A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Please keep them coming!

Chapter Four

.o.o.

.o.

Where the hell are you, Sherlock? I at least deserve to be told that.

A location. That's all I need. Just let me know where you are and I'll leave you alone.

I'm genuinely concerned about you now. Don't make me put out an APD for you.

Sherlock read the three text messages he had received, all from Greg Lestrade, in only a half hour period and sighed heavily. Who needed an actual nagging father when he had Lestrade? The young detective had been killing time so he wouldn't be the first one to arrive at The Landmark restaurant. He wanted the doctor to get their first, perhaps look at his watch and wonder where Sherlock was.

An APD would only infuriate Sherlock, not to mention waste precious and unnecessary police time when they could be looking out for real problematic and criminal people. He didn't need an interruption during his dinner date with the doctor anyway.

I'm fine. I'll be home later. Now leave me alone. – SH

He put his phone back into his pocket now and then walked into the restaurant before he glanced around, scanning the tables for the familiar man he had seen earlier that day. Just as he had hoped, he saw the doctor taking a look at his watch, somewhat impatiently. Sherlock smirked to himself and then glided into the restaurant before he headed over to the table where the doctor was sitting at and then planted himself down across from him.

"You do realize you're late for your own dinner date, right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock… please, and yes, I am fully aware of this fact, Doctor Watson…" The detective placed his hands together in front of him and searched the doctor's face.

"John, if you please. I'm only Doctor Watson at the hospital. Right then, so… you brought me here to bounce ideas off of me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes playfully, amused at how irritated the doctor sounded by the prospect. "No, actually, I didn't. I said that just to see if you'd show up."

John Watson's eyes widened in surprise and even more irritation. "I'm sorry? You lied just to make me feel like an absolute fool then?"

Sherlock sat back in his chair and wet his lips, his smirk gone now as his mind turned. "I… thought you'd be flattered. I don't understand."

"Flattered?" John inquired in disbelief, leaning forward. "You thought I'd be flattered that you messaged me so that I would come here just to be something to bounce your ideas off of? Not even that! You brought me here just to see if I'd show up…"

"Call it an experiment, John. It was just an experiment so I could figure out what kind of person you are. I didn't get the opportunity to observe you properly earlier this morning; my depression sort of botched up my chances," Sherlock explained easily.

"An experiment? That's what this is to you, then? An experiment so you could… observe me," John shook his head and laughed. "What kind of person does that? Well, I mean, obviously you do that."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to the side. "As a physician, you really should consider working on your bedside manner, John."

The doctor took a deep breath, visibly trying to resist the urge to strangle his patient. He just nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose before he forced his eyes back on the younger man. "You said you wanted to observe me, how I am. What can you make of me, then?"

Sherlock felt a twist in his stomach at the icy tone. He swallowed hard but made an attempt to show no obvious discomfort. "I… didn't mean to offend you, John. I apologize if I did so but I assure you, there is no need to be angry with me."

The doctor's demeanor shifted abruptly from irritation to curiosity and maybe even pity. Sherlock was still his patient, even out of the hospital, so he should present himself still in a professional manner. He looked up when a waiter came over and asked him what he wanted to drink. After telling him a glass of pinot noir, he waited until the waiter left them alone again before speaking.

"All right, Sherlock," John began as calmly as he could manage. "Let's start with this first, just to get to know each other a little better. You obviously possess some kind of talent if Scotland Yard has taken on a young man such as yourself as a consulting detective. Go ahead; tell me what you can observe from looking at me properly."

Sherlock searched the doctor's face with interest, wondering if this man was being condescending or genuine. He quickly took in the older man's physical appearance. "I can deduce that you're unmarried, from lack of a wedding ring, however, you do have dates with others occasionally, maybe even frequently and for some reason, you're unable to have a successful relationship with someone else for very long. You're rarely home and you keep spare clothes in your office at the hospital. The bags under your eyes signify that you have difficulty sleeping as well, however, they're from obvious post-traumatic stress disorder due to your time overseas. You limp slightly but it's most likely psychosomatic. You have a cane but you forget to use it most of the time, which tells me you don't actually need it. You haunch your shoulders slightly, unusual for an ex-soldier, which could perhaps signify a lack of trust in others. I suspect this is the main reason for your various short-term relationships."

John looked at him with awe in his eyes. "Wow, err… that's absolutely brilliant. Actually, that's also a bit eerie…"

"Yes, I do get that a lot," Sherlock smiled proudly.

John didn't glance up as the waiter placed his wine down in front of him before disappearing again. "Wow, you have… remarkable talent, Sherlock Holmes. I am, indeed, thoroughly impressed."

Sherlock didn't say anything at first but watched as John took a sip of his wine. "Can you deduce anything about me, Doctor?"

John Watson seemed confused at first before he chuckled. "I… no, I can't do that. You're obviously very observant and very intelligent. I don't think I could even begin to deduce anything about you."

"Try," Sherlock urged. "I insist."

John cleared his throat and then nodded in agreement. "Okay, all right, then. Well, you dislike asking others for help, it would seem. You're independent, to the extreme. You don't eat unless you're desperate or unless someone makes you eat, judging by your stature. I would say that you possibly have a deep distrust in others as well, by your own tenseness. That's… that's all I can think of."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that had begun to form at the corner of his lips. "Very good, John… very good indeed. Your deductions are all correct. You're rather intelligent yourself."

John smiled and chuckled awkwardly now before he took this chance to take another drink of his wine. Both men sat silently at the table now, each man unsure what to say to the other for several moments. Luckily, the waiter came back over with a pad and a pen, ready to take orders.

"Err… I believe I'll have the penne pasta with garlic bread. Thank you," John replied.

"And for you, sir?"

Sherlock shook his head and waved the man away. John looked curiously at Sherlock now. "You're… you're not going to eat? If money's an issue, I can pay for it."

The detective searched John's face and smiled politely. "It's not an issue. I'm just not hungry."

John nodded before he thought better and then looked at the slender man with concern laced in his eyes. "Do you… do you ever feel hungry? How often are you eating?"

"I eat whenever I feel hungry, and I only feel hungry when I'm not feeling depressed so I don't eat that often, but yes… I do feel hungry sometimes," Sherlock answered, pressing his palms together again.

"Right," John nodded in understanding before he swallowed hard. "I could've given you some antidepressants to help you take the edge off a bit. I had a feeling you were depressed but I suppose I just wanted to believe you only had insomnia. I should've said something."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's probably best you didn't, actually. I wouldn't have taken your prescription for antidepressants, anyhow. In all honesty, I probably won't even take the sleeping pills you prescribed."

"Why not? You… need them, Sherlock. You need to sleep and it's obviously it's been awhile since the last time you did."

Sherlock sighed again and chewed on his bottom lip. "Antidepressants slow me down. They slow my thinking patterns down and in my line of work, that's just something I can't afford. I think about things during the day and during the night and sleeping pills will just impair my abilities all the more so I believe taking either medications will prove to be useless for me."

"Sherlock, I prescribed them to you so you would take them. That's what my patients do. They come to me with their problems and I prescribe them medications to make them feel better. I cannot, with a clear conscious, leave you after here if you go back home and let your insomnia take over again," John insisted in a soft but firm voice.

The detective was starting to become impatient with the nagging and as much as he wanted to talk to the doctor some more, he couldn't stay here and continue listen to this stranger nag him just like Lestrade and Mycroft always did. He stood up now and slipped his phone into his pocket.

"Whoa, wait a minute. Where are you going…?"

"Do forgive me, John, but I have to be somewhere else." He took out his wallet and shelled out a one-hundred pound note on the table. "For the bill. Feel free to get something else for your dessert. It's on me."

Without another word, Sherlock turned around and started out of the restaurant, internally screaming at himself to stop and go back to the table, to stop being such a drama queen, to apologize. He pushed his internal voice down though, and hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

He fought with himself; he couldn't go back to the restaurant now but he hated himself even more for having left in the first place. He even lied to the doctor just so he wouldn't have to admit his own faults. Sherlock clenched his teeth tightly in the cab and watched the streetlights glisten off the puddles of rainwater in the street and sidewalks.

Idiot. You can't do anything right. You wanted to talk to this man in the first place, even made up a lie to get him to come meet you, and then you left him there as soon as he became nagging.

Sherlock Holmes sighed heavily and rubbed his temples at the headache that had begun to form at the sides of his head. He screwed everything up. Now John Watson would probably pawn him off on some other poor doctor at the hospital just to avoid ever seeing the detective again.

He had messed everything up for himself, and the worst part was that he only had himself to blame.

After the cab rolled to a smooth stop in front of 221B, Sherlock shelled out some notes before he hurried up the stairs to his flat. He instantly glanced around for any sign of Lestrade but then let relief wash over him when he realized the DI had gone to work.

He hurried into the bathroom and closed the door, more out of habit than anything else, before he grabbed his familiar razor blade and rolled up his sleeve. He gently let his fingers roll over the reddened, healing cuts before he took a deep breath and made several small incisions into his pale forearm, being semi-careful to avoid the recent cuts.

You deserve this. You deserve to be alone, Sherlock. Lestrade's left because he can't stand being around you. You were a prick and left John at the restaurant as soon as he became even slightly concerned about you.

But I paid for his dinner and anything else he wanted to get, another voice tried to convince Sherlock.

But you wanted company. You wanted to talk to someone who wasn't Greg Lestrade.

Selfish. Another cut in his skin.

You're so selfish for wanting anything. Another cut.

Sherlock watched the warm liquid rise up out of his arm and start to dribble down the sides of his arm before he looked around and grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet and held it tightly to his fresh cuts.

You deserve to be awake all night. You're a selfish bastard. No one wants you around. You're just a burden.

The young man was barely aware he was crying until he felt hot saltwater droplets make trails down his cheeks. He looked at himself in confusion and sudden self-awareness but felt like none of this was real. He hadn't heard a different voice other than his own criticizing him but the thoughts still hurt the same.

And he felt like they were right.

Sherlock quickly wiped his face off before he started cleaning his now clotted cuts, applying antiseptic cream to them before he brought his sleeve back down over the top to hide them. The numbness and anger he had been feeling towards himself had disappeared but the sorrow remained.

He swallowed back a sob before he walked into his bedroom and shut the door. Sherlock crawled onto his bed and threw the blankets over the top of his small body before he shut his eyes tightly and only let the pillows hear his sobs as his body trembled.

.o.o.

.o.

"Sherlock! Oi! Let me in, mate!"

The detective nearly jumped when he heard the voice, blinking quickly. At first he thought the voice belonged to John but the more he listened to the man on the other side yelling, he recognized Lestrade's voice.

His heart slowed, as did his breathing until it returned to normal, his shoulders only slightly trembling as his sobbing became silent.

Sherlock faked coughing and then cleared his voice. "Err… what do you want?"

"I want you to open the door and come on out to talk to me. I heard crying and… I just want to make sure you're all right. Now come on out…"

"I'm… I'm fine, Lestrade! Just leave me be… I don't want to come out," Sherlock murmured from inside, having forgotten he had locked it out of habit.

The doorknob turned to no avail. Greg must have been trying it from the other side. "I don't care if you don't want to come out! I'm telling you to come out, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sighed and angrily stood up before storming over to the door and unlocked it, opening it wide to see Lestrade. "What? What is it you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" he spoke icily.

Greg gave him a once over and set his jaw before he rubbed the back of his neck, obviously perturbed by Sherlock's thinning body. He didn't say anything for a long time. "I can see that you need to eat something. Just… come out here and maybe have a bit of toast or something."

Sherlock shook his head and glared daggers at Lestrade. "No! I'm sick and tired of you telling me what I should do, Lestrade! I'm sick of everyone telling me what I need to do! This is my life and you're not living in my body so no one has the right to tell me what I should do!"

"Sherlock… calm down, all right? I'm just concerned about you is all… I have the right to be concerned, don't I? You're as good as my son!"

"But I'm not, am I? I'm not your son! You're my guardian, Lestrade, and against my will at that! I never asked for this! I didn't ask for any of this so just leave me alone!" Sherlock yelled, his depression coming out as anger even though he could feel fresh tears leaking from his eyes.

Lestrade must have seen them too because he started towards Sherlock. He threw his arms around him in a tight embrace, not letting go even when Sherlock was crying harder and trying to push the DI off of him. This only made Lestrade hold him tighter against him, which, in turn, only made Sherlock start to sob harder.

"N-No… no! L-Let me go! W-What is this…? Stop this! Stop doing this right now!"

"No!" Lestrade yelled back with a sort of determination and assurance. "You need this, Sherlock. You need someone right now and I don't know why you do but I'm right here, whether you like it or not. You're not as alone as you'd like to believe you are… just let me help… please."

Sherlock continued to shake his head but his hands found the back of Lestrade's shirt and balled the fabric up into his fists tightly, crying into Greg's shoulder. He felt frustration that he was acting in such a ridiculous way for unknown reasons. His entire body shook against Lestrade and several times he made a half-assed attempt to get away from him but Greg held him tighter until Sherlock finally gave up.

"G-Get out…" Sherlock suddenly whimpered through gritted teeth.

"Shh… stop that. You don't mean it…"

"No," Sherlock spoke, composing himself enough to break out of Lestrade's grip. "GET OUT! RIGHT NOW!"

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief. "Are you bloody daft? This is my flat, Sherlock!"

"Fine. Then I'll get out." Sherlock hurried into his bedroom and grabbed a knapsack he hadn't used since his school age days. He started shoving clothes and a few essentials into it, only what he needed.

Lestrade followed him into the bedroom. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going! Since this is your flat and one of us has to leave, I figured it's appropriate if it's me! Don't worry, Greg. You won't have to take care of me anymore…" Sherlock didn't care if he was being melodramatic; all he knew was that he had to get away from the people he didn't deserve or else he was going to go crazy.

"No… don't do this, Sherlock! Stop it! Unpack your things, you're staying here."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, Lestrade. I'm not doing that," Sherlock remarked as he pushed past the DI into the living room and grabbed the sleeping pills that were sitting on the coffee table. Then, he went into the bathroom and grabbed his blade as well as the bloody washcloth he had used earlier before Lestrade could even see what he had grabbed. Sherlock walked back into the living room area and looked around for anything else that might be important but then decided he was finished. He grabbed his long black coat and then repositioned his bag on his shoulder.

"Come on, Sherlock. Don't do this. I don't want to be responsible for your death. You don't take care of yourself! You're going to starve out there on the streets, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock opened the door but stopped and turned to Lestrade, searching his face. "You don't have to be responsible for me anymore. I just… can't stay here, with you."

Lestrade's face looked conflicted and he ran his hands through his hair before he placed his hands on his hips. He legally couldn't make him stay here; Sherlock was nineteen and he was an adult. He knew that didn't mean he wasn't worried about him though.

"At least promise me you'll check every day with me, just to let me know you're all right. That… you're alive."

Sherlock turned back to the door and gave a short nod before he headed down the stairs and out of 221B. Once he arrived outside, he thought about where he should go. He was free, no strings, but he didn't know where his next destination would be.

Mycroft would only take him in out of familial obligations and Sherlock would just be a burden to him. He couldn't ask John if he would take him up after just knowing him for two hours.

St. Bart's. He could live there until he was found out. Free clinic. Food. Showers. And John, but of course only if he wanted to see the doctor again.

He could come and go as he pleased. He raised his hand out and watched as the cab made a beeline for him before getting inside of it.

"Where to, then?"

Sherlock heard the chime of a new text message and opened it up:

We should talk. I'm not angry or anything. I just want to see how you are today. – JW

"St. Bart's Hospital."