Chapter 10

Trigger warning: This chapter mentions self-harm.

A/N: Sherlock's medical condition here is called DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. I chose to write his mental state this way because I have this problem myself.

I have C-PTSD with DID symptoms because I was raised in a religious ritual/torture cult setting. My abuse is similar to the things Sherlock experienced although more along the end of psychological torture. For me, writing is an act of catharsis. I had an episode today which prompted this. I hope you will understand and not have your feelings too deeply hurt by what you read next.

John knew going to dinner with his family so soon after what happened with Mary was a bad idea. Still, he was feeling a bit unplugged with all of his friends save Sherlock turning on him afterward. Besides, Sherlock had a case in the bar of this restaurant. It would kill two birds, as the old saying went.

"You-You will never find a woman if you continue with him." Harry spat between long glugging sips of champagne. Mum and Dad had gone to the dance floor, leaving the siblings alone for longer than John would like.

"I didn't ask your opinion on it, Harriet." John sipped a shot of Craig, trying to ignore the fact that Harry's statement was probably true. Sherlock's line of work took a lot out of both the detective and his assistant. What woman would want to share her man with all of that?

"Well, you should get on with it anyway. Why do you have to live with him? Come on, John. It's not like it's bad. Are you sleeping with him?" Harry tilted her head.

"Hell no!" John came back. He swallowed. Unless you counted sleeping next to him because he couldn't make it through a full night any longer without vivid nightmares. Or worse. John shook his head and sipped more of the whiskey remembering what had happened last night.

"Sherlock, mate. What are you doing?" John had fallen asleep next to Sherlock on his bed. They'd been watching telly in John's room a few nights to both fall asleep. It seemed to help Sherlock more than anything to have a distraction until he just tapped out.

"I...I...don't know." Sherlock was pulling most of his clothes off. After a moment, he was just standing in the middle of the room in his boxers. John tilted his head.

"You...Are you stuffy in here? I'll crack the window?" John sat up. There was no fear. Only calm. He was fairly certain from personal experience he already knew what this was.

"That's...It's not like I could feel it. It's not me...It's not me, is it?" Sherlock's eyebrows arched. He reached to John's nightstand and pulled out a switchblade from amongst John's things. John held his breath, worried now. How should he handle this?

"Don't do that to yourself, okay? Hey, no one's going to hurt you anymore, alright?" John reached out a hand to Sherlock gently. Sherlock traced the blade over one of his scars. It took John a moment to realize he'd cut himself.

"I hate that I do this, but...I don't know...It's something that needs to be done." Sherlock's voice was weirdly sing-song like he had no idea what he was even saying. He traced the blade without feeling over several of the places he'd been previously lacerated. John quietly got to his feet. Sherlock was panting now, getting a bit sick even though he showed no expression signs of distress. John only guessed at his sickness because his mouth started watering a bit. Then, John knew he may have to forcibly intervene to keep him from reopening all of his torture wounds.

"And why's that?" John wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind. The young man's shoulders shivered like a horse does when it is covered in flies. He licked his teeth.

"I don't know?…"Sherlock's hands felt over his body until he was reaching for the top of the surgical castration wound. John took the hand with the knife then and carefully plucked it from his trembling fingers.

"Well, if you don't know then it doesn't need to be done. Hey, don't pick at that."John noticed that Sherlock was driving his finger into his navel where the incision his torturers used to surgically sterilize him had begun. John plied Sherlock's arms away from harming his own body and wrapped them around his own.

"J-John?" Sherlock's voice was like that of a teenager for a moment.

"Hey...I'm right here."

"I know...I think I know."

"Are you okay? You were just watching telly and then you were undressing and cutting yourself…"John gritted his teeth. Sherlock looked up slowly.

"I did that? Why did I do that?" Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't know. You tell me?" John tenderly pushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead.

"I, um...They itched. But not like "oh, I need to scratch that.'. It was more that the thought of them was itchy like...like it wasn't right if they didn't throb a little or they were supposed to be bleeding. But….I don't know why I did that...I'm sorry." Sherlock frowned. John reached over him and took down a First Aid kit, dressing the scratch Sherlock had made before he'd stopped him. He dressed the cut quietly and then reached and helped Sherlock dress again.

When all of that was done, he hugged him close.

"John, there really was no logical explanation for that. I've heard of people doing things like that when they are drunk, but I was almost completely lucid. It's just...It felt like I couldn't stop? Sort of like I was sleepwalking in a vivid dream. Like it itched and...I'm sorry." Sherlock was humiliated. John shook his head.

"Sherlock, that's just a symptom of PTSD. It's called dissociation. Male patients often have that. Basically, your mind is trying to handle repeat trauma by checking out and acting like it happened to someone else. So, you feel like you're not really in your body. Sometimes people act out whatever happened to them like that will fix it. With you, I guess you just have a compulsive issue as well. It's like your body is stuck feeling all that hurt so it's sort of telling you that it's in pain. The only release to all that psychosomatic tension is to then actually be in pain." John shook his head. This was awful.

"Oh, well, that would be a physiological explanation, then. I always hate not knowing. Thank you, John. I really am sorry." Sherlock nuzzled John, hugging him closer.

"Don't apologize anymore. The brain is a bizarre little thing, especially for some one-half batty with genius like yourself. Here, it honestly is stuffy in here. Let's get some tea, then, eh?" John stood and lifted Sherlock's face in his cupped palms. Sherlock was smiling as if nothing had happened. John felt a sudden bit of peace pass through him. Maybe it wasn't that big of a deal? As long as Sherlock wasn't left alone in a vulnerable state, he should be fine, shouldn't he?

"I bet you are sleeping with him and you just don't want anyone to know." Harry laughed.

"Oi lay off."John didn't notice the shadow of Mum and Dad over him then.

"Well, John. That poses a question." John's Dad bristled. John felt a cringe overtake him. They weren't going to ask about Sherlock's involvement with the whole Mary scandal, were they?

"What would that be?" John sat up, adjusted his suit collar. He was annoyed. Annoyed that he'd had to dress so fancy to even get into this place. Annoyed with their judgmental looks.

Just so very annoyed…

"Well, dear, we just...It's...All that on the news. How do you think? I mean, honestly, if you do have boyfriends that's your business but...Sherlock…"Mum tried to beat around the bush.

"Is not to be trusted. Not after everything."John's father was quite blunt.

John felt like he'd been slapped.

"He's family!" John stood up.

"No, he's...We're not so sure he's not with the Mob. John, you're too close to him to see it." Harry rolled her eyes, dropping another rum ball down her gullet. John shook his head.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing. He's...To me, he's as much family as the lot of you. A brother. I wanted you to meet him finally and now you're saying…" John's voice died off. Because Harry screamed into her palm. Sherlock had just rounded the bar.

"Ah,...Oh, hello, Watsons. Let's see, Mr. Watson, you're a tax accountant who recently lost his share in a large firm. Mrs. Watson is a pediatrician and the inspiration for John's medical profession. You're Harry the not-brother and you have developed a bit of a gambling habit within the last two weeks, probably at Chesterfield's if we're to go by the schoolyard chalk on your left shoe heel. Good, that covers introductions. I think by now you should know who I am." Sherlock was scratching his arms maniacally. The tuxedo he'd been constrained to wear in this miserable bar was soaking up blood, most of which was his own. John's jaw dropped.

"See, John, this is precisely what we mean!" John's father slapped the bar which upset Mum. John ignored his parents, directing his next words carefully and straight at Sherlock who looked a bit upset himself by Mr. Watson's sudden reaction to him. Perhaps he'd hoped John's heritage was as impressive as John was when it came to saint-like friendliness?

"Did you...How the hell did you get all bloody like that?" John reached for his medical kit, which he'd put discreetly in a briefcase for this all too fancy bar. Harry scoffed.

"Ooh, do you two really have to play doctor in here?" Harry's muttering barely caught John's attention.

"I..Oh, it's alright. It's not like I'd feel it...It's not me now, is it?" Sherlock smiled. John realized he'd said that last night when he'd had that little episode. He was losing his temper, so he finally snapped, more at his natural family than at his adopted one.

"I'll say if it's alright or not, now! You've only been bloody well carved into and eviscerated to keep me safe from the syndicate if you don't remember that, damn it, Sherlock! This had better not be another one of those things!" John looked over his shoulder at the crime scene that Sherlock had just busted. Greg came into the bar, eyes wide when he saw Sherlock's clothes. He smiled and nodded in John's direction.

The Watsons fell silent. Then, Mrs. Watson whimpered. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's outburst as if they were discussing the solar system. Then, he pounced the Watson matriarch.

"Oh, it's true. Relax, I wasn't part of the syndicate I was saving him from. If you have to ask, I actually contract with the British government. It pays our rent and is dangerous enough to keep your son dreadfully busy as my personal physician." Sherlock smiled darkly at John's father, who drew out a loud huff.

"Hey, thank you for the um, near medical attention, but I need to go inform Lestrade that it was the lobbyist and not the bartender who pulled off this little Ponzi scheme. Bloody inspector couldn't handle a 5 o'clock homicide if the Queen's life depended on it! Just came to see if I could borrow your pen? Right, I will. You can have it back in a moment. Thank you, John." Sherlock chattered and pulled the pen straight from behind John's ear, patting his shoulder as he skipped off. John stared after his friend, gutted, knowing what came next.

"I really don't think you should have any more to do with that…"John's father scoffed. For a second, so endeared was John to the man in his direct line of vision, he barely heard the remark. Then, he turned to face his father, almost in tears. He felt fury turn him to ice. A brutal smile curled one edge of his lips.

"He...saved my life? Over and over. As in, they tortured him. Like brutally. He saved your son's life. You owe him a lot more credit than you realize." John shook his head. His Dad's nose crinkled.

"He put you in the position to need to be saved. John, damn it, you're a grown-up. I won't tell you what to do or not. But...I don't think we'll be visiting for a while as long as that's around."John's father turned on his heel and left. John froze.

Mum swallowed, running her hand over her mouth.

"John...Um...Take care. And don't...Don't get hurt." She left then too.

Harry came up behind John and kissed him gross and mockingly on the cheek.

"Well, there you have it, lover boy. It's your family or it's your lovers. You can't have both." With that, Harry was gone.

John stood lonely in the center of the bar for a long stunned moment. Then, he looked over again. Sherlock stood, behaving much the same as he always had as he talked case details with Greg. He even drew a diagram on a napkin. All the while he seemed completely oblivious to his bloodstained clothes. As if someone else was wearing them.

"You good, mate?" The bartender came John's way.

"Oh, I'll take another shot of Craig, yeah? It's all good, right? It's not...It's not happening to me." John let his hand run down his cheek, smudging away Harry's gross kiss. He just realized that with that last act Judas had finally receded from his life. Everyone except for Sherlock was officially gone or vaguely in the background now.