"Okay, now the other sleeve." John waited patiently as Sherlock groaned and rolled up his left sleeve, letting him check his arm over carefully.

"I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check." John stepped back and let him roll his sleeves back down.

Nothing new...

Strange.

It had been a whole week and a half, and though John insisted Sherlock let him check every few days, it seemed he really was telling the truth. He was clean.

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, walking back to the kitchen to start the tea. He had been sure this would have been a much more difficult habit to break, considering what it was and why he probably did it. But it had been over two weeks since Sherlock had cut; not since the trip to the hospital.

Not since John had started the 'let's-keep-Sherlock-not-bored' campaign.

Not since he hadn't been bored...

No, that couldn't be it.

John brushed the thought aside stubbornly and poured the hot water into mugs, watching the steam condense on the sides. It wasn't just because Sherlock was bored. There had to be something else.

There had to be.

Didn't there?

John knew human beings weren't like that-they didn't just inflict horrible pain on themselves because there was nothing else to do that day. He knew he would never do something like that himself.

But... There were a lot of things Sherlock did that John would never think to do...

No, no, no.

No.

No matter how many times he made him doubt it, Sherlock was human too-and even if many didn't, at least some rules of nature did apply to the smartest man in London. This had to be one of them.

Not boredom.

Right?

"Dammit..." John stopped stirring the tea and stood there for a few seconds, looking from the open salt container to his mug, and back again. "Did I really just..."

Right now, putting two spoonfuls of salt into his tea instead of sugar should have been the least of his worries, but it grated on his already raw nerves like the edge of a rusty knife.

"God dammit!" He brought his fist down on the counter, making the spoon jump in the cup and Sherlock look up from the sofa.

"Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing." He was aware of his tone as his words hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't have the patience right now to do anything about it.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and watched him empty the mug into the sink and toss the spoon in along with it with a loud clatter. "I'm going out for some air."

John went for his coat and was already halfway out the door as he pulled it on.

"It's already eight thirty-"

"I'd noticed that, thanks." He shut the door before Sherlock could say anything else-or perhaps it was really before John could say anything else even more waspish.

That was the last thing he needed to be doing right now.

Losing his temper. Over what?

Salt?

Or maybe the fact that he might have been wrong.

Maybe...

He raised his head and looked up at the front window, where the lights were still on and where Sherlock was likely still sitting on the sofa, probably more than a little irritated with him.

Why did John have to be like this...? He pinched the bridge of his nose and set off walking down the dark street.

He would have to make up for this later.

But right now was not the time.

Now he had to cool off a little first.


...

Twenty minutes earlier...

"Okay, now the other sleeve." Sherlock groaned inwardly-and outwardly-as John waited for him to roll up his left sleeve for the obligatory inspection, which was completely unnecessary.

Sherlock had told him multiple times that he was clean now, and that was the truth. But no matter how many times he told him it didn't seem to convince him-the stubborn git.

He unbuttoned the cuff and pulled the sleeve up, waiting for John to examine his arm carefully. When he didn't find anything Sherlock smirked and rolled his sleeve back down. "I told you, I'm clean."

"I know you did, but I'm only human. I have to check."

No, he didn't. Sherlock had told him already. And it was true.

Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way to the sofa, where he settled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, hands clasped over his chest. He could hear the clinking of mugs and the clank of the kettle as John started the tea.

John had been acting strangely for the last two weeks, ever since he had found out about the cutting. Sherlock had noticed that he had seemed rather on edge all the time, and was particularly... protective was the word Sherlock wanted to use, but it wasn't the right one. It couldn't be.

Overbearing.

Yes.

John hadn't left when he found out, and that was good.

But now he hardly let him out of his sight, and that was a bit not good.

It got irritating fast. He sighed quietly and counted the dents on the ceiling for the hundred-thousandth time.

His scars ached. Why was that?

It was as though he wanted to...

Really wanted to...

But no. He wasn't bored. That didn't make sense.

He wasn't bored...

It was getting stronger.

Not bored...

A week ago he had picked up a blade from the morgue, without asking anyone of course, and without telling John, because he would obviously be adverse to the idea after he had gone so far as to clean out the flat of all things sharp.

But it was okay, because he wasn't planning on using it. He just liked having it. It... gave him a certain sense of security. A reassurance.

Where had he put it...?

He leaned back and contemplated everything quietly-but he was interrupted by a sudden banging sound from the kitchen and John's outburst of "God dammit!"

He sat up and looked over at him. "Something wrong?"

"No, no there's nothing wrong. Nothing." John snapped quickly and emptied his mug of tea into the sink.

Why was he upset now...?

Was it something Sherlock had said...?

He couldn't think of anything that would make him so tetchy, but people like John cared about the most unimportant things...

John announced that he was going out 'for some air'-but his tone and posture radiated anger, which was even more confusing.

If he was angry why wasn't he confronting him?

Maybe it was too terrible...

It was late anyway.

"It's already eight thirty-" Sherlock tried, sitting up, but John was already out the door.

"I'd noticed that, thanks." He cut him off, and then the door slammed shut and he was gone.

Well.

Sherlock sat there quietly for a little while, and then lay back again resignedly and gazed up at nothing in particular.

The blade was under a copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, volume III, on the bookshelf.

He must have done something wrong. Again. Maybe this time it had been enough to drive John out the door forever...

Maybe it was because he was too needy. Too weak.

But he'd told him he had just been bored...

He had been...

His scars itched.

...Hadn't he?