AN: Sososososo sorry it's taken so long to update; college is pretty much endless reading assignments that take up exponential amounts of time. But hopefully a ridiculously long chapter will make up for that :)

Anyway, R&R as per usual and I hope you enjoy it!

When the cruiser pulled up to 221B, John was surprised when Sherlock bounded out of the car and straight inside, dropping his former comatose-like state the instant the car slowed to a stop. John gave a strained look to Lestrade who merely nodded, acknowledging both his own and their mutual concern over their friend. But the look only lasted a moment before the good doctor bounded out of the police car after his best mate.

John raced up the stairs only to hear Sherlock's bedroom door slam shut and lock as John passed into the sitting room. He heaved a heavy sigh before turning to make a cuppa and sit in his chair. He hoped he might be able to amp up his own deductive skills to perhaps rival Sherlock's and figure out just what the bloody hell the mad genius was up to.

Sherlock was still in a slight state of panic when he locked himself in his room and was finally able to be alone. He quickly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the bottle of painkillers, downing two dry, before falling onto his bed. He lay there, not even bothering to take off his jacket, scarf, or even shoes, and slowly the tears began to come until they were absolutely relentless in their number and force.

Sherlock curled into himself, wishing so very desperately for all the memories of Marge and the damning pain that came with them would just go the fuck away. But they wouldn't. Just like how the pain in his legs wouldn't go away anytime soon. Or the pounding headache he was starting to get from the bloody case. Or the bloody case that brought all this shit up in the first goddamn place.

And all Sherlock wanted was just some quiet. Just some peace and quiet and contentness.

Which is why he slowly pulled himself up from where he lay curled up and made his way over to his Chinese piece at the head of his bed. He gently removed the art piece, setting it on the floor beside the bed, before eagerly reaching for his wonderful, illicit, black box. Setting it in the middle of the bed, Sherlock slowly stood, undressing down to only his pants, before taking his seat back in the center of his king size bed.

He grimaced as he looked down at the bright red, self-inflicted gashes on his thighs. The earlier outings had definitely not done them any good, in fact seeming to worsen them considerably. They were angry, warm, and seeping various fluids, but Sherlock also noted, with a relieved sigh, that the fluids were clear. For now. Which meant no infection. Yet. But they still didn't look anything approaching the words 'good' or even just 'okay-ish'. No, the wounds were bad, worse than Sherlock's original inventory of them, now that he was no longer crashing from his cocaine or trying to battle the extreme physical pain from them. And he was able to see just how shotty his stitches were, but they would/could hold, so he left them.

The detective pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some cotton balls, soaking each, and began gingerly trying to clean the individual injuries. He had to bite his cheek to keep from making any noises that could possibly alert John to anything if he was somewhere nearby. Once that was done, he did what he should have done, and would have remember to do under other circumstances, and wrapped each wound in the gauze that he always kept on hand for whenever he either went too deep or had too numerous to simply ignore.

Once that was done, Sherlock eagerly turned towards the baggie full of white powder. He quickly set up all the needed supplies and prepared his beloved drug. With the case turning out so terrible and ferocious, he needed every boost he could get in his thinking abilities and every emotional dulling aspect the sweet poison so kindly offered him. So filling the syringe, Sherlock made quick work of putting the belt around his upper arm before lovingly depressing the plunger into his waiting vein. It only took a few moments before Sherlock could feel the delicious singing in his veins and he sighed, head lolling to the side as he open up full access to his mind palace and began going over all the data, evidence, information, and memories he was able to pull regarding the string of robberies and vandalisms.

The brilliant genius remembered all the things he had noticed from the files he had looked over before accidently dropping them and going into full mental breakdown. He then pulled every single related memory, all of the times he and Marge had gone to each of the respective places, either together or on their own. He then went through the entire process of making Kixus and every occurrence of its making to see if someone could've found out that way. He went through all of their endless trips to the library and what they did/read during each visit, as well as why they were there in the first place.

Yet after sitting on his bed for almost two hours, he had made virtually no progress on identifying potential suspects. No one had known him and Marge that well, no one. Only Skip and Johnny, an old client, even came close, yet both had died some time ago; Skip to Manny's gun and Johnny to an overdose not too long after. Which also meant that neither would've even known about Kixus and some of the other aspects his and Marge's life that this perpetrator clearly did.

So after all of that effort and thinking, Sherlock was really no closer to solving anything than he had been before the cocaine. But he still truly appreciated the cocaine's beautiful numbing effects on his emotional side; while the drug sped up his already blazing trains of thought, it also made it so very much easier to simply push unwanted thoughts and feeling off into oblivion indefinitely.

After coming to a grandiose conclusion of nothing, Sherlock realized that John was probably wanting and waiting for them to talk about what had happened earlier at the off-license. Sherlock was dreading it something horribly fierce. But he also knew it was unavoidable and that he should probably go ahead and get it over with before John called in any kind of reinforcement, whether it be Mycroft, Lestrade, or hell, even Mrs. Hudson would not exactly be welcomed by the detective.

Sherlock put away his supplies, lethargy shining through the cocaine buzz due to Sherlock's complete unwantingness to face John and explain anything. Because as much as he may try and deny it, Sherlock knew that John was noticing things, and was becoming increasingly suspicious with every passing interaction between them. And as much as Sherlock needed and craved John and his beautiful presence, he also couldn't bear being around John when he was feeling so bloody fucking off–when he wasn't able to keep his perfect mask, his perfect façade, in place. He hated having the cracks and faults, his failures and imperfections out there for anyone to see if they were paying attention.

Unfortunately for the world's only consulting detective, Doctor John Watson was most certainly paying attention.

And currently waiting for said detective to emerge from the shadowy depths of his room. He had moved from his armchair to the couch, mindlessly watching crap telly, drinking his fourth cup of tea, and reviewing the past week in his mind for the seventh time since he arrived back at the flat. Each go through of the week and its events regarding Sherlock caused his heart to clench the slightest bit more.

John was more than well aware that his feelings for his flatmate were more than just those of a concerned friend, even a best friend. He cared so much for the difficult man but also knew just how much Sherlock loathed expressing and showing any modicum of sentiment, which made anything remotely involving the intricacies of their friendship virtually impossible to talk about when it came to emotions. Which therefore meant any discussion involving the advancement or progression of their relationship was simply impossible. And John deeply, truly loathed it with so much of his heart, especially as Sherlock seemed to be sliding further and further away from him, seemed to be tearing in its worry and commiserated pain. He just wished the bloody idiot would talk to him, let him help. But the former soldier also knew just how much people could hide when they didn't want to talk. The war and his fellow soldiers taught him that.

His musings were cut off though when he heard the click of Sherlock's door unlocking and his light steps as he slowly, reluctantly, exited his bedroom. Sherlock was wearing most of what he had been when he had disappeared into his room, less only his jacket, scarf, and sports coat. He shuffled over to his respective armchair, gently grabbing its arms and lowering himself by his arms, going as easy on his thighs as he could possibly manage, a display which John caught with a tightening of his lips and downcast thoughts.

Sherlock didn't look at the doctor, choosing instead to look out that seemingly beloved window that he always turned to, quite literally, whenever he was in deep thought, or trying to avoid a conversation, or both. Despite the fact that he was sitting relatively calmly, Sherlock's foot was bouncing and he couldn't seem to find an agreeable place or position for his hands. In this moment, Sherlock Holmes, always so calm and composed to those around him, couldn't stop his fidgeting. And John Watson picked up on it immediately.

"Sherlock, can we…can we please talk about what happened earlier–what you saw, what you know, who it is, maybe–just, anything, Sherlock, please. What's going on? And don't tell me it's just the case, or it's simply having to relive painful memories; I know it's more than that. I've lived with you for years now, and I've been learning from you that entire time, and while I may not be able to figure everything out as quickly as you and while I still may not see everything you do, I still do more than just bloody see–I observe, Sherlock, just like you. And I can see that there's something going on that you're not telling me about and honestly, it scares the bloody shit out of me, seeing you like this, so out of sorts and upset and hurt and I just–" John stopped mid-ramble and dropped his head into his hands, slowly shaking it back and forth. Sherlock looked over at him and it hurt his chest, his heart. His friend, his flatmate, his John, was so very distraught and upset because of him, and it caused his chest to fill with guilt once again at his unintended rudeness and harmful behavior that was hurting his brilliant, wonderful, good doctor. Sherlock hated himself for causing John this pain.

John finally looked up, rubbing his face and running his hand through his already thoroughly messy hair. He made eye contact with Sherlock before continuing. "Sherlock, I'm just worried about you. A lot, actually. You're my best mate and I can't bear to lose you, not again, not after all that bloody fucking shit with Moriarty, Sherlock. So please, please, Sherlock, if you need something–anything– for the love of God, just tell me. I will help you. I promise you that, Sherlock. But I know something's wrong, and if you're not talking to me about it, then I have a pretty good feeling that you're not talking to anyone about it period. And that's just…not good; you can't bottle up whatever it is–trust me. And even if I'm wrong and it is actually just this case and having everything from that time in your past brought up, then I'm still here for you, to listen and help you, because either way, whatever it may be, you need to fucking talk about it, Sherlock. So please, please, just help both of us out here." John let out a breath he didn't quite realize that he'd been waiting to release after he had waited so long to say everything. And yet, it wasn't even everything. It was just the start, the introduction to everything else he had waited these past few hours, perhaps years even, to say. To say what he knew Sherlock wouldn't want to hear: that John had actually noticed a lot more than Sherlock seemed to think. That John had noticed, and wanted to help, something they both knew no one else had ever offered the younger man.

Sherlock paused, for once actually thinking critically about what he was going to say. He needed to reassure John, ease his suspicions and doubts. And Sherlock could only think of one method to accomplish that–the truth. Or at least, parts of it.

The taller man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before partially ignoring John and turning back to his favorite window. "You're right, about part of it. This case is…extremely difficult…for me to deal with. Actually, I do believe I'd much rather be taking on Moriarty again–at least his games were a bit more fun and entertaining. No, I think earlier today proved that I'm not doing very well at handling this case, and today was only so bad because I was confronted with it all at once. And while this is not normally an issue, and actually preferred for most cases, it was simply overwhelming to see such a deep personal vendetta–because I have no doubt that this is what it is, I simply can't figure out whose personal vendetta it is yet–and to see it so paraded and public when I would very much like to keep it and everything it represents a secret, and yes John, a secret even from you.

"Because everyone lies. Everyone has secrets. Including me–very much so including me–but it's more than that; they know so much about my private life that no one besides myself should ever know–that no one else really can–and I simply cannot figure out how that is. And honestly John, it does scare me, because I worked very hard and for a very long time, to wipe away as much of that part of my life as I could for a multitude of reasons. Yet this person, whoever they are, is doing everything in their power to undermine all my efforts. And I don't like it. It…greatly upsets me…" Sherlock drawled out the last sentence, unsure how he wanted to continue, let alone finish. But John seemed to understand.

"Sherlock, I understand that–I do–but I need you to tell me more; I can't help if all I know is that you're not exactly keen on having your past dug up and exposed. I need to know why. Can you understand at least that much? You don't have to tell me everything, but I also can't help you fight this person if I don't even know what all it is they're bringing to the fight." John sat forwards, resting his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped together in a loose attempt at pleading with his closed-off flatmate. John knew what he had to look like in that moment, but couldn't bring himself to care, only to try whatever it took to get Sherlock to respond how they both needed him to.

John just wanted to help, Sherlock knew that–hell, part of him even wanted that help– but it didn't change anything. Not really. Not in the end of it all. He didn't open up because no one ever wanted him once they saw even the small amount of all that he kept bottled up so very tightly. No one ever wanted to take the time to help him through and through. No, if they wanted to help, all they ever wanted to do was stick a damn band-aid on him and his problems. And that simply wasn't good enough. He needed someone who could take all of him, all of his faults and brokenness and be willing to actually sit through it all and help him come out the other side better–whole– but no one ever wanted that. They never wanted him. And they never would, that fact had already been proven to him over and over again. Because the moment Sherlock even began to open up to someone, they either high-tailed it out of there, or they were so violently and permanently taken from him. Like Marge.

And honestly, Sherlock didn't know which category John would fall under; they had already been through so much, after Moriarty and the Fall and coming back after everything, that Sherlock did truly doubt that John would simply up and run but he also truly believed that even John wouldn't be able to stand being around him after a certain point, after he told his flatmate the truth.

And Sherlock couldn't bear to be without his best friend. So it was simply easier to maintain their current state of friendship. Nothing more, nothing deeper, nothing else. Just what they already had. Only ever that.

Which also happened to be something Sherlock was damn certain would be tainted and changed forever if he told John even the slightest bit about all the drama and darkness that was in his fucked past and present.

So instead of indulging John and elaborating on his history, Sherlock merely ignored him turning back to the window, too bloody scared, confused, proud, and just straight nervous to look at the man sitting only a meter away from him, let alone tell just how fucked up and damaged his own best mate was. The detective was not used to being confronted like this, about his own self and his own emotions, and he very much disliked it.

John could sense that Sherlock was closing up again and decided to ignore that part of the discussion for now, instead choosing to move on to some more of the specifics from earlier that day. "Okay, you don't have to tell me, though I think we both know it'd be a better idea–" Sherlock snorted at this but John choose to continue speaking without acknowledging him, "but you have to tell me about earlier, at the crime scene, because you know Lestrade and the whole of the Yard are going to be breaking down that door pretty sooner demanding to know just what it was that you figured out that seemed to be so damn bad and upsetting. Lestrade's probably down there holding them off for now, but even he is going to give into his curiosity and do his job eventually, Sherlock. So why don't you tell me just what it was that you figured out. I know it wasn't just because the current crime scene was missing some liquor; you were looking at the previous scenes as well, looking at the file and pictures and all the other robberies–which also tells me that you weren't reading it in the cab on the way there or else I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have had to be walked out the back door because you weren't in a proper state. So please just answer me: what did you figure out back there? What changed?" John gave him a hard stare, calling him on his bullshit before he even had a chance to start with any of it.

Sherlock knew he couldn't just ignore what John was saying because he was right, plain and simple. Lestrade would be calling soon (if he hadn't already and Sherlock had missed it while he was flying high in his mind palace) and the DI, and the rest of the Yard, would be pestering him for answers and information. Sherlock sighed and mindlessly mirrored John's earlier movements, dropping his head into his hands and shaking it before dragging his hands over his face and rested his chin on his clasped hands.

"You're right, John, of course you are." Sherlock sighed and looked down, away from his friend, as he continued to speak. "Every scene, every location of the robberies, every item destroyed or taken, hidden or moved, every line and detail–all of it points to Marge–all of it. All of it points to our friendship, relationship, partnership–every single aspect of our relationship, including specific times and events–things that no one else can know. Some are things that refer back to events, conversations, actions, events that all took place between myself and Marge–when no one else could possibly be around or overhear. Private moments and conversations that I've never told anyone about and that I very highly doubt Marge ever did either. But I suppose that is still a possibility, but then again, the only other person whom she truly trusted other than me was Skip, and he was already dead when some of these things happened, so the perpetrator being someone Marge talked with is still ridiculously unlikely. But then again, so is this entire fucking mess that has somehow managed to send everything to hell in only a few days, so I suppose anything is completely fucking possible, isn't John?" Sherlock became more upset and agitated as he continued to talk and dwell on the complete clusterfuck the case, and his life, was turning out to be lately.

John didn't missed the cynicism creeping into Sherlock's voice as he spoke, instead cataloguing the moments when it started and seemed to spike. Which turned out to be when Sherlock began or was talking about having made no progress on the case and having no logical, plausible, leads whatsoever. He's upset with his own failure. John concluded to himself after a moment of contemplation. Someone else may have laughed at the conclusions implication of arrogance and vanity, but John wasn't just someone. No, he knew just how much it cut Sherlock to the quick when he failed, especially at something so obvious personal and close to home as this case was to the young detective.

"Like what?" John asked, his fatigue at the entire bloody situation starting to get to him and show through his own exterior.

"What do you mean 'like what'?" Sherlock looked up perplexed, not understanding his doctor's logical and not for the first time.

"What parts of your past with Marge did the various crime scenes and vandalism and evidence and whatnot represent? What parts of your life were they trying to bring up? You don't have to go into specifics, not yet, but I need something." John's eyes were tired, his back starting to ache from the stress of the day

"And what if I don't want you to know?" Sherlock viciously snapped back, his age-old defenses kicking right back into place and completely taking over. He was getting tired of the constant questions and being under so much observation, as ironic as he knew that was. But this was different; people were pissed when he pointed out an affair, but this–no…this could potentially ruin him, force him into some institution or asylum and Sherlock refused to give such a possibility even the slightest bit of perch in his life. Which meant keeping everyone, especially John, in the dark and the fuck out of his bloody business, regardless of what case, or whatever else, may be going on.

John, while he had been expecting some sort of outburst at some point, hadn't expected it so early into the conversation (or what he had thought/hoped would be fairly early in the conversation) and definitely not with so much bite and anger to it when he was still asking somewhat basic and shallow questions about what was going on. He knew this could go horribly wrong very quickly, so he tried his best to remain calm and keep a level head for the onslaught they both knew was coming.

"Sherlock, I'm just trying to help. I'm just trying to be there for you and take care of my best mate. Nothing more. I'm not trying to weed out every secret and bad memory I'm only trying to get the basics so that we can both better protect ourselves. That's all, I promise you, Sherlock, just that." John spoke quietly, but also with a firm, unyielding voice. And while his tone may have seemed supportive or comforting to some, to Sherlock it was condescending, as if he somehow didn't know just how high the stakes could be with this case– as if it had somehow evaded him as to just how dangerous this culprit was. So try as John might, he only seemed to send Sherlock into more of a defensive, vicious rage.

"Take care of me? I didn't realize I was some incompetent child who needed mummy and daddy to tuck me in at night and fight my goddamn battles for me. But I suppose you do know best, Doctor Watson. Yes, the battle-worn soldier that needed a flatmate because he couldn't handle being by himself or manage to get a decent surgery job after his discharge. The poor old soldier with the PTSD and psychosomatic limp–Yes! The perfect person to be taking care of someone!" Sherlock knew he was getting himself into deep shit with his friend (and probably soon to be ex-friend) but he couldn't stand the closeness, the potential to be found out because goddamn it, if someone was going to figure Sherlock out and expose him, it was going to be John Fucking Watson. So Sherlock needed to put a stop to all of it before it went any further, before anymore sentiment or feelings were involved. Which meant lighting an inferno to the bridge between them and running like hell from whatever devastation is left in its wake.

"And honestly, do you think you're any more special than any of the other hair-brain idiots like Donovan or Anderson or any of them that I have to deal with on a perpetual basis? I mean really, you're not any smarter or better than any of them so please do save yourself the trouble of pretending it to be any other way." Sherlock had become exceedingly animated until he was yelling and wildly gesturing with his hands. His eyes held a panic and fear in them that John had never seen up close–only ever far away, right before he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. And to see it so clearly in this moment? So close? It chilled John so thoroughly he felt his heart might actually stop.

"Sherlock…I–I just want to help." John stuttered quietly, having no idea how to handle what was happening. At this point, he assumed he was aiming for damage control and simply trying to keep Sherlock in the room, because Lord help them both if he stormed off; John would probably go mad waiting for him to return from God knows where and doing God knows what.

"Did you ever think, dear doctor, that I don't want your fucking help?" Sherlock hissed, suddenly invading John's personal space and getting right in his face. John could feel the fury and rage rolling through his limbs and torso, but he wasn't stupid; He could see the barely contained fear and terror swimming in Sherlock's gorgeous pale eyes.

"Did you ever think that I don't care whether or not you want my help? That you're going to have it, regardless of whatever tantrum or trouble or deep shit you get yourself into?" John responded, finally starting to rise to Sherlock's bait. He was fiercely loyal, quick to see and observe, and extremely protective, all things that Sherlock should damn well bloody fucking know. And John was very quickly tiring of his antics and his blatant attempts to push John away with common, mundane defense mechanisms.

But John's response seemed to crack one of those very mechanisms.

Sherlock shoved himself away from John, a mad fear dancing wildly in his eyes. He quickly looked around the room before his eyes landed on his bedroom door. John caught this and stood to try and head off his flatmate as he rushed towards the door. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, saw this coming and merely stuck a hand out, pushing John away and into a lamp, causing it to go crashing to the floor. Sherlock broke through his doorway, slamming and locking his door before sliding down the door and cradling his head between his shaking knees.

DammitdammitdammitGODFUCKINGDAMMIT! Sherlock's chest seized and stuttered as he desperately tried to gasp in air. No mattered how hard he tried to push John away, he had a feeling that the former army doctor wasn't going to be budging anytime soon–at least not until it was too late, until everything was so thoroughly ruined and Sherlock was left completely decimated inside and out.

Until it all left him dead.

Because God knows that if John, his wonderful John, found out the truth and chose to leave him, he wouldn't last. He would kill himself. Of that, he had no doubt. Because if John, the perfect, caring, loving, loyal, amazing John Watson thought he was worthless and too much hassle and trouble and thought his body was as ugly as the detective did, and realize just how fucked up he truly was deep down–if he found out and left. Well then, Sherlock would know without any doubts that he was an abomination that wasn't worth the oxygen he was breathing.

And even the possibility of that, of John learning the truth and then leaving, caused him to fly towards his wall, ripping the picture from the wall and throwing it at the adjacent wall. He momentarily cringed as the glass shattered on impact but ignored it, instead turning his focus solely towards his lovely black box. He pulled it from its cubbyhole and tossed it on the bed behind him.

He grabbed it before rapidly moving to the floor and setting up everything.

He went for the cocaine first, shamelessly loading in as much as of the drug into the spoon as he knew the syringe could hold. He made ridiculously quick work of it, he ignored the belt choosing instead to simply shove the needle into the most prominent vein and depressing the plunging faster than he knew was safe for any fluid, let alone a potentially lethal drug.

He took a few moments to enjoy the fire rolling through his veins, but he also knew all hell was about to break loose within his body and mind as the full effects of the amount he just filled himself with began to kick in. Not to mention he was still slightly flying from his last injection. He slowly looked back up and grabbed his razor. He knew he couldn't go anywhere near his thighs so he chose his left arm, knowing that his dress shirts and jacket would easily cover them later.

He took a deep breath before digging the razor into the pale flesh of his arm. He let out a low moan as the pain joined the wave of relaxation and euphoria washing throughout his body. He took a moment to appreciate the warm trickle of blood running down his arm, only to hit the crook of his elbow and begin its downward descent onto the floor. There was a part of Sherlock's mind that knew he should be concerned with the bloodstains on the carpet, but another part kindly reminded him that he was Sherlock Holmes and he damn well knew how to get blood stains out of a bedroom carpet. And even if he didn't, it's not like he ever let anyone, even Mrs. Hudson and especially John, into his room in the first place. So he ignored the growing spot on the carpet and went back to his original task.

He rested the blade against his pale flesh once again, humming to himself as he pulled the edge across his skin in quick secessions until his forearm was littered with cuts and mars. The blood on the floor slowly became a puddle but Sherlock was too far gone in his chemically induced bliss to give a shit. He chose instead to continue humming, more specifically, Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake.

But before he reached the third movement, he began to feel exceedingly light headed. And it only took him one downward glance at his arm to know why: what had been a smallish puddle of blood was now a bit of a smallish pool.

Sherlock could feel the panic rising; the panic of bleeding out, but also the panic of John finding out, of having to go to John if he couldn't get the bleeding under control, of being found like this–strung out and so disgustingly self-mutilated and marred. The detective immediately grabbed a nearby shirt that he had clearly tossed aside on an earlier trip and pressed it firmly against the worse section of his arm, frantically trying to control the bleeding.

He took several deep breaths, wishing he hadn't taken so much cocaine, wishing he hadn't gotten so carried away with the razor. Wishing that John would be the one to stay but knowing that everything knowledge and experience had taught him was that John would never stay.

He held the shirt tightly against his arm as he cradled it to his body and as all the panic and the emotions and ideas it had brought up fully sunk in–being found out, being found out by John, being found dead like this. By John.

Sherlock began to cry. Mere tears rolling down his cheeks at first but soon the hopelessness of his situation, of his life in general, slowly overwhelmed and entrenched him, his very soul, in such a deep despair. One far greater than what he'd been entrapped by in a very long time.

As he sobbed into the shirt that was wrapped around his arm, the light-headedness deepened, until Sherlock felt himself gently, slowly, tip over. And even as he began to lose consciousness, he still couldn't stop the sobs and choked sounds coming from his chest as the pain continued its endless onslaught.