Broken:
The next time he saw him was one of those random instances that fate was fortunate to bring. It was Tescos. It was late afternoon. It was the streetcorner outside. He'd fallen. He was always falling, wasn't he?
"Sherlock!" John ran to his friend's side, forgetting all awkwardness between them. Sherlock's knees had given out. He'd dropped all the shopping.
"I_Ach! I...I'm...Alright. Hello. How are you?" Sherlock frantically reached shaking arms out for the shopping. The milk had burst everywhere. He kicked it.
John sucked his teeth. By now, more people were looking. He knelt next to Sherlock. Sherlock whose bags of flour were broken in his hands. For a moment, the flour represented life. John stared at it. At it slipping through his fingers.
"I-I solved the case and so...I was...going to make...supper...but. I don't know. Perhaps not eating has its disadvantages?" Sherlock frowned. John scooped up the shopping bag and all. The ruined pieces he threw in the trash. The other pieces he tucked under one arm and used the other to help Sherlock stand.
"Have you...Have you not eaten since we spoke last?" That had been a week ago. Sherlock looked up, puzzled, counting in his head.
"N..No?" He grimaced.
"Come on. You need to eat." John took Sherlock's arm.
"No, it's fine. I'll...I was heading that way. I'll eat there." Sherlock smiled.
John tilted his head.
"You won't will you? You don't ever cook because you don't know how do you? That's why you never do the shopping either." John had always wondered.
"I...Uh…"Sherlock scratched his hair. His hands were shaking. When he had fallen, his sleeve pushed up on the bag. He gasped. The horrible scar that John found so beautiful was visible, angry like a snakebite. He tried to pull his sleeve up viciously, but his face contorted. Only now did John realize that those scars must hurt to an ungodly degree.
"Please?" John extends tender hands as Sherlock fights, eyes now watering with the pain he's causing himself, with the sleeve. Sherlock stares at John as if he's landed from space when he takes his arm in the nest of his fingers. He handles it as if it was made of glass. Gently, fingering the rigid scar, he pulls the sleeve back down.
Sherlock's mouth pops open and closed, wanting to speak, but unable to for a moment.
John draws a sharp breath.
"I_I'm sure you don't want me to ask, so I won't. But I have to know one thing? Are they...are they looking after you well? Because...you know if you wanted my help I could examine them for you." John held his breath expecting Sherlock to rail on him. Sherlock looked like he could cry instead. His eyes were pleading for help. John knew then that he was broken more than he could have ever feared. The Sherlock before had a sword for a tongue. A two-edged sword laced in fire, doused only by the cool water of deduction.
"It's...It's fine. I'm fine. Thank you, John. You should...I probably shouldn't keep you from whatever you came here for." Sherlock turned to go.
"Sherlock, wait…"John called after his friend. Who turned on stumbling legs, hands quaking like a dancer now. He grimaced, a facial tick overtaking him. He was humiliated but stood there anyway, defiant, pretending the elephants did not charge across the room.
"You...you'll eat something, won't you?" John bit his lip. He really wanted to grab him and force him to come home with him, but that would do no good.
"I-I um...Alright…" Sherlock nodded and ran away. Simply ran. At full speed, legs shaking and sliding like figure skates all the way out of sight.
John forgot to do the shopping after. He wept into his hand the entire way back to his flat. That's when he realized that he still had Sherlock's shopping tucked under his arm.
"This might do the trick," John called Sherlock.