Disclaimer! These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are based in BBC's Sherlock television series as aired on PBS Masterpiece.

A/N: Thank you all for your support! I'm sorry I haven't updated, I've just been a little busy. Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait. Reviews and criticism are welcomed and wanted!

Medical Knife

Yes, it's another nightmare. This one was just as bloody as the last one, just as jarring and real that John gripped his displaced pillow to his side in white-hot-anger. Still asleep, he usually could manage a restless, unfinished sleep cycle, even in his depressed state—if, that is, he didn't also dream about steel and blood, blood not of comrades, not from the force of another's gun, but from one's own hand, his own hand, counter intuitively in the search for satisfaction, relaxation, calmness, and control. And it was this nightmare, with Sherlock's unassuming, accidental discovery of his problem that had John start with an instantaneous muscle spasm, resulting in his bolting not only straight up, but from his bed, and a constrained yelp that was cut off when the muscle-spasm held on too tightly. He sweated more than usual, too, and newly-forming symptoms of a head-ache and paralysis of his fingers and toes presented themselves instantly and painfully.

Sherlock probably heard him, if the constant silence of their flat was indicative of one of his more thoughtful moods. Unless Sherlock was out. He probably was. His case was an interesting one, after all—John didn't understand why he didn't opt for a distraction and took up Sherlock on his offer to join him. Why hadn't he? Because he was too bloody overwhelmed. There were exactly 36 hours left before his holiday ended, and it felt more like a painful sentence rather than a lazy fortnight.

Oh, yes, he also wanted to slice up every inch of his leg. And his forearms. It took all his day and a wall-supplied power source for his lap-top to keep him from doing something a bit not good.

He hadn't left the flat, either, which he was starting to regret—no matter the company, it would be better than brooding alone.

Not completely alone. Sherlock was there every so often. He was down stairs as John laid there, in fact. If he was awake, that was yet to be ascertained – though he probably wouldn't care to do so. No, not totally alone. Sherlock, and his quickly growing blog of followers were there, in certain capacities. Two more days, equaling approximately three days, earned him seventy new followers. It was sad to see how many were so royally messed up, and how they pounced on his blog like a self-loathing tiger who would rather rid their self of their stripes than accept them for being apart of them. A lot of sad teenagers messaged him. War vets did, as well, and girls with suicide problems; boys with disorders of every kind. He would remember, on the morning of his first day back at his real job, that his job was posh and easy, dealing with such a small spectrum of problems that he felt almost blessed to be working as a company stay-in doctor.

Still, it might as well be alone. John got up and quickly changed his sheets and blanket with clean, sweat-cleansed linens. That wasn't enough. He took a quick shower, trying his best to ignore his old scars, ignoring what the time is because it would do him little good, and he could sleep in no matter the outcome. Yes, despite the odd moods he sometimes finds himself in, it was the good life.

Then why was he suddenly so screwed up?

He returned to his bed with that question in his head, upset that he had to ask it but looking on the bright side: he's still clean, not a single red, splitting cut on his skin to be seen. That was something, and that something was enough to calm him into a dreamless (fortunately) sleep. He woke up relatively early (he assumed) at a few before 10. Today was the day. The dreaded day. Sunday, the doomsday of the working-class, the apocalypse for those unprepared to fight the impending zombies, the poison cherry on top of the weekend sundae.

"Tomorrow, bloody Monday." He didn't intend to mumble, nor did he intend to speak at all. His tea and biscuit were nice. The butter knife was a bit suggestive for his liking, but at least it was blunt—he couldn't, no matter how he tried, use it effectively for cutting. Well, he guessed he could… He'd prefer an actual blade. He probably couldn't, in actuality, use a butter knife, nor would he try, but it wasn't the word butter that set him off. He caught himself and tossed his biscuit down to the red china in disgust. He just had his tea, too un-hungry to hazard anything more.

Sherlock was done with his caseload, finishing up four minor cases and one major in under three days. The resulting Sherlock was a tired, more-than-usual grouch whose greatest enemy in life was sleep. If John were in any better mood, he would have found his friend's futile struggle with sleep hilarious. But today is Sunday. And that damn blade across the counter was clearly there just for his sole torture. Or, depending on what John would do in a split-second decision, the blade was there, waiting, just like it always did, to help manage all the unusual and sudden emotions that were cropping up at the thought of returning to society.

He chose wrong, as he would later berate himself for. He reached out for the blade and was about to take it by its immaculate metal handle when Sherlock strode in and snatched it up. He'd been acting as hyperactive as possible to keep from falling asleep. However, surrounding his slender, attractive stare, above sharp and symmetrical cheek bones – rather handsome cheekbones, even Doctor John Watson had to admit; everyone had to admit it—was the graduating colors of night, each color-tone representing a night spent without a minute's rest. He had great will-power.

"John, I do not advise touching this."

John retreated, his hand expertly pulling back with the speed of a snake. He prayed to an idol he didn't believe in that Sherlock didn't see the different shades of shame, embarrassment, and guilt tint his skin, his eyes, his now-dry lips. What reason could there be to keep a knife from him other than for knowing that he had a problem?

Don't stutter, John warned himself, simultaneously forcing himself to respond quickly. "Why not? I… It's too sharp to be lying about."

That actually came out quite normal. Where there's the proper motivation, any feat could be accomplished. Even the timid Dr. Watson could feign disinterest if it meant protecting his greatest secret.

Sherlock was definitely ready to sleep. He didn't speak immediately. "This is the blade of my most recently busted criminal! This nearly took five lives. He was a horrible stabber. Seriously. He missed the proper organs every time and never took the time to make sure they were finished off. He even left them with their phones—several called the hospital themselves!"

John laughed some. So long as he could keep him talking about cases until he passed out, he was free. For the moment. He realized he lived in fear of every potentially exposing-encounter.

He felt way too vulnerable. Especially when he thought about cutting. Especially when he thought about cutting and blades and making his own skin bleed, with Sherlock in the same room.

Shut up, he said to himself. Out loud, however, he managed quite aptly. "Oh. Ew. Okay. Take it off the counter, will you?"

And he was thinking about cutting himself with a blade stained in another's blood?

Yes. He has a problem. I have a problem, were the exact words he thought to himself.

"It was actually easy to trace. The attempts weren't related in any way except that they all had the same disease. This made the connection. This also linked the killer to the known attempt-killing of a man with hepatitis B. He was identified by the suspects after being shown a picture of the known assailant."

John felt sick. Sherlock saved him, and didn't even know it. He owes him. What is he thinking, he will always owe him. That wasn't such a bad thought.

Hepatitis, however, was a bad thought. Terrifying, even, and enough to make John pale. Sherlock raised an eyebrow to him, before turning to do the strangest thing. He grabbed a metal bowl of sufficient size and started collecting metal things, such as knives, scalpels, meat-checkers, and box-cutters. "John, I want your help. Need it, or demand it, it's your choice. Now, I want you to go to the restroom and other rooms and get all the metal you can, then return to me. Blades are most preferable. I will take them and melt them down into individual components and test their relative purity. Hurry!" He looked to John, whose face would probably be screwed up for days from the confused, fearing expression that was on his face.

Sherlock was either high—no chance, gladly, he recognized—too tired, or knew about his thing. He was most likely tired – look at those eyes, not sharp, not anything but a glazed over sphere of vivid, speckled blue-green algae. John would rather Sherlock be pass-out level tired than consider the vague possibility that he knew. What possibility? He'd done nothing. Said nothing. To no one. End of story, this tall, lanky man was just insane from sleep deprivation.

"Um, no. I won't do that. No, no, don't look at me like that. Think about this for a moment, then, if you're really sure, I'll help you. Got it?" Sherlock nodded, exasperated but reluctantly compliant. John continued. "You're tired and not thinking clearly. You've just got done with a whole lot of thinking – bravo, by the way, you solved five cases – but now, you're sleep deprived, and you should really consider taking a few hours to nap so you don't take out all of our cutlery in one experiment. Does that seem reasonable to you?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I know how the body works. Not a doctor, but still. And I will sleep. After these—"

John went over to Sherlock's side and took the colander from his hands, placing one of his own up to his tall shoulder in a show of understanding. Sometimes he had to be treated simply for John to make any progress. Up close, his tire was magnified and accentuated. John felt legitimate concern for him and tried to tug him in the direction of his bedroom. "Just take a nap."

Sherlock had nothing better to say other than a loud, infuriated sigh. He took the crime-knife from the designated counter space for such dirty objects, tossing the diseased blade into the pile of house tools. John's skills in reading Sherlock's rare displays of emotion had not improved, so he settled on superiority – concern? – being the prime, though exhausted, feature on his angled face. "I will nap in just a moment. These blades, though, are still mine to use later, when I'm awake. I expect them to be collected for me, as we don't use them any way. You certainly don't need to touch them."

"Oh, god," John said, realizing just what Sherlock implied. What he actually said. What he said while holding John's eyes hostage in acknowledgement. John didn't have use of his vocal-chords, or his limbs, or his now furiously-beating heart. Even worse was the way Sherlock, in his strangely aware yet painfully tired deductive style, observed every crack of character and composure as it chipped off of John like half-melted clay. Underneath, the moldable core was very visible, very touchable, very exposed. Sherlock liked seeing that part, that rare and fleeting part of the expected Soldier, the expected Doctor – he smiled, a smile John saw as several things, and that took a moment to process. It was there to show that he couldn't be out-smarted, could not overlook something, that he had won. Also present, just as strong, was the lack of judgment, in the form of a confirming smile to put him at ease. John either couldn't quite see this half of that particular coin, or was in too much denial to be able to process it.

John's hand slipped from Sherlock and he threw the knives into the sink, looking down from the tall man to… he didn't know what. But that's where he kept his eyes for a few seconds, while Sherlock watched and waited patiently, despite wanting to collapse like a slinky.

"I don't even want to know how you know." He did. He just didn't want to ask.

Sherlock smiled, but only because John wasn't looking, and John was both mortified at his friend finding his secret and pleasantly surprised at his inability to want to touch a blade for any other purpose than for cutting bread.

"Well," Sherlock started. He'd become a little comfortable, and paid by giving up a part of his will to override his instinct to sleep. "I will tell you later. I actually am incredibly tired."

John felt relieved, though partially paralyzed, that he would soon be alone. "I'm sorry," he said, moving to the stairs while not turning to face the truth, to face Sherlock. He still had hope that it was a horrible, realistic nightmare—it wasn't the first time, after all, that he'd had similar dreams.

"Just… get some sleep and I suppose we'll talk."

"Yes we will," Sherlock said simply, monotone, as he ascended the stairs.

John didn't even want to post something, not even hurt himself. What did he want to do, if he wanted to do something, but not want to do one of the two things that he often turned to?

He didn't know. He just waited in fear in the living room for Sherlock to reawaken. He better prepare himself while he had the chance.