
The answer caught him off guard, like a slap in the face.
"Sherlock, you were not just BORED! Don't even try to tell me- You took a blade and... and... People don't just do that when they're BORED! Human beings don't destroy themselves for ENTERTAINMENT! You can't expect me to believe-" He stopped and took a moment to catch his breath and steady himself.
Sherlock frowned quizzically. Boredom. That was why he'd done all this... Wasn't it?
All he said was, "I'm not destroying myself."
"Oh really?! Really?! What do you call this, then, Sherlock?" He tugged his arm out straight and gave him a pointed look. "Go on, I want to hear it!"
John's eyes were a little wider than normal. His voice was strained. He kept blinking, hard, and Sherlock could see his pulse. All indicators of distress.
Perhaps he did care...?
Or maybe he was upset that he thought Sherlock had lied to him. That must be it.
"Sherlock, look at me." He'd cleared his throat and had lowered his voice so it wouldn't crack. "Come on, look."
Sherlock brought his gaze back to his face, slightly questioning.
John shut his eyes for a second and searched for the right words to say.
"Okay... I'm your friend. Is that important to you at all? Do you even understand how people worry about their best friends?" He ignored Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "They do. A lot. And when they find them doing something like this... Yeah, it makes them worried. But it makes me sad, too."
"You changed your personal pronouns." Sherlock observed quietly.
"I did..." He sighed. "Because it means a lot to me. It's personal. I don't even know if you can see how this affects me, but it does. I hate worrying like this, and... I know you're all about being cold and emotionless, but I know why other people do this to themselves and I can't believe it's that much different for you. So yeah, I worry."
"You believe I'm depressed? John, you know I just-"
"I've just found out my best friend is cutting himself-don't you dare tell me it's nothing!" Though he meant to put more emphasis on these words, they came out as little more than strained whispers.
Sherlock quieted again and lowered his eyes.
John half sat up and seemed to change plans mid-movement, pulling him forward by the wrist and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders in a hug that caught the detective completely off guard.
"John-?"
"Shhh." Perhaps it was selfish, but he stayed like that for a minute before he released him and sat back, wiping his eyes and looking only slightly abashed. He brushed the edge of the bandages on Sherlock's arms. "Let me see."
Sherlock cringed away. "No..."
"I'm the doctor, dammit. Let me see."
John unwrapped the bandages as carefully as he could, and Sherlock watched in silence. He'd been aware of a creeping darkness in the back of his skull for the last few minutes, and now he focused on the sting of the open air on his wounds in an attempt to keep it from spreading and to keep himself grounded and awake.
He watched as John bit his lip. The cuts were deep-a bit too deep, Sherlock knew. He'd realized that too late, but he'd managed to lessen, if not stop the bleeding eventually, until now that John had unwrapped them again. It had gotten his heart beating a bit faster last night, when so much blood had spilled forth and didn't stop, so much of it, way too much... He'd almost panicked...
The memory began to dim as his consciousness went hazy and his vision swam.
"I'm calling the hospital."
It had been boredom. Hadn't it?
Just bored.
...right?
...
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Sterile.
A strong smell of antiseptic.
Bright lights through closed eyelids.
Too uncomfortable.
And that irritating beeping...
Hospital?
Sherlock's mind gradually surfaced back to reality. He was now aware of a warm pressure on his left hand where it lay on the bed sheets, and he slowly opened one eye and stared down at John's hand, resting over top of his own.
His brain still felt thick and clouded-this time likely by medications as much as blood loss-and he struggled to make sense of everything. John was asleep in the chair beside the bed, his chin resting on his shoulder awkwardly. He must have been there a long time.
Sherlock registered a pronounced numbness in his arms and concluded that he'd been given a strong pain reliever and mostly likely received stitches in both arms. How annoying... But they'd leave nice scars, at least. He smiled drowsily to himself at the thought. He couldn't have said why, but he liked the scars.
John wouldn't understand.
Sherlock glanced over at him again. With everything that had happened... He wasn't sure if he liked the outcome.
John had said he cared, in a way. That was surprising-he'd been certain no one did. Then again, it could have been just words. But now that John knew everything... Sherlock's worries had been realized; he bit back a curse and stared up at the ceiling.
But... John was still here.
He was still sitting next to him, holding his hand.
He hadn't left.
Not that Sherlock needed that sort of silly support, of course, but he felt reassured nonetheless.
John made a sudden sound and jerked awake, and momentary panic showed in his eyes-but then he saw Sherlock looking at him, and he relaxed again.
"Oh... You're awake." He said lamely and let go of Sherlock's hand, knowing he wasn't fond of excess contact.
"Yes, I am. Didn't I say something about not wanting to be here...?" It was an accusation, not a question.
"You lost the right to choose when you did this. You lost a lot of blood, Sherlock. It really shouldn't have taken this long to get it remedied-you might have faced serious consequences. Does that mean anything to you?" He grimaced at his stiff neck and shifted in his chair. "You should have come to me as soon as it happened and told me so I could help you. Not waited all damn night on the floor, and then let me think you just had a cold or something."
"I didn't want to come here."
John sighed. This felt like walking around in circles in Antarctica. "But why? Why couldn't you have used some common sense and just let yourself be taken care of, just this once? Because it WAS necessary."
"Because... If I went to the hospital I knew they'd find all this..." Sherlock nodded to his arms, which were now bandaged cleanly.
John shut his eyes for a moment. "And that couldn't happen because...? You wanted to continue killing yourself slowly, right under my nose? Never going to let me know until it was too late, was that the plan?" He ignored the slight furrow in Sherlock's brow; he wasn't controlling what he said now. Tiredness and emotion had destroyed his filter.
"I'm doing nothing of the sort. Don't be overly dramatic-"
"I'M not the one being dramatic, Sherlock! You passed out on me because you'd been fucking slashing your arms to hell! Think for a second, will you?! Can you picture what this looks like from my perspective?!"
Sherlock went quiet, but John paid him no heed and went on heatedly. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do for you anymore, honestly! I thought I was doing alright, but I guess not! And you won't even tell me truthfully why you even started this-you don't even want help! Well what do you want, then?! Am I not paying you enough attention?! Not praising you enough?!"
It registered in John's mind how scathing his words sounded as they left his lips, but he was too worked up to care. He knew it was cruel-and maybe he meant it that way.
Sherlock's eyes reflected quiet hurt, but he remained still.
No. No-John didn't mean it that way.
Sherlock's lack of fight only made him feel worse. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean that… I just don't understand why you won't come to me. You're my best friend. I want to help."
"…Help…?"
"Yes, help. You have a problem, and I want to help you fix it. But I don't see why you won't let me."
"I just thought… that if you found out, maybe you'd..." Sherlock hesitated uncertainly. "...maybe you'd leave."