Sherlock had heard it as he entered their rooms, the sobs had to be echoing off of the walls to sound so loud. For once he had no idea what would meet him on the other side of that door... Hamish, he had to have Hamish safe first, then John. Loath to do so, he texted Mycroft.

John compromised.

Please collect Hamish immediately.

Twenty-four seconds later he received the reply.

I am on my way.

Anthea is readying my study.

Hamish was asleep, blissfully ignorant for all else. Sherlock found himself thankful that he had not woken, but John was quieting, that was worrisome. The soft tap at the parlor doors was immediately followed by Mycroft's entry. Grim faced, worry obviously etched into his normally placid features forced the air to catch in Sherlock's throat. He handed the baby over immediately headed toward the bedroom and ensuite, closing and locking the interior doors behind him. Hamish would be safe and cared for until Sherlock could get John to rights.

What greeted him once he opened the ornamental doors was a sight he'd never be able to erase, John in foetal curl, on the bottom of the bath lukewarm water drumming him mercilessly. His skin looked scalded in places, others just losing the pinkish tinge as the shower cooled. This was not the John he knew, strong steady doctor full of contentment and surety. Doing the only thing he knew to be right, but his friend would loathe later, he lifted John physically out of the bath and in a bridal carry got him to the bed. Covering with half the duvet, Sherlock went and grabbed a stack of towels after he turned the taps off and stripping off his own shirt to add to the clothing already piled in the en suite.

"John, John it's going to be alright." He found himself affecting useless platitudes to evoke something. "I am here, I'm just going to dry you and get you into your sleep clothes." It was worrisome, the fact that John had yet to respond. He was only semi-aware from the reactions so far, Sherlock was in a near panic, his mind riveted to the issue as his heart beat wildly in his chest. He had expected something, any sort of permutations to the stress-charged situation, but not this. "See, not that bad. I'll just get your clothing."

With John's things a few steps away, he moved with a purpose. Get John clothed and under the warm bedding as soon as he could do so, he had already begun to shiver. Unwrapping him from the duvet, Sherlock was swift as he pulled John's boxers on, even so, he hesitated mid-pull as he felt them, thin precise... He catalogued this new information for later... then followed with the pajama bottoms. "John... please." It took a few moments, but once he was satisfied with John's placement under the covers, Sherlock spooned behind him half-dressed still from the funeral. He couldn't be arsed to care.

"I'm so sorry John." Sherlock categorised what he had felt in the silence. Six ten centimeter long scars, all fairly thin but the tissue itself thick so possibly cut multiple times on same area after healing had been completed or almost so. Very controlled, scalpel, ten to twelve years old hypothesised, more recent disturbance of the flesh within... three years. Smoothness suggested proper healing and wound care. "It's going to be better. You know I'm no optimist, but we are here together, Hamish is alive, he's a part of you... I had no idea..."

"You weren't meant to." His voice sounded hoarse, abraded. "I... it's personal Sherlock... I never knew that... well no one's really noticed other than Mary and yourself. I've been, careful, not to let other partners... doesn't matter. Sorry you had to see... it's fine. I'm fine."

"You could have killed yourself John," Marvel and dread filled him. "So controlled, is this why? Control? Absolution? Release? Most certainly not sexual gratification-"

"Just please stop. I'm not one for your deductive nitpicking this time-"

"John, I'm not!" Sherlock huffed hotly into the room anger towards himself and the outlying emotions that began to well too close to the surface. "Well, I am a little, I can't help it. Its so incongruous with what I know of you."

The man he had been coming to see as his; his friend, his moral compass, his own luminous being. Something this self destructive, it was beyond the pale. He had wondered, just had a blip of concern for him when he met an invalidated army doctor in the labs at Bart's, but then John had proffered his mobile, reached out. He still chose to tease the man, wink at him cheekily possibly raising his ire, most definitely retaining his curiosity. Never since then had he seen any sign that this might be occurring. It did explain why the limp went swiftly away, the need for adrenaline assuage. Why John would rub his thigh if deeply angered but stifling the emotion, he had observed the behavior, but thought it a different sort of response.

"Did you... while we were sharing? Did I ever drive you to?" Sherlock's voice steadily quieted at the thought.

"Do you remember how astounded I was over the trounce of the flat, that first night? The trumped up search for drugs when you looked nothing of an addict. Yet even as I stood up for you, you asked both patience and for an open mind in one look. I accepted that, you. As you were and are. I'm asking you to do the same here with me, now."

John still did not answer his question, but asked trust of him, obvious.

"Always, John just... talk it through first if you could... before that type of release?"

He wouldn't stop him, but he'd be there, just as John had been on those terrible danger nights when the black dog bit and he had no reprieve from the stupidity that availed mankind. When everything had grated and chafed grit-like against his very being, even the air in his lungs an afront. John was there, making him talk through it, asking him to play, going through ages old murders, engaging him to keep him from using.

From his own brand of self-injury, his own recklessness and squanderous attitude of a life that felt too heavy, too fetid, John gave a brilliant beacon of nothing more than abiding, genuine concern to right Sherlock's course once again. John needed that now, he would see that this man who meant so much to him would not want, he promised that to himself when he had finally been on the way home. Whatever John needs, when it can be given would be.

"Tell me what you need, tell me." He asked hushed by the wealth of the emotions that filled the space between them. "I'm here. Christ, John, please. I'm genuinely-"

"Just shut up you mad fool... hold me. Let me rest here... with your lanky arse," His voice still held so much, possibly could be deciphered, but for now it could wait. "Just stay."