I have so much writer's block! I know where I am going I just find it very hard to write in an interesting way. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy. My laptop has been so slow so when i write a sentence it takes like 10 seconds before it appears on the screen, and I can't use word so I am very sorry if there are a few errors, because I'm a bad proofreader when it involves my brain! I also have another story (Don't Tell John) which I have a couple of updates for and will upload them asap.
Trigger Warnings for self harm and drug use references and descriptions.
Stay safe and wonderful, my lovelies.
I don't own Sherlock (But I do own the box set, original books and a Tumblr dedicated to it so all is good!)
Sherlock huffed noisily, "There is nothing to show."
John folded his arms slowly and glared at Sherlock like an eagle would stare at its prey. He refused to break eye contact with Sherlock, who had instantly jolted his head so that his cobalt eyes were not gazing into John's. John then continued to raise his bushy eyebrows questioningly.
There was a lengthy silence.
"Arms, Sherlock," John demanded.
Sherlock complacently raised his arm and unbuttoned the creased shirt he had thrown on speedily earlier to reveal his smooth, unharmed skin.
"I told you, there is nothing to show."
His shorter friend instantly grimaced and glanced at the wall subconsciously. The wallpaper John stared at was flat and a colour that John could hardly distinguish whether it was a dark blue or an almost green. Anyway, what did the wallpaper matter? He had entered Sherlock's large-but-uncomfortably-scientific room to get answers and help him, and not to stare at a plain wall with a few frames and a periodic table placed proudly on it.
"Take off your shirt."
"What? John, it was not my intention to imply anything by allowing you to sit on my bed."
"Sherlock…"
"I'm not removing this shirt from my body."
"Fine then. Don't. Just tell me where you cut yourself and let me see if it needs any medical attention because that was your blood soaking that cloth. God knows why you did it. Honestly, if this is one of your ridiculous experiments I am going to… I'm going to…"
"It was not simply an experiment."
"Then what the fuck was it?" he asked croakily.
Sherlock's face was vacant; he just sat there, unblinking. Many thoughts were running through his head. Should he tell John? He shouldn't. Should he show John? He wouldn't. Should he let John inside his head? He couldn't.
However, he wanted to.
"If I tell you would you hate me?"
"What?" John breathed. He felt like laughing but he couldn't.
"If I tell you would you hate me?"
"Sherlock, you're a pain in the arse and generally a cock. It's hard to imagine that I don't hate you but I don't and I never could. No matter what stupid things you do."
"I wouldn't care if you were repulsed and infuriated by me. I never even expected you to minimally put up with my ridiculous behaviour after the first crime we solved together, A Study in Peach, or whatever stupid label you titled it with on your blog."
"Alright, that is true - very true. Actually, it was A Study in Pink. But I don't and I can't ever hate you. That's all that matters. Now, please say want you want to say."
Sherlock nodded, accepting what his friend said. Actually, it was hard to take in. The Consulting Detective had always been used to ordinary people being so completely off turned by him that the few exceptions, including, John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and John's new girlfriend Mary, left him startled by their uncalled for appreciation and care, even if he did annoy them to the world's end
"Take your time," John said tonelessly but he sounded kind at the same time.
Sherlock crinkled his nose and monotonously exhaled.
"I don't quite know what to say, I certainly never speak about it."
"Just tell me what 'it' is, we can work from there." He told him supportively.
Sherlock closed his blue eyes to reveal two shining eyelids, he had cried a lot. John furrowed his eyebrows and felt his heart plummet. No one ever saw Sherlock Holmes sob. No one and ever were two vital words in that sentence. John tried to recall another dark time when he had witnessed Sherlock cry, and he couldn't. Before now, had never been a bystander that directly watched the detective weep. John had never literally seen salty tears cascade from his wet eyes. He was not sure any normal person had. He wondered if the only other person who had seen Sherlock unwillingly tear up was the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath staring back at him in the reflective mirror.
Until now.
"I still don't know how to begin to describe what happened."
"Show me. It makes it easier, you don't have to say anything, just show me the damage you have done and I can ask what I need to know and help medically with whatever happened today. How does that sound?"
Sherlock reluctantly said, "Okay, fine, John. I will try it your way," and then being Sherlock Holmes he had to add, "Although your way is normally outrageously unreasonable."
John giggled, "That's what I like to hear."
He stopped speaking when he noticed Sherlock was trying to scramble out of his unyielding, tight shirt. John didn't question him.
Before Sherlock had taken his shirt off he muttered, "It wasn't just the one time. As I deduced you had assumed. It wasn't just today."
Then there was an undetectable thump as he lobbed the shirt to the side. John instinctively turned to watch it land slowly on the floor; it behaved like a mini parachute that wasn't carrying a person. The echoes of what Sherlock had just said were till resonating in his mind. When John turned back around to look at Sherlock and his shirtless body his taller friend had tugged his duvet down to reveal his undernourished abdomen.
And scars.
Lots of scars, bruises and even what seemed like burns.
Mutilation and destruction, some old, some new, others were faded and some still remained. Sherlock's stomach looked like a battle had occurred. Of course, it had, it must have been a grisly war with his self.
John edged closer to Sherlock. Sherlock abruptly slammed his eyes shut like a door, expecting John to shout or leave him. He inhaled quickly, expecting the worst and looking so uncharacteristically frightened. Then a soft had touched his war wounds and affectionately caressed them.
He was so shocked by this unexpected contact and retreated until his neck bashed the headboard of the double bed. John removed his hand.
"There's no fresh, deep… cuts. So where's the culprit of all that blood?" asked John, cautiously, trying to avoid mentioning all the marks too suddenly.
"Leg."
"At least you don't have a psychosomatic limp because of it."
Sherlock smiled half-heartedly.
"Where about on your leg?" asked John.
Sherlock murmured under his heavy breath, "Thigh."
John threw both of his hefty hands to his forehead and began to massage his temples, while closing his eyes. He exhaled so loudly, strongly and profoundly that he forced his defined lips apart, it was almost like he was blowing the air muscularly out of his healthy lungs.
"Christ, Sherlock. That's so, so dangerous."
"Do you honestly think I am not aware of that?" the taller man raised an eyebrow while asking John.
John closed his eyes and he could not get rid of the horrifying image of Sherlock's lifeless remains lying on the cold floor, surrounded by a gruesome outpour of blood and looking worse than any body they had witnessed on a crime scene. He'd run to the corpse and ask if he could hear him, expecting a soft moan or for him to say, "John, I'm okay." However, he wouldn't. Not this time. He'd lie on the frosty, tiled floor in a congealed puddle of scarlet. He'd be wearing his best suit and shirt combinations, most likely one that Mycroft had bought him for a particular event. He wouldn't like it because it was a gift but he'd want to look impeccable, even in death. There would be a small funeral and then he'd be gone; dead and buried. Properly gone, forever and he would not come back.
"For God's sake John, stop picturing my dead body. It wasn't that deep."
"How did y- Never mind… Why do you do it, Sherlock?"
"I don't know," he lied.
"Of course you do."
"Yes. I do."
"Tell me," he demanded but spoke softly and carefully to the man who seemed to currently be in a vulnerable state.
Sherlock merely shook his head. His flops of curls fell loosely over his defined face and his distinct lips almost pouted. The blood-shot traces of tears in his eyes had disappeared because now there were simply tears rolling ungracefully down his contoured cheekbones.
"You know," his undersized friend started, "I never thought I'd see you cry."
"I can't control it. Believe me, if I could I would."
John nodded once, to make it obvious that he understood Sherlock. He stared at the glazed drip of water as they oddly made their way out of the once stern, unemotional eyes. This was extremely atypical for Sherlock. No matter what he said, it wouldn't change how weird it was for John to watch these dejected droplets drain from the usually focussed eyes.
"Do you know how serious self injury is, Sherlock?"
"It is not that big of a deal. Loads of people take part in the activity of harming one's self."
"No, it is. Shut up! It is," John snapped, uncontrollably, "It's a massive deal and I have dealt with it before. Just because it isn't rare doesn't mean it isn't terrible."
Sherlock shrugged.
"Christ, Sherlock… Who else knows? Have you received any therapy? When did you start? Some of those scars look very old."
"Questions. Questions. Questions."
"Sherlock… I'm being serious."
"So am I. You know, I was merely stating that you were asking an awful lot of questions. Here are the answers. Lestrade but no one else – oh, and you obviously. Me? Therapy," Sherlock scoffed, "God, no. And I was fourteen. Yes, I definitely started when I was fourteen."
John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Sherlock, answer me honestly. How bad was the last... cut?"
"Worse than usual. Definitely not in need of any further care, I checked it out. My hand slipped and it went deeper than I meant to in an area with… Well, I'm sure you know about all that medical jargon I was about to go into. You're a doctor."
"Take your trousers off," John said, trying to sound as professional as possible, "I need to check it out for myself, Sherlock."
Sherlock wasn't being difficult for John anymore. He simply undid his belt, pulled his trousers down uncomfortably so that his left thigh was only just visible; John observed it gently and decided that he would helpfully clean it up. So he grabbed something from his medical kit, cleaned up the wound and redid the dressing safely.
"I know that I can't just take all the dangerous objects from this house."
"You could easily do that," Sherlock stated.
"Okay… I could. I won't though. I know it isn't something you can just stop and be done with forever. Believe me when I say I have dealt, or tried to deal, with it before."
"You can just say self harm. 'It' is becoming an unnecessary substitute, don't you think?"
"Fine. I have seen patients before who self harm. It is not uncommon. I know that you can't just stop someone from a dangerous coping mechanism."
"It is not a coping mechanism," Sherlock dishonestly said.
"Well, what is it then?" John asked loudly, before deciding to tone his unnecessarily loud voice down. "Look. I want to help you, but you need to let me in. I know that is hard for you because it is difficult for me to, I find that sort of stuff really hard. I just need to help you Sherlock. You're my best friend. That comes with a deal. You have to let me in. I'm giving you doctor's orders now, you have no other choice. I want you to write me an essay on when you started and you're history with… self harm."
"An essay? I knew your ideas were all ridiculous."
"Maybe they are, but I still need you to write for me since you refuse to speak directly. Which, I understand."
"Could you leave me alone now, John?"
John sighed,"Of course I can. Please, do this for me."
Then he unenthusiastically trudged out the confining room.
John walked to the living room and grabbed his phone off the table he accidentally left it on, walked to the door of 221B, grabbed his large, thermal coat and then walked down the staircase. He knew that Sherlock might despise him for what he was about to do but John knew, deep down, that however less trustworthy he became to Sherlock that this was the right choice. The best decision he could make to help his friend.
So, when he was far enough away from the Baker Street flat to not be followed by his enigmatic friend he unlocked the LCD screen on his phone, flickered through the various widgets until he found the contacts button. Then he scrolled down to H and found the two Holmes' he had in his contact list.
He clicked nervously on the button: Mycroft Holmes.