Disclaimer! This, however, is my original fanfiction- my story line and dialogue.

R/R welcomed greatly!

Medical Knife

John was asleep, which Sherlock thought for the better, seeing as he would have, probably, most definitely, had an argument with him—the last two times they'd been in each other's company tensions would rise high and fall hard. No matter now, he guessed – they had had enough time apart from the other that the preliminary raw-nerves had passed. Sherlock looked down to John's sleeping figure, the light from the hospital's hallway at his back, and the moon-lit shadows from the open window to his side. In his hand was a set of nail clippers, and in his mind was the collective imagery of most of the crime scenes he'd been present. Sure, those were people, by the dozen, whom he only paid attention because they died in an interesting way—brutally, creatively, in ways and with motive less or completely unexpected. They were faces that were never forgotten, no matter if Sherlock tried to delete them from his memory, and yet they were of no consequence. The blood and gore did little to unsettle him and more to appeal to the analytical and insatiably curious aspects of his intellect. It was a quick thought, one he didn't want to dwell on for longer than a passing detail might, but he'd suddenly realized how easily it was for someone to get hurt, if not by an assailant, then by one's own mind. Death did not bother Sherlock—wasn't that a part of living?— but the concept of John no longer existing did. What surprised him more was the fact that he hated that John wasn't satisfied with the life they had that he might be capable of… well, he didn't know. Whether it was a cutting accident or a suicide attempt, he and John weren't able to stay confined to the same immediate walls without an argument breaking out. But the peace on John's face, and Sherlock's willingness to take his friend's hand, was evidence that they'd passed the anger phase. Sherlock pulled a chair to set at the edge of John's bedding, between the night's light and the artificial light, taking care as he handled his friend's fingers.

John had his own room, so naturally that meant that he had privacy and no one to bother him or to change the channel on the telly, which Sherlock liked: It was easier to be alone with him, rather than with two sleeping bodies, one of which he would care nothing of and consider only a hindrance to progress. The door was, however, constantly open (something Sherlock begrudgingly accepted as a necessary precaution) and was leered into every ten minutes by a nurse assigned to suicide watch.

Sherlock didn't like that she saw him there when he was taking care of his friend. John had taken to not trimming his nails, and they were now quite long, and hard, and sharp—he began trimming them, methodically and with precision and patience. Sherlock noticed, before John was hospitalized, that he'd dig his nails into his palm frequently, and that his knees were sometimes red with scratching. John wrote it off on the convenient and well timed change of laundry detergent, which just drove John's sensitive skin twelve types of crazy. Nope, John wasn't doing it on purpose. Yes, he'd thought about cutting, but he would never slip up again. Come on, Sherlock, give me more credit than that—I can control myself. Control was the only word that Sherlock registered, the only one that really mattered. Control and secrecy. Sherlock swore under his breath, hating that he had made a better, more willing liar out of John—yet he wouldn't just let this self-abuse happen. If only John—

Sherlock shook his head quickly. No, he wouldn't think like that. There were better goals on which to focus, and they didn't require brooding or bitterness. John's hands were soft, giving Sherlock something to focus on. Thankfully, they were warm, and not cold, like a corpse, like the many he'd seen at crime scenes—

"Stop it," Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. It wasn't often that he disliked hearing his own observational, logic-oriented thoughts. Nowadays, they never ceased to stop disturbing him, bringing up possibilities of John-less futures. He didn't understand his friend's harming, so it made I very easy for him to think of the worse outcome. This is why sentiment is a weakness, and why it was idiotic of him to allow such attachments to be made.

That was true, in most cases. But, as much as it could upset, it rewarded tenfold. John was worth the worry, the uncertainty, the fear…

The window, cracked just an inch to let in fresh November air, was left uncovered, and showered the detective in the light of the moon, stars, and London nightlife. It caught his attention for a long while, and on this particularly clear night, it gave him the opportunity to stress his knowledge of stars and consolations and mythology, all in counting the shimmering beacons that graced the sky.

In reviewing his knowledge of Mayan astrology and myth, he forgot that he was holding John's hand, having idly dropped the nail clippers to the white blanket that covered his sleeping silhouette. He forgot that John's hand came to be wrapped in both of in his sets of fingers, grasped onto like something important and treasured, a body that still contained warmth and flowing blood, whose synapses still allowed their neurons to converse with one another.

He still didn't realize how tightly he held John, even when John groaned slightly and shifted his head, hair messily twisted and strewn on the blue pillow. His eyes opened slowly, and Sherlock was the first thing he saw when the blur faded.

"Sherlock?" What was that—the feeling surrounding his left hand?

"It's quite late, John, I recommend you attempt to attain adequate sleep." Sherlock sounded very calm, though his heart beat just a touch faster. And still, he kept his hands folded around John's palm, still ignorant of his show of emotion.

John breathed in and out, then groaned, then tried to rub his eyes when he realized that something very fleshy was restraining him. It was when John pulled back a touch that Sherlock noticed what he had done, and immediately he released his hold and let his hands instead rest on his own lap.

John swallowed, recognizing the sentiment and not wanting to burden his friend with the visible recognition of such a thing. "I, uh, don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep quite so quickly…"

Sherlock, John observed, was still wearing his trade-marked coat. Well, it wasn't much of an observation, but it was the best he could do to assess the situation. Obviously, Sherlock was calmed down since their last meeting, two days prior.

"I see they took the handcuffs off," Sherlock noted, though only for the sake of small talk. He hated small talk.

"Well, yeah, I reckon they would, as I'm discharged in the morning."

Snippy, Sherlock thought. "That is right, isn't it?" Of course he knew. Small talk, right? That's all he thought they should attempt, nothing of value, nothing so hasty.

John smiled a bit. "You can drop it, you know, if you'd like – the niceties, I mean."

"Oh? Lestrade told me it would be best to remain light-hearted."

John righted himself in his bed quite uncomfortably, stiff and languid and hazy from a long sleep. "Well, that was nice of him."

"Indeed."

"Sherlock, can you look at me?"

Sherlock absentmindedly stared off into the sky, not intending to do so. His gaze resettled to match John, whose eyes, for once, glimmered with life—something resembling life, something more than the undead stare he'd accommodated as his mood turned to ruins. Sherlock smirked at him. "Are you going to scold me for the scent you, undoubtedly, are now inhaling, and recognize as tobacco?"

John normally would have rolled his eyes, finding Sherlock's observation an attempt to showoff. Now, however, he didn't care about Sherlock's arrogance. "You've been smoking?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

John really didn't want to be mad, or sad, but there wasn't any use in thinking he could stop himself from feeling. He'd tried that – detachment – and it didn't work. Now, as he let himself, in his half-awake state, feel something honest, and visible, and vulnerable, he let his voice shake and his chest rumble with every word he failed to properly give volume to. "Jesus… Sherlock, please tell me you're not doing anything else."

"That would be lying. Fortunately enough, though, I don't have to lie to give you the answer you seek. No. I'm not…"

The nurse stuck her head into the door, hearing voices, and John's reaction to her peeping alerted Sherlock to her presence. She wanted to say something, but it was apparent to her that they were having a much-needed conversation—an upgrade from their previous shouting matches. They were alone again, and John hadn't managed to control his slightly elevated pulse.

Sherlock's baritone voice was even harsher when he whispered. "John… I do not appreciate this."

John redirected his stare from the wall and its scarcity to Sherlock, and the expression he was met with was confusing. Displayed across striking and sharp features was a mix of anger, hurt, and betrayal.

"What?" John's voice came like a broken whisper.

"Hypocrisy. You do not have the right to be upset that I am smoking again when you cannot stop yourself from doing something just as dangerous. Even more so. I don't even care if you dislike that it is the stress you cause me that has made it easier for me to smoke."

John didn't try to vocalize the words I'm sorry, attempting, instead, to convey it in his fixation.

"You know, John, I've been quite curious lately about what it is about harm that makes it so bloody irresistible, about what the bloody hell it is you can't turn away from. I asked questions about it before and you gave me minimalistic answers because I suppose you thought I wasn't serious or was going to turn my back on you or something so bloody ridiculous that I can't even conceive of its nature. Why do you doubt everything? Where is it you went so wrong that you can't appreciate yourself enough to keep your body in decent repair—no, you don't even get to mention my neglect to myself, because I've been screwed up for the entirety of my life, and it is not me who is on trial. I bloody well did stop smoking, in fact – do you realize that I did it for you? No, I suppose that went over your head, just like everything else of relevance. I stopped doing drugs as well, and I eat when you ask. I even take more precautions in investigations – all things I did under your advisement, all things I didn't want to do but did so anyway because I fucking cared enough to do it. You know what?"

John shook his head – there wasn't a force strong enough in the world that would make him speak. Anything he said would be considered bollocks, no matter the apology, the regret. Never before had he felt so… depressed. Never before had he felt so strongly the need to change—he knew it was a necessity. He knew that he had to listen to every cruel word Sherlock would whisper angrily.

Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, already having a medical knife in hand (having procured it from his deep pocket, something he had with him for several days). "I've been curious for a long time now," his voice was like poison to John's ears, low and secretive.

"No, no—" John reached forward, inspired and forced to take action, like the distant and unrecognizable soldier he'd once been. Even more so, a healer: someone born with the instinct to save a life and the heart large enough to find importance in each one saved, lost, or unharmed.

He couldn't stop Sherlock from taking off his jacket, too groggy from the sedatives Sherlock snuck into his system (through the use of his glucose drip, perhaps?). Sherlock shoved John back with one hand, then stood to shut the door while he rolled up a sleeve of his pin-striped shirt. The room was bright with the light of the moon-filled sky. "No, John, you don't get to make that request."

What was it he drugged John with? His arms were limper than mere sleep-deprivation would cause, yet his awareness was spiking—probably from adrenaline.

Sherlock took up his seat again, knife at the ready having set down a metal pan at his feet for the impending blood to collect. John was begging every way he could. "Sherlock! Please! You can't—"

A sharp, piercing sensation came from the look John was given. "Watch me—" Sherlock paused, his scalpel pressed against the ghostly, glowing skin of his outstretched right forearm. It was ready to be pulled against an expanse of skin, muscle, and tendon. It bled just a nearly invisible amount, skin fractured at the pressure point of the smooth, razor edged instrument.

John urged himself onto his knees and a hand, the other arm moving to Sherlock. His eyes were wide with panic, wet with fear, imbed with guilt. "No," he said as firmly and quietly as he could, horror in his tone. "Please, please, please – no, don't do that—" Sherlock moved his blade just a bit, deepening the speared end into himself. Sherlock looked at him, waiting for him to talk.

John almost didn't want to talk—glass domes break easily, and this one he wanted to preserve, to not shatter in a bloody mess.

"I'm waiting." Sherlock was actually bored? "This isn't too bad, actually."

"Dear, god—fuck, no, don't do that—it'll hurt at first!"

"Isn't that the point?"

"Sherlock, it won't get out of your head! It'll stay there! It'll feel good! You'll never want to leave it behind, even when it gets out of control, even when you want to stop…" John tried desperately to not raise his voice. He tried desperately to not envy Sherlock his blade. "It… it'll control you. Even when you do stop. It'll be your only option, it'll be the only option you care to consider. It'll kill you when you go too deep, it'll kill you when you want to go that deep. It'll… it'll demand more and more and then you end up in a bloody hospital, and you'll be so mad at yourself for acting so stupidly, you'll actually want to die… you'll want to die when you see your friends and family come through the fucking door, when they look at you and it's obvious that you did something to yourself and they have to try to understand it. It's not something you understand, and it's sure as hell not something you can just explain… It happens when you're bored, sad, mad, happy… I… I find that it controls you… even when it seems like you have control… Sherlock, you have no idea—and there's no reason for you to. I'm so sorry. I know you're mad… I deserve it... just don't start this. Even for curiosities sake, you can't do this. You have an addictive personality… For my sake, you can't…"

John stared out with the passion and heat of someone far more energetic than he, at present, was, and faded into a calmness and understanding as he both spoke and noticed Sherlock's resolve falter.

Sherlock smiled sharply to John when silence was all there was to be heard, removing the blade and setting it at the bedside table. He then proceeded to roll his sleeves up, staining them in a few droplets of blood. "If you put it that way, it doesn't really sound so appealing. Oh well." Sherlock raised his eye brows and rolled his eyes and spoke so lightly that it suddenly clicked in John's drug addled brain: this was a scare tactic. And he, a soldier, having roomed with a detective for well over a year, should have recognized one.

"You cock."

"Guilty, I give you that." Sherlock laughed, genuinely, staring at John who wasn't quite able to process anything, now that his emotional and argumentative limits had been reached. "In a few hours, we'll be following my lead on my current case. I've been doing my best even when I'm so far away from the case, what with my concern for you, but I don't think it'll be too much to handle now."

"And you fucking cut my nails," John observed, rubbing his left hand's fingers into his palm and finding them bare.

"Just hygiene, something you might want to keep up with every so often."

John fell back into his bed. "You fucking cock. That scared the shit out of me."