Disclaimer! This is a work of fanfiction written for Sherlock. This chapter contains more detailed imagery of self-harm, which I reccomend you avoid should you think it could be upsetting.

A/N: So, I don't know how I feel about this chapter. Mostly, it's about John's reaction. Is it too much? Too out of character?

Please review! And don't be shy if I have a typo or grammatical error, I'm more than glad to have those brought to my attention.

Enjoy!

Medical Knife

Sherlock walked down the stairs, purposefully, John assumed, loud for his sake, so that John could be aware and not startled by his presence. He'd slept five hours. Surely, it wasn't enough—nevertheless he looked perfectly well and was even dressed properly. John was surprised by momentary curiosity as to find out where the hell the dark shadows that previously ringed his eyes went. But as soon as John felt his gaze settle, he shook all notions of curiosity off and handed the reigns over to anxiety.

Even Sherlock could read this. "John, do you have to worry all the time?"

"This is a special circumstance."

"Hmm," Sherlock rolled on his heels. "It is."

"God, you—just say something, please. I don't know what the hell you want or what I should even say, so you should at least do something."

At this, John had the strength to keep his eyes in his general direction, Sherlock smiled. A genuine, partial, tame smile. Feeling incredible to be able to witness it, John regained some confidence.

"Roll up your sleeves," Sherlock demanded, but kindly. John could resist, but Sherlock would not back down. John assumed that he should expect as much. It panicked him, regardless, though it shouldn't have, as he had no new marks on his forearms, and the ones he'd had from his more youthful years were so old that they were almost completely unnoticeable. Still…

"Move over to the sofa," Sherlock further instructed, when it was obvious that John was going to resist. He didn't have that much resistance in him, though, and complied, sitting on the left and, not sure what to do, taking a pillow to rest on his knees. Probably a subconscious defense of his legs, the skin that still bore scar tissue and still had stories to tell.

John started to roll his own sleeve up when Sherlock moved his hand to make room for his own. John's jumper was old and loose, the same one with frayed ends. "Watch it," John warned, hoping to slow him down as he started to roll the hems up.

"They're completely fine," he said, already aware of the fabric's delicate state.

John tapped his foot, trying to direct all nervous energy to his feet so that he could dispel it into the floor, thus minimize his shaking. It didn't work. And Sherlock wouldn't have missed it, regardless.

Sherlock got done with both sides somewhat quickly, being careful for John's sake, and gave him an apologetic look. "Take off your jumper," he said, noticing that he'd rolled it up to its maximum length, and that just wasn't good enough.

John said nothing and did as he was told. His undershirt was a short-sleeved, white tee, which could easily be lifted and arranged for observational purposes. Sherlock's long and bare fingers took up John's right wrist, moving his arm to cross across Sherlock's lap as he examined the pale and virtually scar-lacking arm. John kept his breathing down, even with the tinge of the long fingers gliding across his excited nerves. John liked the wispy feeling, the light, barely-touch-feeling that Sherlock was capable. He looked away when the sensations became too much—the only involuntary movement he made as Sherlock examined his arms.

"Hmm," Sherlock mumbled, tilting John's forearm at the elbow, holding it higher to search for new scars. Accidentally, when, having not found any new injuries, he caught the reflection of a hardly-there mark, he became engrossed in searching for the old scars as well. Both arms yielded the same results: scars too far gone to see without strenuous efforts, and nothing made recently. John almost hoped that he would leave it at that—why would he check anywhere else? He would see that he didn't do anything, and leave it at that. Of course, he didn't do anything, but thinking, imagining, Sherlock, eyes steeled and inquisitive in the mind set of a detective, seeing what he once self-inflicted… The scars were really bad, by an observer's point of reference. They were incredible, a feat to be seen as impossible and regarded in disgust by those who didn't get it.

"These are stubbornly difficult to identify," Sherlock, keen to details, admitted. "I would say these were left—"

"I was nineteen. You know, the last time…" John, knowing it was insane and bloody desperate to lie, tried lying anyway.

"Sure. If you say so," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly letting go of John's unsupported arms, which fell gracelessly. "The last time you touched your arm, possibly. I suppose someone could harm themselves in other areas. It evades me as to how this actually helps… but, no matter." He cheered up, in a way seemingly indicative, to John, that he was satisfied. John was about ready to jump up in celebration of avoiding the worst of what he feared, nearly on the verge of thanking whatever religious idol he would first think of. A bit premature.

Sherlock spread one arm in front of John, and John bumped his chest against on him on his way to stand. By accident, and with skin-numbing realization, John made the mistake of underestimating him.

Sherlock proceeded to take the pillow from John. "You didn't honestly think I wouldn't check your legs? If it makes it any better, you can show me your ankles first. One way or another, I will be examining the rest of you. I suspect your upper thigh's are ravaged, as this is a habit you've had for years, and I seem to be the only one to have noticed it—I'm actually quite disappointed I didn't realize quicker. However, you will still show me."

John felt a little testy, a little restless, a little terrified—no, he would fight as much as he could. A look designed only for a soldier flashed in his eyes, and Sherlock caught this in time to prevent John from leaving. It wasn't a huge ordeal. Sherlock ended up with his forearm tucked under John's chin, and John trying to remain as calm as possible.

Big mistake. John never felt more humiliated.

"I don't understand why I need to show you," he started, just as Sherlock released him from his choke-hold.

"Call it a courtesy. Your friend discovers your habits, you at least indulge him and prove that nothing had been done about it. Either that or, secondly, that you have done something, and you don't want it seen and your habits forcibly halted."

"How did you…?"

Sherlock half smiled. But he seemed sad as well. Upset, something along those lines—Sherlock didn't experience sadness, per say. "I follow your blog. I should say that I follow your secret blog, as that is the one that you neglected to mention having, the uncensored version of your life."

John gave up. No, there was no possible way of keeping secrets with Sherlock Holmes in his immediate and constant vicinity. He had nothing to say, either, resigned to a distant look as he crossed one convenient leg over his knee. Taking off his sock, he presented clean, though not nearly as unmarked skin as his arms. He didn't try to look at Sherlock's reaction.

"John…"

"I'm a doctor. I know what needs medical attention and what doesn't, so believe me when I say I'm fine. I haven't done anything in a long time. But if you don't want to see… worse, far worse, scars, then please…" He turned his puppy-dog resembling eyes to Sherlock. He hated himself, truly, now that he knew. Sherlock knew and would always know. He would look at him and think of a pathetic idiot who has a blade fetish.

John Watson doesn't cry. "Please…"

"… I don't know."

"I haven't done anything. I swear." Okay, he wasn't crying. This was worse than crying, because it was a pain that could be seen in the eyes, but not expressed.

Sherlock trusts John—anyone would pick up on that, just by being in a room with them for a few minutes. Reluctantly nodding, turning his head downward in contemplation, he finally decided to not get his way. After all, John was feeling dreadfully close to tears… "Fine. I won't look at your leg, if it means that much. But, should a time arise in the future where I find myself suspicious of your behavior, you will show me. Everything. Do you understand?"

Oh, the sentiment of a certain self proclaimed sociopath. It was a beautiful sight to behold, even in the state of near-bawling. John was never more relieved, and managed a smile. "Thank you."

Sherlock huffed a little. "Then, would you at least explain a few things to me? I deserve as much."

This man was no machine. "I… oh, hell, fine… I suppose you do… just, you know, look to the telly or something, just don't observe me." Emphasis placed, he hoped Sherlock caught on to his reasons. Sherlock appeared understanding, and turned to look at the fast-food neon-sign quality glare from the impeccably ridiculous television programming.

"Is there, uh, anything you want to ask?" Awkward John, fidgeting and rubbing up against his friends hands, legs. His shirt was still not covering him, and his foot leaned uncomfortably over the legs of his friend. Did he have to sit so close? Though it was John who moved closer to his friend, it remained plain in his mind that Sherlock was encroaching upon his personal space because he cared. At least that. He could live with shame, so long as their relationship remained, however changed, intact.

"Why would you start a blog? By the way, very original, I would never have rhymed Sean with John. Did you want to keep it strictly from me?"

The room was far too bright, cramped, and John felt cornered, exposed, visible. "I… well… I don't know."

"I deserve it."

"Right. You're a great child. A man-child. A genius, man-child with the persistence of a bloodhound."

"Guilty on all claims, Doctor. Stop dodging."

John wanted to stand, bolt away. He remained in his minimal clothing on the seat, however, knowing the only way to get away was to get through it. "Not just you… I wanted it private from everyone in my life, from the world. I don't know if you know this, but I'm incredibly ashamed about, eh, my issue. Problem. Thing. Whatever. But that's not something I wanted to share."

"Unless under a false name?"

"I just wanted to get it out… it's really hard to live with a secret, and if I hadn't found an outlet… It was preferable to actually cutting—" God, he said the word. Cutting. Pain contorted his face as he continued. "Much more acceptable. And, you know, it's nice to help people."

"I see…"

"And… how much have you read?"

"Everything, from your first post onward. And your drafts."

John groaned, moving away from any contact he shared with Sherlock, tremors shaking his body horribly. A sharp desire cut through his thoughts, stronger now than ever, and he didn't even care. He'd read everything? Drafts, even? How the bloody hell did he manage that one? Far worse things were hidden in the unposted, dusty draft folder of his blog— things describing the actual act itself, the pleasure, the intensified shame, the first time he ever took a sharp edge to his skin…. And then, the things he did post. The things he posted that he absolutely didn't want Sherlock to ever find out? Bloody hell, he proclaimed his love for his savior in those posts! He revealed things that annoyed him, bluntly without ever considering that it might come round to bite him in the arse. He'd said a lot of things. He would never live them down. And how exactly did Sherlock find out? For god's sake, he was certain he could deduce his thoughts from just his expression! Now, his fingers and toes were numb, and a strange half-paralysis came over him, making him stiff like an un-oiled knight's suit of armor—though not nearly as strong as the casted metal plates. No, not nearly as strong as to keep his most sensitive self hidden, not to let his emotions break the exterior and show in his now ready-to-overfill eyes. John pulled his hand through his messy hair, over his face, covering his mouth to stifle the small sounds he made, mostly out of frustration. Why couldn't Sherlock have left him alone?

Sherlock neither expected this or knew what to do under such circumstance. Emotion didn't settle well for him, now more than ever when it was evident that he needed to express something to his hurting friend. What set it off? Probably, due to his precautions to keep his blog, and issue, a secret, he was probably embarrassed and angry and scared that he found his blog. He did put up some personal things, very intimate and uncensored things. But why wouldn't he have told Sherlock? Surely he wasn't that poor of a shoulder to lean on that he had to find a crutch to support his weakening emotional state? Sherlock stared in incomprehension to John as he, unsuccessfully, tried to retake his control. Control, Sherlock knew, was one thing he did understand. Cutting, no, he didn't understand, but the comfort found in control and order did make sense. Beside that, the scars were alarming, at least. It takes a lot to unnerve Sherlock. He was almost jolly when he was able to pass on seeing John's legs. If what the doctor said was true, then he could trust him, and wouldn't have to see the assumed horrific scars lining his upper thighs…

"Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry…"

Intriguing. "I don't understand."

John guiltily flashed his eyes over. "I… for the things you read. And for being the way… I… am…"

"…Uh, you don't need to be."

"It's just so… hard… and the really puzzling thing is… I… don't know why. I have no reason to be upset… I'm fucking happy. Except when I'm not. And it's terrifying. I could hurt my self so easily… and not care… and I know better and don't want to… but at the same time…" John stifled another choking breath, painfully willing his tears into submission, but failing at the image of a blade coming to mind, an image that nearly extinguished his will. He might as well tell. Nothing was a secret any more. "Uh… Sherlock…"

Returning to Sherlock briefly, we glean a quick glance into his thoughts as he remained quiet, stunned and unable to process the necessary information to form a reasonable, logical course of action. He was somewhere in his mind when John turned to him. He noticed the slight puff surrounding his moist eyes, and the distress evident in their turmoil-filled uncertainty. "Yes, John?" He congratulated himself on sounding caring, and not stuck up.

John attempts to ready himself. There's no preparation for the perpetually self-shamed. "I… I'm wanting to…" Can he say it? "I want to…" This is pathetic. Selfish. Gross. "I want to hurt my self…" No way to turn back now. He ducked his eyes behind his hands. "Hell, I want to really badly."

What he didn't expect was a reaction. In a muddled state of emotions, a mind not quite able to focus on anything, he still worked out that Sherlock wouldn't really be able to help him. The most Sherlock could do was sit and listen to him and not say anything, because anything he might say would certainly be derailing for his sanity. So, when Sherlock reached out with a procured handkerchief—procured from where? How?— he gently nudged John's hands away. John didn't resist, out of shock, out of complete exhaustion, and jumped, slightly, from utter astonishment as Sherlock patted away the dampness from his eyelashes. Eyes locked, and they stayed locked.

The gesture meant a great deal to John. Contact and sentiment and humanity didn't come naturally or easily to the detective, so when he… One tear that fell freely down his cheek was a happy one (albeit unintended and completely treacherous). His smile confirmed that Sherlock did the right thing, and Sherlock took it as a sign to wipe away errant tears from the other eye.

"Thank you." Only Sherlock had the ears capable of hearing a thank-you of such a low frequency. He nodded and forced an awkward smile.

"Just… don't harm yourself."

John shook his head. "I won't."

"You have to promise."

"I promise, Sherlock, I will not harm myself."

"Good," he patted, thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork. "And what will you do should you ever want to do so?"

"I'll blog… and…"

"Just say it." His eye-roll was greatly welcomed by John.

"And, if I could, I might talk to you about it."

Sherlock nodded. "Good, good."

"I didn't think you would take it this way."

"What way is 'this way'? And how did you think I would react?"

John grabbed his jumper urgently, wanting nothing more than to correct his partial-naked status. "I don't know," he said through the fabric of his shirt as he pulled it over his head. "Maybe you would be mad. Or not want to talk to me. Or not care."

"I am mad, I will certainly talk to you, and I do care." Sherlock couldn't help but accidentally raise an eyebrow in acknowledging John's pleased reaction.

John's neck felt warm. Nerves. Damn them, giving away his every emotion. But nothing could bring down a high from hearing what he heard. "Oh. Right."

"I have only one friend. I believe you recall my saying this, and I would be remiss to not reiterate every so often, which I've probably not done very well as of late."

John cleared his throat. Sherlock cleared his throat in response to John clearing his throat because it just felt right, which then led John to palm his neck nervously because he knew he had to say something. Something? What something? Nothing, actually, because he realized that he'd said everything already. Inadvertently and indirectly he told Sherlock what he thought of him, and Sherlock made the attempt to do so back, however stiff and odd sounding it was. That was enough, and John's confessions were enough, so there was no more need to acknowledge any thing because it was already acknowledged.

The door shut downstairs, and they knew Mrs. Hudson was awake and already out. They'd heard a lot less from her lately, which had, normally, John a bit concerned. He'd forgot that in his own musings and self-denying ways, but it returned to him when he remembered that he didn't live alone with Sherlock. Sherlock, on the other hand, had no concern whatsoever for Mrs. Hudson because he knew she was doing perfectly well. She was giving them space because he asked her to, which cleared up her schedule, which let her find the time to do things for herself. She'd met someone, but that wasn't going to work out, but she wouldn't mind. She was visiting the cinema more often, meeting with friends. She called up to say goodbye to Sherlock and John, who both looked in the direction of the stairs with a welcome air, just glad to be able to break the seriousness of their conversation and get out as clean as possible. Sherlock stood and looked down to John, now clothed, sitting awkwardly and hugging his elbows.

"You need to consume food."

John was feeling really uneasy. He probably couldn't handle food. "Uh, I think I'll pass."

"By my count, your entire holiday consisting of almost two-weeks, has dedicated time for exactly six half-dinners and no breakfast, lunch, or snacks. You have lost five pounds, and are unprepared to return to work tomorrow. You're probably nervous and can't stomach the thought of food, but you must attempt something. I'm actually hungry—don't look surprised, of course I eat. But now I can, because I'm currently not occupied with a case. Come with me."

John was just happy to be over with the whole thing. As bad as it was – the humiliation and shame!— it could have gone more than one type of worse. He could unclench and force something down his throat if it meant that that was done. "Fine. Fine, alright?"

A click in both their heads, ringing in their ears, signaled the resuming of their normal routine, a gear that had dislodged itself somehow that suddenly fell back into place. John stood and went for his coat, a sort of ease about him as he readied himself to reestablish his connection with the outside world. God. What got into him? Over the course of nearly two weeks, he and Sherlock switched momentary and frighteningly opposite roles. Whatever it was, it was passing. He felt it. Who knew that all he needed was to confess his secret to his most trusted confidant in order to not desire said secret?

Sherlock waited by the door, grinning in the way he did, making John's then-confident strides down the stairs halted and self-doubting. "What?"

"Oh, nothing."

Nothing isn't nothing. Not in John's mindset. Nothing was a possibility that something wasn't right. "Care to tell the idiot anyway?"

"You're not an idiot."

"I'll ignore the contradictory mixed signals for now. Tell me," he flashed his most loyal, stern expression. Sherlock knew it well. He enjoyed seeing John this way.

"When I say nothing, I mean it. I'm just noting the difference in you."

"Oh?"

"Adamant refusal to venture out, reclusiveness, inability to eat, as of late, these are easily applied terms that I could use to describe your behavior. The change I mention is one of attitude. I think it's preferable."

John reached past Sherlock to handle the door knob, stalling for a moment to look up to brown-curl draped eyes. "Thank you."