"I'm not leaving you."

Lie.

"I won't abandon you."

False.

"I'm your friend."

I don't have friends.

"You mean something to me."

Then why do you all leave?

No…

Don't answer that.

I know why.

...


"Sherlock, hang on—look at me!" John dipped his head to try and catch the detective's eye, but he'd clammed up again and wasn't responding. "No, look at me! I—" How should he do this…? "I'm staying here—whether you like it or not! I—listen—will not leave you."

"Yes you will! You're human! That's what people do!"

Hadn't he heard that line somewhere before…?

Sherlock clutched at his chest again, long white fingers pulling at his collar and managing to tear off the first two buttons, exposing his pale throat and collarbone before he seemed to decide that wasn't actually going to help with the uncomfortable tightness. He sucked in a deep breath and stared around the room.

John followed his intense gaze, but if there was really anything there to see then it wasn't for John's eyes.

Hallucinations, probably.

Textbook.

When he looked back again Sherlock was yanking up his sleeves with a focussed resolve.

Also textbook?

"No, Sherlock, wait—" He almost tripped on the fallen throw pillow in his haste to get over to him, but Sherlock pushed back and tried to retreat to the bookshelf.

John grabbed him by both wrists and held him firmly. When Sherlock found he couldn't escape the hands he gave up and slumped against him, mumbling pleadingly.

"Let me go… please… Please, it's too much—I have to—let go of me…"

His breaths came ragged, and—no.

No, that was not happening.

That could not be happening.

His shoulders were only shaking because of the drug.

That shine on his cheek was only sweat.

Only…

Sherlock Holmes didn't cry.

He would let drops of blood fall before teardrops.

He never cried.

Never.

John felt as if the whole room were caught in some sort of time warp, where he and Sherlock were the only two who weren't frozen solid. Nothing else mattered then, because at that moment the great Sherlock Holmes, famous, enigmatic, cold, calculating, absolutely brilliant, funny-hat-wearing, consulting detective of 221B Baker Street sobbed into his blogger's shoulder.

He just stood there, letting him lean against him but not quite sure if he should release his wrists in order to put an arm around his shoulders.

Should he say something?

No use, his mind was blank.

This was something he had always thought he could bet his life on never happening. Now that it was it all seemed a little too daunting—a little out of control.

Somehow even when Sherlock had carved his hurt into his own skin he had outwardly seemed… the same as ever.

Strong.

In control.

John now realized he had needed that.

He, not Sherlock.

But now even that mask had slipped, and for the time being Sherlock didn't seem to have the energy to put it back on. So for now, until that happened, John would have to be the one to be strong enough for the both of them. To carry it all and not complain, just the way Sherlock had for 32 years…

With a little sigh he let go of one of Sherlock's wrists and carefully wrapped his free arm around his trembling shoulders. There was resistance to the touch at first; John could feel it. Of course he wouldn't be used to physical contact, he'd had so very little of it in his lifetime.

Of course.

But after a few moments the resistance weakened, because he needed this. This was something he required but didn't know he did, because he'd never allowed it to happen before.

And maybe there had never been anyone there to just… hold him.

To rub his back in slow, gentle circles.

To murmur reassuring things into his messy curls.

To listen.

To stay.

To exist.

But now John was here. And he wasn't going anywhere, not until his dying day—because Sherlock had once saved his life, when he'd rescued him from the lonely monotony of civilian existence, and now John was going to return the favour.

Not like he had when he'd saved Sherlock by shooting the cabby.

Or like any times after that.

This time he would save him from a much, much worse fate, something so much more painful and drawn-out.

In a different way.

This time he would have to save him from himself.

John knew what loneliness felt like. He knew from previous experience that it was sharp and searing and dull and heavy and bitter and burning and probably so much worse for someone who'd lived his entire life that way.

And he couldn't bear to watch his best friend pretend to handle it all.

Sherlock let out a shaky little sigh, and he could feel some of the tense muscles beginning to relax.

"…Sherlock?" John's voice came out as a whisper. "Do you want to sit down?"

As much as just standing right here was good, John's legs were getting a little weak from holding the taller man up, and collapsing probably wouldn't be the best course of action.

When they were situated on the sofa, among the haphazard pillows and the stray paper or two, Sherlock leaned back and very, very slowly inched over so his body rested against John's shoulder. Even high as a kite he retained a little of his hesitancy.

John was still holding his wrist, and as they sat there in the quiet he found his fingertips running gently over the white scars, slightly raised from the rest of Sherlock's smooth skin. So many of them…

An idea was slowly forming in his head, one he batted around in there like a game of tennis, back and forth, trying to decide if he should say it or not. Eventually the scars won the game.

He spoke softly, looking over at the detective. "Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"I know you probably won't remember this when you're sober, but… D'you think…" He sighed. "Would you make a little pact with me? A pact to say that from now on, you won't cut if you're feeling sad. If you ever feel like doing it, you can come to me and I'll try my damndest to make it better. Because I'm staying right here, don't you ever doubt that."

Sherlock was listening quietly, not about to speak yet, but listening.

"I'm a man of my word, you know that." He continued to brush over the scars with the pad of his thumb. "Don't you ever worry that I'm going to up and leave you, alright? Because I understand. Sure, you can be a massive twat sometimes, and I might get cross—with good reason—but that's never going to make me leave. I promise. You don't have to go it alone anymore."

Fuck, now John was the one tearing up.

He blinked hard. "So. Deal?"

Sherlock sat there in silence for a while, and John had just begun to wonder if he'd somehow managed to fall asleep with his eyes open, but then he nodded slightly.

"Deal."