Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.
Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm
Sherlock allowed a finger to trail over his scars. The feelings towards them were split. One part of him hated them, hated that they were there, on his pale, warm skin. Another part of him loved them, and he wasn't completely sure why.
The marks were now covering almost every inch of his arms, both the left and the right one. The marks on the left arm were straighter and neater, the detective was right handed after all.
His finger reached the most recent ones, and he pressed against them, smiling as the pain shot through his arm. Now, they were a few days old and healing nicely, according to John. He hadn't been able to hurt himself again. John had set up more rules.
"Sherlock?" John said as he stood in the doorway to the detective's room. It was now evening and John seemed to have calmed down from the fright he had received earlier. Sherlock's wounds were still pounding, but it wasn't as bad now.
"Hm?" Sherlock only said as a reply.
"I've locked the knifes, the pills and the lighters in a safe. I have the only key, and I'm going to keep it on my person at all time."
"Alright."
There was a pause.
"Really?" John's voice was surprised.
"There's no point in arguing."
"I'm glad you realise that."
"Can I sleep now?"
"Of course. Call me if you need anything. Oh, and by the way, I noticed three cigarettes and a light was missing. Give it back."
"In the top drawer. Under the purple boxers."
"If you ever mention to anyone that I went through your underwear, I'll kill you."
John and his bloody rules. It made him feel safe, made him feel like he could control something which was running completely amok. Just like the laws he so happily followed. They weren't really good for anything, but they made him feel safe, made him feel calm.
"Sherlock? You okay? You've been in there for nearly 20 minutes!" John's voice came from the other side of the locked bathroom door, pulling the detective back into reality.
"I'm fine." Sherlock said as he got up and wrapped a towel around his waist.
"We're leaving in 10 minutes, hurry up!"
There was a reason to why he was hiding in the bathroom, of course there was. Today was his second therapy session. There were many words to describe how Sherlock was feeling about this, but 'excited' or 'full of anticipation' wasn't any he would use. It was more 'kill me now and get it over with'. But, he had promised.
Before John could bang the door again, Sherlock unlocked it and walked out, completely ignoring his flatmate.
"Sherlock..."
"Yes, John. I'm going to get dressed and we're going to see Dr Rosenberg. I'm not going to complain and I'm not going to make a fuss."
"No, Sherlock, you're bleeding again."
At these words, Sherlock looked down only to see that his last self harm wounds had opened up again. The blood ran down his arm towards his hand.
"Oh." He just said before wiping it on the towel.
"Wait there, I'm going to get some band aids."
Why John felt the need to tell him to stay put, Sherlock didn't really understand. Where else would he go? He wasn't dressed. With a low groan, he sank down onto the bed and rested his arm in his lap to avoid getting any blood on the sheets.
It didn't take long before the good doctor came back and started tending to Sherlock's wounds, fussing over them and dressing to them. It was something fascinating about John doing what he did best. Dressing wounds, saving lives. Maybe this was how John felt when Sherlock deduced things. Fascination.
"John?" Sherlock said after a short while.
"Yes, Sherlock."
"In the kitchen, after I had... You know."
"What about it?" John's tone suddenly got a bit harder.
"Did you mean what you said? That you love me?"
"Of course I meant it. You're my best friend. You're important to me."
Sherlock had no idea what to say. He was actually someone's best friend. And it wasn't just somebody. This was John Watson, the only person in the world Sherlock could actually stand. The bravest, wisest and kindest man Sherlock had ever met. The bravest, wisest and kindest person he had ever met. There was nothing he wouldn't do for John. He was very fond of his flatmate and friend.
"I think it goes without saying that you're my best friend too." Sherlock said after a few moments of silence. He wasn't looking at John this time, he was keeping his eyes fixed on the periodic table on the wall. "
"Coming from you, that is the best compliment I think anyone can ever receive." There was a smile in John's voice, he could hear it.
"There we go." The doctor said a short while later and leaned back. "Now, please keep these on for a while. We're back at square one with the healing bit."
There was a short nod from the detective before he stood up and walked over to his chest of drawers to take out something to wear.
"Sherlock, I can't take your fingers from you. I just have to beg you to not harm yourself any more."
No answer came from Sherlock this time.
Sherlock was in his chair and John was in his, they were both holding a cup of tea. The news were on in the background, almost completely silent. It had been a long day, Sherlock felt completely and utterly drained.
"You should get an early night, you look like you're about to topple over at any moment." John's voice came from somewhere far away.
"Just going to finish my tea." Sherlock heard himself answer.
It was a strange kind of exhaustion. It was mental exhaustion. Sherlock actually quite enjoyed it, it meant things were calm in his head for once. Just enjoying this, he sipped his tea. For the first time since John came home and found him on the sofa dressed in nothing but a t-shirt, Sherlock felt completely relaxed and calm.
Hopefully, this would last for at least a few days.
