Sorry for the very late update! I have been extremely busy lately, I hope you all forgive me! Well here's the latest instalment. Hope you enjoy!
"Sherlock, how long has it been since you last ate?" John asked as he looked at Sherlock who was busy conducting one of his experiments under the microscope, probably analysing some sort of chemical or bacteria.
"What day is it?" He replied, a hint of melancholy and boredom in his voice.
"Sunday,"
"4 days then. Actually," Sherlock said, glancing at his watch, "4 days, 5 hours and 28 minutes." He shrugged slightly as he turned his attention back to the microscope.
"Nope," John got up from his armchair and stared at Sherlock. "We're going out, and you're eating. You'll waste away if you don't eat; and don't give me any of this 'the body-"
"Is merely transport for the mind," Sherlock interrupted.
Sighing, John grabbed Sherlock's bare arm, preparing to hoist him up, when suddenly, he felt a strange texture on Sherlock's skin. Curious, he tried to slightly twist Sherlock's arm so he could see what it is, but his plan was soiled when Sherlock yanked his arm out of John's grip and stood up quickly.
"Fine then," he growled, stalking away and coming back a minute later in his long black coat and blue scarf.
"Sherlock, what was that on your arm?"
"Skin, John."
"No, on your skin,"
Sherlock shrugged and started downstairs.
"You coming?" He called.
John sighed as he followed Sherlock down the stairs, but his mind was still fixed and confused about what he felt on Sherlock's arm.
"Sherlock, calm down, your food will be here soon." John sighed as he watched Sherlock fidget and writhe as he waited impatiently for his food. John didn't blame him; his brain finally rendered his body's messages, and hunger crept up on him again.
"Remind me why I don't eat." Sherlock exclaimed, piercing John with his blue eyes, looking at him, eyebrows set in an irritated way.
"Because you're an idiot." John replied, smiling.
"Not idiotic, perhaps I'm just too engulfed in my experiments. Studying the blood vessels in the eye is quite intriguing."
"Mmm," John nodded, his mouth stuffed with the food that only arrived 10 seconds ago. "Must be lovely."
The side of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a smirk, and he twisted his fork around in his spaghetti and shoved it hungrily into his mouth. After he swallowed his first bite, his gaze fell upon a teenage couple who were holding hands at the counter as one of their parents paid. It wasn't the concept of teenage 'love' that intrigued Sherlock, it was the sight of red and inflamed slits that were present on both their wrists. He observed them more thoroughly, the way the boy smiled down at the girl, and the way he ran his free hand gently down the girl's arm and along the cuts, and the way the girl grinned back, how he squeezed her hand in a supportive and loving gesture. It made Sherlock's heart squeeze in an uncomfortable way, as for an instant he swear he saw John and himself doing the same thing; John supporting Sherlock with his self destruction (he refused to call it self-harm), even in a miniscule way in public would mean a lot to Sherlock. In a way, Sherlock had always been self destructive. At a young age, he would lock himself in his room and conduct silly experiments just so he could be away from his degrading family. In his teenage years, he started smoking, doing drugs and cutting; he liked the way it stimulated his brain to a higher level, calmed his nerves and gave him a small rush of adrenaline. Of course he outgrew all these things, or so he thought. Solving cases now gave him a rush of adrenaline and made him happy; in retrospect. But when there were no cases to solve and the only thing to do was hang around the apartment, Sherlock grew bored and the self destructive feeling he abandoned long ago was slowly seeping back in, like a poisonous gas slowly shutting down his organs. As boredom increased, so did Sherlock's need for self destruction.
John suddenly realized the fixed and neurotic state Sherlock was in.
"Sher-"
"How much would it take for me to push you away?" Sherlock interrupted, staring John straight in the eyes.
"W-what?" John stammered, bewildered by the sudden outburst from Sherlock.
"How much absurdity can I perform before you walk out on me?"
"I would never walk out on you, no matter what you did. Even if you killed a man." John replied, eyeing Sherlock back, in a determined way. He would never leave Sherlock, of course not. As much as he hated to admit it, he loved the eccentric man to bits; not like Sherlock knew that. "...Why?"
Sherlock frowned, crossed his arms and looked away.
Such a child, John thought, mentally smiling.
"Nevermind," Sherlock grumbled, looking unappetizingly at the plate of food on the table.
"Sherlock, look at me."
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"Sherlock, what's going on?" John said softly, cautiously reaching across the table to take Sherlock's hand in his own. But as soon as he did, so, Sherlock ripped his hand out of John's angrily and started to stalk out of the restaurant.
"Shit," John sighed, before getting up and slowly following Sherlock outside. And what awaited him outside was a cruel and harsh scene. Sherlock sat against a wall, his knees brought up to his chest with his jacket off and his shirt sleeve pulled up. He cradled one arm against his thigh and with the other hand he was grabbing desperately at his skin, marvelling at the long cuts drawn lazily across his forearm. John's knees almost buckled at the sight, Sherlock all broken down and vulnerable. In his 3 years of knowing him, he never saw Sherlock like this.
"Sh-sherlock!" John wailed, throwing himself down to Sherlock's level and grabbing his arm, staring at the sore and red slits that were painted on a canvas that was Sherlock's arm. "What did you do?!"