Disclaimer!

Thank you for sticking with me so far, I appreciate it a lot!

Warning: This chapter contains self-harm and is very detailed. Proceed with caution.

I haven't looked over this chapter as carefully as I'd like, so please forgive any error you might happen upon. Feel free to tell me, should you find something.

I hope you enjoy, and comments/criticism are welcome!

EDIT: Okay, so I rewrote the second half because I realized it 1) didn't flow smoothly and 2) didn't convey what I intended. EDIT: JUNE 26 2014/ I really needed to fix some continuity errors! Tell me if you find more.

Medical Knife

The blood was calming, flowing freely and messily. John didn't think about his previous promise to himself, to be strong despite every reason not to. There weren't any real reasons – things were, truly, okay in his little, routine life – but that wasn't what flooded his mind at that moment—the channels were already filled, coated in endorphins and a tangible sense of control that was probably all in his mind.

It seemed a shame that the blood started to dry, his blood vessels obviously tapped-out and working to repair themselves. His scalpel was still firm in his hand, ready to be used again as soon as he felt the mood take him. It came quickly and was answered in a quick, rewarding drag across his left forearm. John surprised himself. He avoiding cutting his arms for the fact that they would be difficult to disguise, to make excuses for, and resided his blade to the inner, more sensitive skin of his upper-most thigh. None of his girlfriends noticed, not a single physical exam ever checked, and he had kept his secret with ease.

But he forgot how fucking good it felt on his arm.

So he pulled a little deeper than intended, carried away in the moment, a mistake he wouldn't understand the consequence to for a few more minutes. He was swimming. Either literally, as the bathtub, over which he was inclined, was filling at an alarming rate, or figuratively, with his head so far in the clouds that it wouldn't have even counted as earth's atmosphere. The blood was calming. It ran in vibrant, heated, a-little-too-free rows down his arm, down his leg. Why wasn't it stopping, though? John, a doctor still, could tell something was wrong, though a little light-headed. His pants were discarded to the side, folded, and contained his phone. John, though a doctor, was too far gone – panicked now that the blood collected beneath him at an alarming rate— to be able to tell if it was his imagination making his situation seem worse than it was, or if he was in danger. The panic could be deluding him into thinking more time had passed and that his wounds weren't congealing—then there would be no need to call anyone. There would be no need for Sherlock to know…

Sherlock. That name is what set John off, now that he was aware of everything. Oh, god, what had he done? Why was his stolen blade at the flesh of his arm? He'd done so good to keep his secret, he was so careful – and what did he waste it on? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The random desire took him, and he gave in...

"Fuck. Fucking hell. I… what… what have I…?" His arm still bled, and it didn't appear to be slowing. Added to the mix was John's rapid heartbeat, which only made his arm bleed worse. He stood, a little too quickly, splattering the side of the shower-stall with crimson, setting himself off-balance and almost falling onto the toilet. Damn, he was a doctor! He should have been more careful, should have kept to his thigh, should have… not cut.

What an idiot. What a disappointment. Maybe he should let himself die.

"Don't… be dramatic."

If nothing else, he could force himself to calm. At least that. At least he could do one thing right.

The bathroom light was bright, illuminating every spot of red on the tile, tub, sink. Sitting on the toilet's closed lid and practicing breathing properly, he, when he was of a mind to do so, could see the mess he made. The little carpeted rug beneath the ceramic sink was dripped on with a disgusting amount of red, still wet and waiting to dry. The trail of large, bright red blots of blood slicked the floor, leading a clear path from the bath-tub – where a truly gross amount of life had been spilt – to his current seat. The walls surrounding it were left dripping with the result of his panicked trek.

But his arm had stopped bleeding. The wound was his worse yet, and his skin flaked with dried splatter, but, when he looked closely, through the eyes of a medic, he saw that it wasn't fatal. The blood just looked bad. Really bad. But after a solid ten minutes of making sure he didn't fracture the blood-seal that formed, he started cleaning the bathroom. He cleaned the floors first, which were easy, as they were tile, and disposed of the soiled rug. Sherlock wasn't home. He hadn't been home in over 6 hours, a fact he was sure of—he checked the closets before he took out his blade of choice. It was after a few minutes of making sure there weren't stray blood drops left on the floor that he ran water in the tub. He was a mess, too, and decided rather quickly that he should shower. Rubbing off the crusty trails from his body, he also cleaned the walls, the tub, the faucet…

How easily will Sherlock discover his error in judgment? How will he take it?

He would be disgusted. And he was certain that, when—not if, because there would be no way to pretend that nothing happened, that there was no guilt— when he finds out, he would hate John. He would lose respect. He would be mad. He would be disgusted and not want anything to do with him. He asked him not to do it, he asked him to blog, to talk, to not fucking do it. And he went behind his back.

The shower ran cold, but he didn't notice at first, as he was too caught in the web of his own irrational thoughts. Although he probably should have punished himself, staying in the freezing water, exposing his wounds to fresh, less-pleasant forms of harm, he got out anyway. Dressing in a new set of clothes, checking the bathroom to make sure one-hundred-percent that it looked as it always did, he went first to his room, and sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at his feet, which were open to the air and partially wrinkled from the water. His room was a clean little place, comfortable and made his through the placement of a few personal though nondescript items. It was too comforting. He didn't want to be comforted, not after knowing that he fucked up. His lips made a hard line against his conflicted features, against his overshadowed eyes and pressed eyebrows. His cell sat beside him, just a few inches from his hand, awaiting his choice of action. God… what a fool. He didn't cover his arms as he waited, not like he felt he should have. Just a tee shirt and long shorts covered his body, and he wasn't sure whether or not to leave it that way. His cell still waited. Try and hide it, or admit it and get it done with? Delay or immediate action?

No time to decide. He heard the front door shut. Sherlock had a way of silently opening doors, but letting them shut themselves. God knows where Mrs. Hudson was, he'd hardly kept tabs on his own life. But oh, god, he's right down there. He tried a last-ditch effort to make himself detached, to leave his mind and body, to become emotionless and stoic.

That was a stupid idea.

He swallowed, feeling the words he didn't want to say fall down the back of his throat, but rise again. He was going to have to face it, and his body knew it—it practically forced John, against his will, to stand, to walk, to open the door (quietly, though), and walk down the stairs…

What was he supposed to do? He still moved at his body's bidding, but he was still scared to shit and didn't know what he was suppose to say or do or how to react…

Sherlock could be heard in the kitchen, moving things around, turning on the stove top, clanking glass and porcelain and metal without trying to be quite or mysterious, as he often did outside of the flat. Sherlock had no idea that John broke his trust.

When did he grab his phone? A mercy.

He typed a message, hesitating to send it, knowing that what was typed would ruin him.

I'm really sorry. I really didn't mean to. I think you understand. Come upstairs. -JW

It was going to happen eventually. He shut his eyes hard against his blaring screen and pressed send.

Sherlock's phone beeped gently. John knew Sherlock's habits, his response time, and a horrible pain filled his mind and body when he though of him answering immediately. John rushed back to his room, aware of the feet ascending the stairs and a strong, uninterrupted pace. The steadiness by which Sherlock conduced himself was terrifying. In cinema, the serial killers who were slow and methodical and calm were always the most frightening. A knock came to the door, and he looked up from his hands (which he buried his face in), wondering what would happen in the next few seconds.

His breathing wasn't going to steady, so he didn't even try. "Co… come in…"

The handle twisted, the hinges swung effortlessly, and Sherlock entered, like he would any other door, without hesitance, but with intent. He wore the trench coat he was most often seen in, with his hair messy but not unattractive, and his eyes blue and aware of every pressing and uninteresting detail to be seen. Although his expression betrayed nothing of his inner-workings, it was softer. A bit. There was anger there, too—more visible, with the passing seconds, as Sherlock looked John over, like his specimen. John kept his nose turned to the edge of his bed beside his legs, painfully aware of his nearly completely exposed body.

"John."

Bloody hell. That tone. That fucking tone. John's body was at a loss of response for the inspiring terror that that tone invaded him with. John shook his head, the best way he could communicate.

"John, keep your eyes on me."

Once a soldier, always a soldier? He listened to the demand and raised his head. "…" He thought better of saying anything and decided to shut up. He deserved the emotionless stare Sherlock regarded him with.

"Well?"

Well? "I'm…"

"Don't even think about saying I'm sorry."

"Then… I don't know what I should do." Great job, you're voice isn't completely pathetic and shaken.

"It's…" Sherlock wasn't quite sure where to go from there. Anger started to make itself scarce. "…It's fine." Sherlock stepped forward, keeping his stare locked with John, who was, currently, in complete panic and shock. John didn't understand what was happening as Sherlock took seat beside him, or when he pulled out his injured arm and twisted it to expose, completely, the long vertical gash travelling side-to-side just below his elbow-crook.

"Sherlock…? No… it's not fine… please, stop…"

"I told you, the next time I would examine you. Thoroughly."

"It's not that… it's… you don't have to act so understanding."

"You would rather I yell at you? You would rather I get pissed and… then what?"

His hand was held high. His fingers wobbled. His eyes were focused on the fibers of the wool below him, the red and yellow and white weaves of his bedding. "I don't want it to hurt you. I mean, you have no reason to care about such things, but I did break a promise, and I know you don't like things that don't make sense… illogical, stupid, idiotic, things…"

Sherlock sighed heavily, setting down John's arm on his lap, taking hold of his wrist. Of all places. "I won't pretend to understand this issue. I won't pretend to not be… upset. But I'm not angry. Judging from the diameter of your irises and the rate of your pulse, I'm willing to say that you thought the worse of me finding out. Possibly, I would be so mad that I would hate you? Yes, I can tell," Sherlock felt John's pulse surge under his skin as it's pace tripled at the truths Sherlock spoke. "And you thought I would leave—well, more like I would kick you out. And that I would lose interest because it doesn't make sense to me."

Nail on the head, every time. John refused to talk. That's not quite true, as he was, at present, incapable of forming linguistic sounds. But even if he could, it's doubtful he would dare try.

"You see, John," Sherlock moved from his seated position beside John, to kneel before him as he pushed his knees to either side. "I'm not angry because you didn't lie to me." His hands were touching all the wrong places, all the painful and pleasure ridden places where the old scars met the new, reddened slashes. It was painful, it was raw, and it told stories no sane man would ever want to own up to. "I can see that these are the first injuries in a long while." Sherlock's hands were fitted to either thigh, pushing up the white-green shorts, exposing more skin and more stories. "These were recently inflicted. You called me up quickly. I can see the time wasted on hesitation, but regardless, you chose to be honest. I would have easily seen what you hid, if you chose to do so." He set his thumb at the base of the deepest, longest wounds, rising up the skin and barely touching it, testing the tenderness for no apparent reason. John's observational skill eluded him, pushed out by the horrible yet crazy-wonderful sensations brought to his skin by the fingers of Sherlock. Sherlock touched his scars, old and new, making sure John knew what he meant by doing so. Looking up for the first time, he whispered deeply and honestly. "I told you before. You are my only friend. You are the only person to mean so much to me. You fell back into a habit, but… that's okay."

"…Sherlock…"

"Now, do you want to talk? These wounds are properly cleaned, obviously not needing stitches, so we can leave them." He stood, adjusting the lapel of his coat, flatting creases. "I'm regret to have to do this, but you understand that from now on, for a while, I will have to check, to make sure you're not scratching or doing anything to keep the wounds unhealed."

John managed a smile. Sherlock, a machine, emotionless? As if. "I…" He cleared his throat. "I understand."

"Good."

"Can I get dressed?"

"Can you first give me your scalpel?"

John pointed in the general direction of the restroom, then ran his fingers through the hair on the back of his head, feeling less anxious, but still nervous. "I… left it in the restroom. I don't have any other blade."

Sherlock looked down, past his nose, judging his sincerity. He settled on believing him, and set out to take the blade. "Dress."

John nodded, knowing that even with his back turned and the door reset against the frame, Sherlock would know.

He looked at his arm. The wound was smooth, just as the few wounds on his left thigh. He shook his head, an idiot in his own room, his sanctuary, in front of the genius, the detective—no, his best friend. And then there was his best friend, surprising him, as he always seemed capable, yet again. John was dressed quickly and comfortably, heading down stairs. He looked around the living room, between the chair and sofa, the shot-up wall with the smiley face, the mantel decorated and cluttered with a number of obscure and strange items, all of which belonging to Sherlock, and his past. He envied that he could see his past, and that Sherlock wasn't afraid to show it. His throat flexed and tightened, and he sunk into the sofa, feeling more than pathetic, waiting and preparing. He didn't get very far, because, silently, without his being aware, Sherlock was already taking a seat on the sofa, beside him. "I set tea," he informed.

"Thanks."

"John."

"Mmm-hmm?"

"Do try not to worry me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just be safe."

"So, I understand we're talking tonight, and probably for a good long time, and you probably will be keen to my every move, as you ought, but if I say anything, and perhaps it's something selfish, or pathetic, or… I don't know. But suppose I do, will you… not mention it after tonight?"

"If that's what you want."

"And…" His eyes flashed to Sherlock, quickly. "Also, can you ask the questions? I don't reckon I'm right enough to be able to bring things up."

Sherlock's chuckle eased John. "Have you been upset long?"

"No."

He could hear Sherlock's eyes roll. "How long?"

"A few days…"

"Why didn't you talk to me? Or post something?"

God, how was he going to say it? Any hesitance on John's part would alert Sherlock of his hiding something, but in order to make something up, he would have to have time… and he took too long. "I… don't know."

"Yes you do."

"It's just…"

"Spit. It. Out."

"I didn't want to di-sa—" his throat dried rapidly – "Disappoint you. And so I didn't say anything. But then I felt stressed... stressed to... you know, not, uh... not disappoint you. And I... I am... not doing a great job, at the moment… and… it's really weak of me to… to do that... and you shouldn't, uh, see me that way... you're opinion means more… more than you'll ever know."

John licked his lip without having known it, too interested by the way his hands just fit together. He became so engrossed in the sight of his hands as they interlocked, he was nearly almost able to forget the situation he was in. He almost forgot the looming threat of his younger self's vices, and the consulting detective sitting near him. He waited for an odd sort of reaction from Sherlock – he was unsure what his reaction would be, but he laced his fingers together before him and waited for the laughter, the pity, the anger. None of what John expected came, however, and he felt that close to a minute's time had passed without a word. He dared a glance at Sherlock when curiosity suddenly overpowered his want to keep his distance. Sherlock's undivided attention was focused on him, analyzing him, looking for the imperfections in the mask so that he could see underneath – his concern was almost tangible, almost unreal, and utterly intense: John regretted meeting his eyes, sharing some part of himself he wasn't sure he could afford, that the immediate force speed at which his head snapped back to its profile-view was incalculable. "So… yeah. I, uh, um…" John was too alarmed to speak as clearly as he wanted.

"My dear, Watson."

Hearts have a way of getting in your throat, as John's did, both preventing his vocalization of amazement, while simultaneously showing off the rhythm of his blood-contracting muscle to anyone who might see. It felt that way. John was sure it was the truth.

"And um… that was partially… partially what… made me want to cut, one time. I… can't live up to you… or your skills… I'm very surprised you still have me around. Even if you don't for, for much longer, which is completely understandable, given the fact that you'd have to nanny me and waste time on my issues when you could be putting your mind to use."

"Is this what you honestly think?"

Nod-nod.

"Well… That's ridiculous. You're wrong, and I fail to understand why you think this, as I told you before that—"

"Sherlock, I know, I know, it's just in my head. I wouldn't even be telling you, I would live with it, but… well, I went and messed it up."

"I don't see how. And I prefer knowing."

"How? You know some dark things and I—"

A kettle screamed, begging to be pulled from the stove top. "Come," Sherlock urged. "You're not going anywhere, and you're not getting any time to synthesize an answer."

Sherlock led him by his uninjured limb. The kitchen was cluttered, yet it was more economical and better suited for the conversation they were having. Chamomile was set in two large mugs, scenting the room in a calming aroma, settling John's unsorted mind and giving Sherlock new, fresher lenses through which to focus his aims.

"Forget me," Sherlock started again. "I am no longer a factor as far as your answers are concerned, as you're having a difficult time believing my sincerity. Is that clear?"

"Okay."

Sherlock didn't like John's tone. He went on. "Just know that I'm serious. I'm not the joking kind, after all. But why blades, specifically? I understand not wanting to do drugs or alcohol—a doctor and brother to an alcoholic, I wouldn't be able to comprehend your turning to those substances. But gambling, exercise, even smoking, are just as addictive and are used to relieve stress. Why blades?"

John laughed. "I don't often find something you don't know everything about, but when I do… it's very entertaining."

"You're trying to distract and mislead me. Stop it."

"Well… I don't know, what do you want me to say?"

John was trying his best to frustrate Sherlock, which, judging from the annoyance in his pressed brows, was working quite well."Congratulations, Mr. Watson, you've managed to successfully mask your humility, but in the process turn your back on a friend trying to do you good. What do I want? The truth, if you would be so kind."

"I'm not the one—"

"Get on with it!" Sherlock practically scream-shout-snarled. Thank goodness their not-housekeeper wasn't in.

John felt a little more obedient when seeing Sherlock in such a state, but was still willing to keep himself as distant as possible. "It feels right. It's sobering. It's disguisable. It's controllable. It's everything good, and I started as a boy. You'd appreciate the reasoning behind the first times I tried. I was actually bored."

"I get bored."

"And then you shoot up walls."

Sherlock huffed, trying to stay on point. "Yes, I do, sometimes, but I'm not shooting people or myself or trying to bleed my arms dry! What is it that you take from this sort of behavior? I don't understand, and it is very upsetting because I'm bloody well trying to be understanding and sensitive, but you say you're bored! I get bored, too, yet I don't—"

"Did you ever get suicidal?"

Whoops. More information given than needed. Granted, that part of his life was over—his teen-years were the last he ever heard from his deadly friend, and he'd never actually made an attempt. But there were times when he felt damn near trying. And then he cut and felt better and went on to do all sorts of things with his life, the best choice of which was to follow Mike Stamford and meet a brilliant man. That very man was staring at him like he instantly grew a second head and punched him in the face, at the same time.

"No, I didn't. Not exactly. Not really. I've had my moods… but that's not the point."

It was a day for surprises, John found out, as he left Sherlock speechless. And again he was surprised when Sherlock got up from his rigid seat to stand directly in front of John. He placed a hand on each shoulder, and John wasn't sure exactly why he was doing so. Sherlock could clearly feel John's breathing quicken, could see the half-disguised look of uncertainty in his eyes, yet he didn't have any words to offer. This was the first time John had seen Sherlock this way, and it was more than a little fear inspiring. Was it to test John that he would do something so out of character? Was it to mock him, to tease with the idea of friendship that would later be taken away? But, no, that wasn't it.

"I… I'm sorry…" John caved, realizing something. He didn't want to give in—he'd resolved that it was best, in the end, to keep his privacy – but the very fact that Sherlock was making the effort to make contact with him, to actually partake in physical displays of affection, to try to be the friend he needed, was more than enough to break his strength.

"I am, too." Sherlock caught the expression on John's face and immediately realized what he had said came off in a different manner than he meant. "No, I'm not disappointed in you," he amended. "I'm sorry for the fact that you're compelled to bring harm to yourself, and I regret that I did not see the signs before. I am especially apologetic of my complete, ludicrous, annoying, arse-hole personality."

That was a successful attempt to bring a smile, however strained, to John's lips. " Well… thanks… and for the record, I'm not blaming you."

"I had no reason to think you were, as it was just a moment of pure weakness that must have brought this on." This, meaning the cutting. John remembered his shame.

"You're a delicate person with such fragile phrasing." John half laughed. He still had his nerves bundled and hotwired in his stomach, ready to surge and then burn out. "You don't have to, uh, you know," he indicated his shoulders, and the hands that still rested on them. It wasn't for a lack of wanting comfort in this particular moment that he did so, but for the sake of Sherlock, who, he could tell, was a little uncomfortable.

John took his tea with steadfast determination, giving Sherlock a good reason to pull back, which he gladly did. His tea remained untouched as Sherlock stared at him.

"Ahem." Bless you, John.

Sherlock caught the error of his conduct, and quickly changed his focus while saying what he'd been turning over in his mind, looking for the right phrasing. "I won't force you to tell me anything—but believe me, the curiosity is furious and I really doubt it will give me a moment's break, but I won't force you. And you also don't have to say anything about being suicidal, though that one I was far less concerned with, as I already had my suspicions about that in the first place. But no, not that I thought you've been suicidal for more than a few years, nor that you'd ever tried, as I've already had your medical records scanned for relevant information pertaining to your self-mutilation" – John tried really hard not to flinch, but regardless, Sherlock didn't or wouldn't have noticed— "and I came to a conclusive, nearly unmarked blank sheet. I was surprised, however, that you visited the hospital once for a hiking accident when a horse kicked you in the arse. Regardless, regardless, the fact still remains that you can speak freely, or not at all, though you should take note of the fact that I am here, should you ever change or not change your mind. And also—"

John raised a hand to shut up Sherlock. This was the most conclusive evidence—testimony— to Sherlock's humanity, if ever there was a doubt. Anderson would never know this side – not that he deserved to be honored by such a sight – and so he would never stop berating him, or stop spreading rumors, or calling him an emotionless robot. John smiled at this, thinking he was quite possibly the only person to know this side of Sherlock.

Non-stop verbal garbage would soon ensue if he'd let Sherlock continue. Sherlock didn't know how to handle anything, and it was both touching and hilarious to observe. He would have went from suicide and cutting and trust and medical records to experiments and observations of John's subconscious reactions to the in-depth description to those experiments and to cases and then the idiocy of criminals and the even-worse yet idiocy of the incompetent police officers who were seemingly adamant on staying stupid and incapable and dull… John half-rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I get it. And I thank you for your patience, and candor in regards to your feelings—"

"—what are you talkin—"

John steeled up, cutting Sherlock off. "I will…" Deep breath. John could say it. He knew he had to say it. "I will tell you more about it, but not today. It's, uh, not so clean-cut." Nice word choice. "It is messy and I might need time to work out some things on my own." Bloody fucking brilliant word choice. No, not at all, cutting wasn't on his mind.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say to this. It wasn't that he wouldn't have, but he had become caught in his own thoughts, which were focused on the topic of intimacy. Although he didn't find complete revulsion at doing something as sharing limited and brief contact with his blogger, it was not something he wanted to do on a normal, daily basis, and absolutely not with anyone beside John. Only if John might need him, or that sort of comfort, that sort of display of affection, and only under the right circumstance, and if he was able, would he attempt to comfort his friend. "That is okay," he settled on, retreating from the intricacy of his thoughts and finally registering what John said.

"Drink your tea," John was instructed, watching Sherlock turn his back and stride around the door, quickly hiding from view.

A few minutes into enjoying his tea, he heard a sudden laugh from the living room. "Aha! John! John!"

"What, you wanker?"

"We have a case!"

Oh. That's all. That's what was worth startling John into partially spilling tea on his lap. "Really? Oh, that's just jolly, Mr. I'm Always Bored and Need to Shout at Random Times to Scare My Flat-Mate into Sterilization—"

"I doubt I made your testicles shrink or otherwise become infertile, it's a physical impossibi—"

"I almost spilt scalding tea on myself, you—"

Sherlock was in the doorway quite quickly, wearing a stone-cold expression that John froze for a moment, waiting for what was about to come. "If I get called wanker once more, I might actually throw a dictionary at you and force you to read it. I'm serious. Repetition is so mind-numbingly dull and thoughtless, I don't know why you would partake in it. I'm surprised you actually like radio music, though I suppose it suits you, as your insults are mediocre and childish at best—"

"You bloody, goat-wanking, inflatable cock," John revised. "I nearly spilt tea on myself."

They argued for a long time, but not before first finding the reason to leave the flat in pursuit of a case. Things fell back into what was meant to be, what their friendship expected, what their relationship was. There was an understanding, too, but it was obvious and didn't need explaining, and both knew, so things felt right.