DISCLAIMER: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters. No profits have come from this story.

WARNING: This is a self-harm story.

A/N: This chapter is a bit more focused on John and Sherlock's relationship and include a few personal observations about self harm. I notice that I become a semi-smart-ass in my narrative, also - I usually don't write third-person, so I'm sorry if there's a style change.

I'm open to criticism.

Thank you for reading. Enjoy:)

Medical Knife

"So, were you testing vibrations and frequencies last night? Of random things around the house, I mean?" John asked. He had the kettle on, a tea-bag ready to be steeped at the ready-and-waiting words of the near-boiling water. He'd walked into the kitchen ten minutes before, catching Sherlock in a doze of sorts, sleeping on a counter-stool with his hands propped under his chin. His eyes were half open, and John laughed, accidentally but not unhappily startling Sherlock into waking. He was now in a fairly foul mood.

"Obviously. How many times did I tell you that the harmonics of a 100 milliliter glass beaker sounded oddly similar to that of a violin filled with lighter fluid? I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it before. They measure up. Sort of. I have to do more experiments, but I have my suspicions. No matter that. It's obvious. It's dull now. John, dear John, do you have to pass by everything in your life without a single curious thought about them? Just think! You are a doctor and an incredibly good one—how can't you be capable of using your brain?"

John didn't know whether to take the compliment or the insult, so was at a loss for how to react. He had a simple, older jumper on, and fiddled with the edges of the wrist-collars that, to his sad observation, were starting to fray. Settling on an awkward expression, he sighed. "Yes, I'm fond of you as well." Oh, the sarcasm. What a pity it was wasted on Sherlock, who had a vacant look on his still-drowsy face. John had seen it many times, and will always see it when his taller counterpart – yes, they are indeed counterparts— gets bored and abandons reality to search the corners of his mind. His Mind Palace was an annoying place, and took up too much time for navigation. John couldn't wait for the kettle to break-loose in a shriek and thoroughly rattle the genius.

Which, to his glee, it did.

"John!"

John laughed full-heartedly, pouring his tea on the messy counter. "Sherlock!" He mimicked his friend's tone.

"You couldn't have done something about that before it wrecked my thought-process?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

That was usually Sherlock's line. He was astonished and wordless to hear it used against him. John rolled his eyes, taking a drink of his tea. "Dramatic, tsk tsk. Go on, I won't disturb you anymore."

John walked back to the living room, turned on the currently-boring telly, and took out his laptop. He'd been nervous that maybe, somehow, miraculously, Sherlock would have picked up on something late in the night that would link him to being stressed, or his coping mechanisms. But, as far as he could tell, it was trivial, and he probably already deleted the whole scene from his memory—hopefully, even the part involving John searching for pictures of them, together, online.

His computer booted quickly. He should have felt a presence behind him, a piercing eye looking downward onto the man sitting oblivious and chuckling in his designated seat. No, he shouldn't have, because Sherlock didn't intend him to.

Load tabs?

John didn't even think about it—why should he? He was alone. Sort of.

He let his tabs restore to their most recent state, the way they were left seven hours before. And, on the one screen for a site familiar to Sherlock, John left it open just a second too long. Sherlock didn't recognize the URL, but he knew it was Johns – of course, he had control of all its settings, had already decorated it with encouraging mottos and text-boxes – and it was enough for him to memorize the name of the blog. John clicked away from it quickly – a little panicked, but not completely, because, he wasn't being watched. Sherlock was still throwing a fit in the kitchen. John did, though, turn around out of paranoia. Sherlock already knew he would do this and was out of sight, just as quietly as he approached, leaving the open area apparently empty to John who would then relax when his paranoia was proved false.

We return to John, who had the oddest, most fleeting sensation of being watched—damn Sherlock, he was pulling the same crap as the night before! Hopefully he didn't see anything, still, hide this like your life depends on it. He turned around and only met his suspicion with an eyeful of an undecorated wall. He licked his lips, and returned to his laptop. He posted a quick, uneventful post on his main, popular, now known as the detective, blog. He would wait until he had the opportunity to be alone and secure before even daring to think about his secret blog-space. The sudden paranoia that overcame him also brought out certain things in John that he didn't want to admit to—or think about, not with Sherlock around. Childish, yes, it may be, though unavoidable, to consider that Sherlock, inhuman, unsleeping, minimal-eating, super-detective, might have mind-reading abilities. A lot of people would think so. John would too, except for the fact that he knew better. Still… no chances should be taken. Awake, he considered the real reactions Sherlock might have to his proclivities. Cutting was irrational, provided no chemical alteration, only a minimal reward, and would be beyond his capacity to understand—that is, until Sherlock would become curious and try it himself. John paled against the thought and tried to shake it. Cutting. No. Bad. Don't Cut. Cutt—

"JOHN!"

Around the corner, Sherlock strode, long legs bounding past John as he came to stand properly and politely in front of him. He was serious looking.

John, however, half slid from his very matte chair at the sudden exclamation. He looked as fearing as a teenager found parked in the backseat with another teenager, usually, though not limited to, the same gender. But with so much more to loose. He kept his mind as far away from blades as possible. "Wh-what?" John, soldier and doctor, nerves of steel – stuttering? That, he was certain, caught his friend's attention.

Sherlock quirked a dark, curiously curvy eyebrow, ever so slightly, noticing John's timid reaction. "We have a case."

John resettled himself, righting his bent, nearly-fallen posture, erecting himself in hope to save face in time. "No. Nope. Not. A. Single. Case. You, obviously, can. I, on the other hand, cannot. I refuse to. I am on holiday—"

"Not a real holiday. There weren't enough sick people at your work to sustain your pay while they receive nothing."

"—I am on holiday, and I refuse to do anything stressful."

"So, cases are stressful, are they?"

John scoffed. "Even you might realize that one. Of course they are. Why wouldn't they be?"

"I always—

"Almost always,"

"— always solve it."

John said nothing, running his hand through his hair, definitely feeling stress coming on, and sudden discomfort under the overbearing, observing gaze of the detective. This would get him nowhere. Say it plain, don't argue. "I am on holiday, and I wish to waste it in the flat doing absolutely nothing. I have four more days before I'm back. In four days, I will tag along, but until then, I'm staying right the bloody hell here. Unless I decide otherwise. Text me all you want. Be safe. Good-bye."

Sherlock wasn't above pouting. He was expected to do so, especially when not getting his way. But this time, Sherlock just spared him a look. At first he seemed about to say something, something rude, something less than his well-meaning friend deserved. But that passed, and he just looked at him. Empathy? No, that wasn't it. John had enough time to stare back, for maybe thirty seconds, while trying to pin the expression on his face. Sympathy? Nope. Humor? Fear? Madness? Plain not-understanding? None of the above, none of the conceivable, could be applied to Sherlock. Was he high? No. He'd seen that once, and he'd never seen it again. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a little kinder than pity. Sherlock didn't do emotion—not very well—so it was hard to identify when it actually happened.

Thirty seconds rolls around, and John finds himself fidgety like a restless cat as Sherlock rouses. "You heard me, right, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

John made loose, swirly hand gestures, pinning his eyebrows a bit. "And you understand?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Why wouldn't I?"

"Maybe I shoulda asked, 'do you understand my reasoning?'"

"Of course, I understand. You underestimate me."

Now John felt a little guilty. Even more nervous. There are knives in the kitche—"I'm sorry. I mean it. I just need to rest. I think I'm coming down with an illness."

That caught his attention. John, regretfully, could see the inquisition-gears turning in his friends now-lit azure-chrome eyes. "You're a doctor, you should know whether or not you're sick."

"I'm. Sick."

A slight smirk came to Sherlock. "You haven't seen anyone in over a week. I haven't met with anyone in over a week. Mrs. Hudson is healthier than a racing horse. I'm certainly not a medical professional – that would be, I think you'd agree, a laughable contradiction – but I believe I know enough to say that you, if you were exposed in your now lacking-cliental work, you would probably already be sick. If it were the common cold, a flu, a stomach virus… I understand if you want to stay home during this holiday. You should have a break, but don't act as if I couldn't tell what you really meant by claiming to be sick. Don't think I'm so delicate that I couldn't handle a few cases without your precious though really not necessary help."

Ouch. There was some animosity, but it was covered up very well, for Sherlock. That last bit, however, got to John, who shrunk back a bit.

"I didn't mean to," John started, making excuses, then catching himself. Booze was cheap down the st— "I'm sorry."

Another few silent seconds passed, and in those John considered the use of cigarettes. He knew of a few somewhat hidden hiding spots of Sherlock's.

"I will be back," Sherlock said at the end of the pause, less bite in his words, walking away. It seems that he did so not knowing that his well-intended words left John less than happy.

"Be safe," John said, hoarse, or maybe without oxygen, as he was holding his breath and counting down from fifteen. He just wanted Sherlock out, though he was afraid what might happen then—there are two ways, he was sure, this could go. One, he blogs, he finds release in letting his tension and hurt out online under a pseudonym. Sherlock was just, at most, a minute away from leaving…

Risk relapse or ask a friend for help?

A minute passes fast under fear. Sherlock was bounding down the stairs, urgent in wanting to end his extended-period of incredible boredom.

John stretched his fingers over the keyboard, deciding it best to keep to himself. He would feel best this way. More secure. Less afraid. Less upset. More in control.

He opened a private browsing tab with his URL and began typing just as the downstairs door opened and quickly settled back in the frame. He wrote as clearly as if he had it planned – which, he supposed, he did. This one particular instance, he was in relative friendly-correspondence with his emotions. Emotions were tricky, even to people who never isolated themselves from them. Certainly, they were never his strong point.

But they were, just this once, cooperative.

I don't usually get upset. I'll get frustrated, I can admit to—and that's usually just in the short term, in response to my flat mate. Just like right now. I feel it dying down now, but, as I said, I don't usually have a great response to that sort of thing. Stress isn't easy. It never had been (my teenage years were filled with self-harm). I've tried other things over the course of my life – drugs, sadly, were where I started in my attempts to stay away from the knife. They didn't stick, and contrary to becoming addicted, I did want to go to school and do well. Then, one night, I tried beer. I never liked being out of control, of myself, the situation, and the way I react to a situation. Beer is recreational and occasional at best, if ever. Cigarettes actually stuck for a while, but, as one in the medical field would know and not be able to ignore, they are dangerous. I may have my issues, but that doesn't mean I want to kill myself. Anyway… So, I moved on, and finally, when I exhausted all other means of coping, of controlling, I picked up a knife—it was a regrettable decision, because I had been clean for years. It was a sterile knife, of course. I made sure it wasn't in a noticeable place, and I did well not to let it run too-deep or over any major arteries. I've never needed stitches—well, once, I gave myself some… but it was once, and it scared the bloody hell out of me. Just a note, I don't advocate self-harm. It's a miserable existence, because the reliance you obtain from it in such a short amount of time isn't healthy, or easy to break. It really does hurt, not to harm. It will hurt every so often, even after you've been clean for years. Just like I felt just now, feeling guilty all the same as I looked to my friend and tried not to think of doing something to myself. It was an underestimated but intense moment, and it has been a while since I had to deal like this.

The next words scared John. He'd thought them privately before. He'd never say them if there was a remote chance Sherlock could hear them—which, there always was a chance of. He'd hardly gone so far as to admit to himself of feeling this way. But, here it goes.

I really don't want to disappoint him. He's come to mean so much to me. He's the one person in the world who has the capacity to keep me sane. If it were something I were comfortable saying to him, I would divulge that I love him. He truly meant everything to a man slowly dissolving from his mind, outward. He gave me things, sure: danger, intrigue, a challenge. But he also was just there. It's hard to explain, but essentially I feel better with him around. I think it's him, and his presence, that means so much. He's also a man who hates nearly everyone, so when he lets you move in and establish yourself as a flat mate, you know for sure that he reciprocates some sort of affection. I did mention that we're not a couple, right?

John's typing came to a gradual halt, and the tension, once again, started to escape his bodily-container, a valve opening to the pressure of the tank that would otherwise explode without its doing so. That seemed as good a place to leave his post as any other he could come up with. He'd exhausted his emotional resources, and was too burnt-out to really want to force anymore script. Yes, it was good, and he published.

"Oh," he tilted his head, returning to his main page. He had three followers. He had to applaud his article-tagging ability, and did so with a celebratory smile. It felt good to know he wasn't alone in feeling so alone, so pathetic and dangerous. It felt good to know people related to him and sought some help, which he would give with passion.

Boysalsocry142, RexUnplugged, and Two-reactions21base were his followers.

His last post ended too sarcastically. Amending with a follow-up, the following represents that.

I'm actually quite serious. My friend is just my friend, and that is all I want him to be.