John kneels there, on his bed, for at least three full minutes before he finally climbs off and grabs his pajamas. He pulls the bottoms on and is just working his head through the top of his t-shirt when he hears it - the unmistakable sound of Sherlock, retching.
"Shit."
He goes to the door, picking up Sherlock's clothing along the way. He leans on the wall, waiting and listening, and cursing himself for being so stupid.
When it's quiet again, he taps gently at the door. "Sherlock? I've got your clothes... if you want them."
He waits for several moments, and is just about to knock again when Sherlock answers.
"I'm... I'm fine, just..."
"Sherlock, please, just... talk to me?"
John can feel it, the way his heart breaks over and over with each second of silence that stretches between them. It's different than the way it was when Sherlock tried to distance them, tried to make John hate him.
This one hurts much worse.
John purses his lips, takes a deep breath. "Sherlock? Are you still awake?"
"I'm fine."
"May I come in?"
There's no answer. John waits a minute, then slowly tries the door handle.
It's unlocked.
He reaches in just with the clothes. They're pulled from his fingers a second later, and he pulls the door closed again.
He hears the rustling of fabric, then the sink running, and leans back against the wall. He's fighting his base urges, to simply barge in and demand answers, or at least to barge in and just pull Sherlock close, tell him over and over again it's alright, it's fine, it's all fine.
The water turns off, the door stays closed, and John sighs. "Sherlock. Please." There's no response.
John frowns, then cautiously opens the door again. He peeks his head inside and sees Sherlock sitting on the floor just in front of the toilet, legs drawn up in front of him again and head between his knees. He's still trembling, but not nearly as bad as he was. John smells mint and soap, and sees a damp flannel cloth next to the sink.
He steps inside completely, staying near the door, trying to give Sherlock a bit of space.
He stands there, silent and patient. Sherlock does not acknowledge him, does not give any indication that he even cares that John is there.
John doesn't know how long he stands there. He doesn't care. He just had to know that Sherlock was alright - in the limited sense of the word that applied, at least. He leaned into the corner between the doorway and the sink, watching Sherlock, arms wrapped around his chest as he waited.
Finally, Sherlock spoke.
"I've always been able to keep myself distant." John swallowed and listened. "Divorce myself from feelings." Sherlock looked up, self-depreciating smile in place. "But you see?" He held out one hand. John watched it trembling. "Body's betraying me."
John can't say anything that will make this better right now. He knows that. But it doesn't mean he doesn't want to try. He swallows audibly and waits.
Sherlock gives a small, mirthless chuckle as he stares at his own hand. "Look at me. I'm afraid, John." He closes his eyes, twists his face away as though in pain. "Afraid."
He looks back at John then, and John has to hold himself still against the desperate need to fall in front of Sherlock and promise him anything so long as he never looks that miserable again. "Interesting, yes? Emotions?"
John sinks down to sit on the floor. He licks his lips and wants nothing more than to pull Sherlock into his arms and swear to keep him safe, keep him close, forever.
Sherlock looks back at him, eyes slightly wild. "The grease on the lens. The fly in the ointment."
"Alright." John reaches out, then quickly pulls his hand back when Sherlock flinches away, the maneuver so instinctive John wonders if he even knows he did it. "Look, you've been... pretty wired lately. You know you have. We both have."
Sherlock watches him, eyes narrowing in concentration.
"Maybe... we should just wait a bit longer. We just... got ourselves a bit worked up, and you-"
"Me? There's nothing wrong with me."
John leaned his head back into the corner. "Sherlock, please, I just-"
"There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?"
John held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Coming in here was probably the worst idea he'd ever had, because now Sherlock was acting like a cornered animal, scared and hurt and ready to attack to keep himself from any more harm. John slouched a bit, breathing out quietly and slowly, trying to look less threatening.
Sherlock noticed, and glared at him. "You want me to prove it, yes?" His words were almost too fast to follow, his look daring John to deny it, and so John said nothing, just kept a steady gaze. "You want to know about the scars, yes? You want to know why I would let anyone do that? Why I would allow anyone that level of control over my own body? Simple. He had what I wanted, and I had what he wanted. All pain is temporary, Doctor, you should know that. What was a little pain compared to stillness in my mind and the ability to write without second guessing myself."
John wanted to look away. Wanted to leave the room. He didn't like this at all, but now he was here and he couldn't change that. All he could do was ride it out until Sherlock finished, until Sherlock was approachable again.
"I stopped caring what he did as long as he gave me what I needed. Physical violence a pale comparison to the constant onslaught of my mind, the never ending train of thought that won't stop, won't quiet, won't leave me in peace even for a moment." Sherlock was speaking through gritted teeth. "But with that solution, that seven-percent solution, I could relax, I could think clearly, and I could hear one song, not one thousand, and I could finally write what I wanted to play and play what I wanted to write and there was nothing getting in my way."
Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "You want to know why I gave myself over to him?" Sherlock smiled ruefully. "Because I wanted to." He straightened his neck and opened his eyes, looking at John.
John nodded. "Alright. But I don't believe that."
Sherlock sneered. "And why should I care if you believe me or not?"
John shrugged. "Because if I don't believe you, you can't possibly believe it yourself." Sherlock froze, trembling ceased by the rigid tension in him as his eyes widened at John's accusation. "I may not have known you for very long, Sherlock, but I think I know you pretty well, regardless."
John pushed up slowly, walking on his knees until he was in front of Sherlock now, but not touching.
"You hate yourself sometimes. Because you're not the emotionless, detached robot you want to be. You feel - deeply, in fact. You wouldn't be able to write and play your music if you didn't."
Sherlock shrank back just a bit, pulling himself tighter into a ball.
"You think, on some level, that you deserved all of that." John nodded at Sherlock's torso. "Because you're not what you think you should be."
Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips.
"But let me tell you something, Sherlock." John leaned in a bit, one hand coming up to rest on Sherlock's hand. "I wouldn't want you any other way."
It was cheesy. John knew that. Too many RomComs, too many sappy love stories, whatever it was, the line was cheesy and clichéd.
But dammit, it was true.
John watched as Sherlock let it sink in. He could pinpoint the exact moment that Sherlock let go, trusting in John.
John pulled him close, sitting back and letting Sherlock climb into his lap. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, tighter and tighter, and ignored the sounds of crying, ignored the shaking and the mewling and said absolutely nothing else as he simply held Sherlock.