John
John and Sherlock sit in the backseat of a cab, driving home for the first time since Sherlock was admitted. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. Sherlock glances to make sure the sliding plastic window between them and the driver is closed.
"John-" Sherlock starts.
"Not just now," John cuts him off shortly. He wasn't in the mood for talking to Sherlock at this time. He was still angry, still worried, and worst of all-still scared.
"I was just-" Sherlock begins again.
"Not. Just. Now." John repeats himself.
The rest of the ride passes in uncomfortable silence.
When they arrive home, Sherlock retreats to his room. John opens his mouth to call him back, but the door is shut and that damn violin is playing before he can say anything.
John bites the inside of his cheek and turns his gaze to the phone book directory opened to the R section. He sits at the table and dials.
Sherlock
Sherlock plays a whiny, somber tune on his violin, taking sweeping strides around the room to assuage his panic. He is struck with an acute sense of deja vu: here he is, a month after John found out about it, playing his violin. There was a certain irony or full-circle feeling to it, but Sherlock doesn't care to try and name it.
How was he going to convince John not to make him go to Riverside?
Probably the same way he's going to try to make you go there, Sherlock realizes, first, probably avoidance of the topic while passive aggressively forcing me to eat, and then casually bringing it up, which of course will cause an argument...
Sherlock's brain was buzzing with possible scenarios that could happen-from John leaving him be to him getting sectioned (again)-and the outcomes of each, when he realizes that each of these scenarios have one thing in common: John confronts him.
Sherlock stops playing and straightens his coat. He tries not to notice how tightly it fit over his distended stomach-a product purely of the hospital's IV nutrient drip.
He pushes his mind off his clothing so that he can face the challenge at hand: He was not going to let John have the upper hand. He would have to bring the fight to John.
John
"Hello, you've reached Riverside Achievement Centre, this is Riley, how may I help you?" An annoyingly chipper voice that reminded John of a starling answered the phone after nearly a minute of ringing.
"Hi, yes, this is John Watson-"
"Are you looking to check in or visit? Cause if you want to visit you need to call Tina at extension 40-"
"No," John cuts her off frustratedly, "I'm not visiting anyone." Not yet.
"I just need to know how to book someone in who...isn't very...keen on the idea," John says carefully.
"Oh, well, if they're over 18 then they can't be forced to come, even if they need to, unfortunately." John detects a hint of sadness in Riley's voice. He wonders what exactly put it there.
"That's fine then. I don't know what answer I was expecting, to be honest," John says, his sad tone matching hers almost exactly. "Thanks, Riley."
"Anytime, love." The phone clicks off.
John sighs and turns to face Sherlock's door. He almost falls off his seat when he sees his flatmate there, clearly having heard every word of the conversation.
"Oh, um, hi, Sherlock, ah-"
"Don't start with me John," Sherlock states icily, striding to sit across from him at the table.
John is surprised; he didn't expect Sherlock to speak to him for a few days at least.
"So." Sherlock says. "What do I have to say to get you to not make me go to Riverside."
Jumping straight to the point, I see, John observes.
John sighs, utterly exhausted. Little did Sherlock know that John hasn't slept since he was admitted a week ago, and very little in the three weeks before.
"Sherlock, there's nothing you can say-"
"Then what, John? What can I do?"
"Well, for starters, you can tell me about all this shit that's been going on behind the scenes and all your life! What happened Sherl? What went so wrong that you had to starve yourself, to cut yourself, to-to deliberately hurt your beautiful body and mind?!" John freezes for a moment in horror at what he said about Sherlock's body, but soon regains his composure and pushes on.
"Sherlock, the nurse said you could have died. Do you want that? Answer me, Sherlock. Do you want to die?"
Sherlock, who has remained uncharacteristically quiet until now, says almost inaudibly,
"Yes."
John's heart catches in his throat, and the air rushes out of his lungs. Sherlock, the world's greatest (albeit only) consulting detective, the most brilliant man alive, his best friend, didn't want to be alive. John feels the tears threatening to spill over, but he knows that breaking down won't do anything beneficial.
"Sherlock...you can't really...you can't really mean that..."
"Can't I? Can't I, John?" Sherlock's voice begins to rise. "Why do you get to be the judge? Why? Why do you get to be the one who decides what's best for me, what I want, what I mean, what I don't mean?" Sherlock is full on shouting now, and somewhere in the back of John's terrified mind he realizes this is not just about his previous incredulity.
"Ever since I was four years old, I was a freak," Sherlock hisses, lightning sparking in his stormy gray eyes. "My parents sent me to hospitals-in and out and in again until I lost count of the tallies I scratched into the walls of the rooms and lost track of what was home and what was hell, and cutting became a high better than any narcotic I've used, and starving a better liquor than any I've ever consumed." Sherlock's voice is lowering to a whisper as he says, "And you know what John? I didn't care. I didn't care if I lived or died, hell, dying would probably be a bonus." Sherlock's eyes take on a hollow, haunted look and John can feel his heart breaking.
"Sherlock..." John starts, but before he can continue, Sherlock is talking again.
"The nurses stopped caring after a while, too. They wouldn't say anything when I came out from my room with new cuts in plain sight on my arms. They stopped making notes on their clipboards when I didn't eat. Their solution to my suicide attempts was to strap me down and sedate me until I was deemed 'safe'. I was unfixable. I was incurable." Sherlock lets out a mirthless laugh. "Even you think that. I know you do."
John didn't think his heart could break any further, but it did. It fell apart in his chest and blood seeped out of his pores and turned to tears and fell from his eyes. Sherlock eyes hold no light, looking right through him and no doubt seeing invisible demons on the other side. John does the only think he can think to do, and that is to grab the detectives angular face and press his lips against his own, willing Sherlock to feel the need and desperation and overwhelming feeling and unnamable emotion coursing through his system. Tears run hot and fast, falling into his and Sherlock's mouth, salt pricking at their tastebuds and silent sobs racking John's frame.
The detective shows no sign of acknowledgement that John even moved at all.
John pulls back, wipes his tears off his face (and the feeling of Sherlock's lips from his mouth) and turns to the bedroom.
Sherlock just stares at the wall.
Sherlock
When John is safely in his room, the detective touches his lips softly, savoring the feeling of the moisture on his lips, the taste of John and tears on his tongue, the memory of John's hazel eyes filled with tears-tears cried for him and him alone-and the sickening, spiraling feeling that he had missed his chance.
Sherlock stands up, walks to the phone, and hits redial.