Disclaimer!

Warning for cutting mentions (as if you don't already know that)

Hello, hello - I've been absent for quite some time now, haven't I? I apologize, but it really couldn't be helped, and then, well, I lost some steam for this story... it's very difficult getting back into the flow of things. I don't very much recall the direction I was taking this. but I certainly want to finish it. Anyone who has ideas, please! Tell me and I'll consider them. Should I add the rest of the cast, as well, just for some variety? Maybe do a Sherlock oriented chapter? Give them a case? I'd like to know what you think!

Thank you so much for reading my story, and for checking on it when I wasn't publishing - I don't mean to sound egotistical, but for those of you who waited on this story, who wanted to see the next chapter, thank you double-times for your support. This one is most certainly for you.

Critiques and opinions and interpritations and suggestions are all welcomed!

Medical Knife

This isn't the silence John was comfortable with when in the presence of Sherlock, and it wasn't a particularly tension-free event because of the very reason they weren't talking to each other. The room was somewhat large for a therapist's office, decorated tastefully and sparingly, with soft blues and grays and touched with portrait art that must rotate every few weeks. They were forced to share a sofa, as they were attending couples therapy – Sherlock protested more than John, which Lestrade found strange, but nevertheless made them comply with going through on psychiatric sessions—and they sat across from a woman not so unlike the therapist John had years before. The lighting was conservative and obviously dull for the intention of keeping one's nerves at ease, and for one to better control the obvious though powerless protest of their partner (in this case "significant other") while couple's therapy commenced. Margaret was the name of the relatively young woman before Sherlock and John, and she spared them no expense and dived right into the dirty waters.

"John," She started, looking from him to Sherlock (who was perched as far away from John as possible). "Sherlock. Do I need to repeat myself?"

John cleared his throat and straightened his back, feeling his posture slouch. "Ahem. Right, right, you wanted us to answer that… well, no, I don't suppose so."

"No, you don't consider each other a couple?"

As if on queue, both Sherlock and John rolled their eyes, in the same direction, both, Margaret noted on her pad, mirroring the other's body language (though, who mimicked who was up for debate). Sherlock never minded being asked about their relationship, and would answer honestly, but there was something else on his mind that made all other questions about the exact status of their relationship a strenuous task to make sufficient answer of. He was so involved in his thoughts that he didn't even care to comment about the state of the room they were in just before he and John entered, and after a rather handsome man had left. The pillows, he observed, were moved to the chair across them, and it was clear that they were clumsily put there out of convenience rather than decoration. When the woman stood, she had a strange, uncomfortable, almost injured way of movement to her legs, her hip, and a glowing half-smile as she greeted them. He noticed these immediately, yet said nothing. He was expected to say something, but couldn't, because he couldn't put John out of his head. John was out of the hospital for three days, and had hardly spoken to the other in all that time. He had a hard time accepting tea from John, with almost as much difficulty as John had when he forced himself to offer to make it. What stood in their ways, and what made this experience that much more painful, were the wrappings on John's arm, which were always out of sight and buried under layers of clothing. The wrappings that covered his healing skin were the worst reminder of exactly how fucked up their situation was, and is, and will be, for a long time, and Sherlock had the honor of checking them every late afternoon. John saw that it hurt Sherlock to feel inadequate, and it occurred to him, as they took a seat in Margaret's office, that he really did care about him – why else would he ever consider therapy, if he weren't desperate? Doubting that therapy would do any good, he still was a little proud that he earned a place in Sherlock's thoughts. At least that.

John looked over to Sherlock. Sherlock was very aware of this, as well as Margaret, who stayed silent despite expectation. Quickly, with a strange touch of nervousness, John turned to Margaret, who was still expecting a definite answer. She took no short cuts and adopted an upfront and straightforward policy. She stared at him with this expectancy.

John sighed, palming his neck nervously. "Well," he began, looking for the right phrasing. "I guess, if you're talking about the literal definition of being a couple, then yes, we are. We are a couple of friends, we are… we are both friends, and we are two friends. But if you were more specific and asked the question I think you intended, which I'm sure you were looking for the answer to, then you would have received my answer, just a moment ago. If you asked if we were in any sort of relationship – physical or romantic – then no, we aren't."

John realized that that was a long answer when the silence returned, and no one spoke immediately to attempt to fill it. "So…"

"Well, John, that was a… thorough answer. Sherlock, would you agree with this statement?"

Sherlock nodded. "I wouldn't have put it in such terms, but yes, essentially, that is the best way to describe the nature of our relationship."

"Sherlock, you seem reluctant to be here. Is there any validity to this?"

Lie, make a deduction, or tell the truth? Sherlock had answers for each option, and half the mind to lie. But he had a purpose – to help John – and he couldn't waste that opportunity. "I… am. Very reluctant, actually, but I don't have a choice to do otherwise, and for several reason I cannot attempt to do so."

Margaret crossed her legs and eased into her cushioned armchair. "Well, that's a good way to start this off. So, tell me, why don't you want to be here? And just so you know, you can take any time you need to come up with an answer, just don't waste my time by trying to run-out the clock. And remember, this is preliminary, I'm just trying to familiarize myself to your… patterns, you could say."

Sherlock scoffed, also noting the shifting of position beside him as John uncrossed his legs then crossed them again. He was here to help him, and as much as he found therapy distasteful, he obliged his better senses to let his observations slide. "I do not wish to be here because I find therapy to be useless and trite. I don't think John would benefit from any outside intervention for the fact that you, and many like you in your profession, seem to think they have great insight and therefore can judge a person's qualities and quality of life accurately, which is typically completely unrealistic. I do not trust this judgment. Nor do I think John, or anyone, would take advice from one whom they do not know. So, as much as I might say during any number of therapy sessions, overlooking the fact that this is most likely a waste of time, I do not think John would listen."

Margaret was a professional, steeled and far more composed than one would normally be in the presence of Sherlock Holmes, and so she ignored the insults to her profession and focused on the kernel of critical information that was unwittingly divulged. "Then, Sherlock, do you think maybe you don't want to make yourself vulnerable to rejection?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I don't care about silly things like acceptance and rejection and god knows what else you silly people occupy your minds with. If anything, I don't want the information to be ignored."

"John, you're very quiet," Margaret noted, writing something down on her notepad in a discrete manner. John stared between the two of them to the drapes, arms crossed over a new jumper, eyes troubled in the way a pond would be, under the surface and only barely reflecting the mess that hid underneath the murk.

"I don't want to say too much," he said at last, speaking meticulously slow, though for no reason other than for the sake of speaking clearly.

Margaret's lips twitched upward in a satisfied fashion, but settled on neutrality when looking up from her notes. "Well, you both have something in common, at the least."

"I do believe it's time to go," John said, looking to Sherlock. They were in agreement, and stood at the same time. Margaret started to stand in protest, but they were quick to reach the door before she could complete her thought.

"But we've just started—"

"I know, and I do apologize," John smiled, the most polite expression he'd given her the past 15 minutes. Opening the door, a wave of soft, waiting-room appropriate sounds filled the silent void of the office with its hotel-lobby charm. Rain started to pick up, as if on cue to end a dramatic scene, and Sherlock noticed the surprise by which it took John. "To tell you the truth, therapy never really worked in the past –"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock added, chuckling in a self-satisfied way, popping his collar in preparation for the city. "I wonder what it was that cured your psy—"

John scoffed and turned his back, walking away and speaking as his voice grew distant. "Are you coming, or are you going to hold up business in the middle of her doorway?"

Sherlock gave the woman a once over. She was disappointed – they didn't even try. "Dr. Lisle, I actually did attempt to make progress…" His eyes unfocused for a second, then averted for a second before settling back on her long and tired features. "But really, I never expected to get very far."

She uncrossed her pant-suit concealed legs, about to speak, when John was at his side, clearly irritated and in no mood to deal with introspection or dramatic scenes. "Sherlock. The rain is worse."

Sherlock's eyes became confident again, no sense of concern left to be read on his features or in his stiff body language. "Well, no matter. Come on," he urged, striding away to hail a cab in the pouring rain of London.

"You stole an umbrella." John said, not surprised or judgmental, but with some amount of respect, seeing as he didn't notice that he'd done so until the moment he let it unfold above them to shield from the heavy rain. As tall as the man was, Sherlock had to duck to keep them sufficiently covered. The street corner was blurry with sheets of rain, and so far they'd seen no faded patch of yellow or red on the street indicative of a cab's presence.

"Well, I had to make use of the time somehow. I also took a pocket watch, incase you're interested." Sherlock spoke into John's ear, by this point, the rain so loud that they had no choice but to speak so closely, and the need to be under the protection of the umbrella just as strong as the need to remain warm was. Sherlock noted the sudden change of demeanor in John when he got close to him, as John became quiet and reserved again. He got just a bit closer, pushing the umbrella to the side of them so as not to have something obstruct their nearness, that being something, he reasoned, John felt uncomfortable with.

"Um, what're you doing?" John asked, keeping his eyes ahead of him in search of transport.

"What am I doing? Nothing of value, simply keeping us as dry as possible." Sherlock waited, wanting to see what John's reaction was.

John mumbled in the back of his throat, his way of acknowledging that Sherlock said something, but doing so in a way that was either uninterested or nervous. He reasoned that it was almost self-conscious, and couldn't help but smile a bit, elated from discovering something about his friend. John made it a point to ignore the looming presence directly beside him.

"Oh, look, a cab." John practically sprung up from joy and ventured to the downpour to hail the blurry mass of yellow and white. John was already in before Sherlock folded their green-blue umbrella, and already giving directions before Sherlock shut his door.

"No John, I don't suppose I need my arm, thank you for taking the steps to ensure that it becomes broken." Sherlock folded the umbrella, letting out a loud puff of air to convey his annoyance for John's urgent demands. They were driving now, but much slower than normal for the sake of not running over pedestrians. John said nothing at first, and Sherlock looked over to him, trying to read him and having some difficulty. Maybe he had upset him, when he got close. Or maybe he was thinking about slicing his skin up again. Sherlock never had much of a chance to think about this, as John eventually turned his warm eyes to him.

"Sorry, sorry, I just… wanted to get out of the rain."

"I suspect you wanted to get away from the office more than anything, which is understandable, considering she was a bore."

They were both aware of their cabby, a middle aged man with unusually black and youthful hair, who was listening in to their conversation, very poorly masked in an attempt to check the rear view mirror.

John nodded. "I guess."

"I never guess."

"Bollocks. Guessing is all you do, just with a greater accuracy than most."

The percussion of falling water filled their ears like static of a natural sort. It struck their ears in a way that seemed to alleviate an uncomfortable conversation that, as Sherlock guessed, was very nearly upon them.

John wasn't aware that Sherlock leaned closer to him, too caught up in the water running in random trails down the window to really pay attention to the world outside his thoughts.

"You know, John, I might have given therapy –"

Did John shudder? Sherlock's eyes rarely betrayed him, and as much as he thought – knew – this to be true, he still didn't know if he saw correctly. John raised one hand, silencing without making eye contact. "Text," he demanded quietly, and it was obvious why he did so. Their conversation was only for two, and a nosey cabbie who lacked subtlety couldn't take the hint that he wouldn't be welcome to perch on the edge of it.

I wouldn't have been able to talk about anything – JW

Sherlock moved ever so slightly closer to John, aware that it would frazzle him, and intending to do so. He dulled the light on his phone so as not to attract attention, John doing the same.

I find this unnecessary. Neither of us needs an intermediary. If you put just a little thought into it, you might actually be able to effectively communicate to me your issues. – SH

I have. You don't understand. – JW

I don't think I can be faulted on not harming myself. – SH

I don't really consider it your business whether or not I talk to someone. You assume I need to talk to you and act as if you've decided that it should and will be that way. Have you considered asking me what I think should happen? – JW

I believe it was Lestrade who forced this on us, and as for asking you your opinion, do you recommend I do so regardless of whether or not you'd answer me? Your hospitalization is reason enough for me to take control of this situation. – SH

John looked to Sherlock. The frustration building in John's rigid shoulders, tainting his defensively locked jaw, made his response slow.

I don't want to talk about this. Especially to you. – JW

I don't care. – SH

Of course you don't. – JW

Sherlock was now a considerable amount of inches closer, which John only now became aware of, and only for his want to keep a low profile did he not yell at Sherlock not to encroach his personal space. Sherlock had no intention of leaving John like this, with his guard up and mind made up to resist all efforts to expose his issues, possibly even correct them. As stubborn as he predicted John would be, how damn defensive he became at the mention of his own stupidity for landing himself in the hospital, Sherlock could still see the soft clay that he'd once seen in his friend, the part of John that wasn't strong enough to uphold the unyielding posture the rest of his body conformed to. The closer he was, the more Sherlock saw the anger crumble to make way for vulnerability. In John's eyes, Sherlock saw the opportunity he was looking for.

After dropping his gaze from John's, keeping his own lips pressed firmly in a line, Sherlock swiftly typed out a message. The cab stopped, and the rain thudded with more bravado.

As unobservant as you are, you are still considerably more attuned to details than most. That being said, it still baffles me that you are not aware of what it is I think of you. You are my only friend, a title I do not use often or carelessly. I do not throw people away who have met my high standards, or, as you have, exceeded them. Therefore, you don't have to be worried about what you fear I'll say if you tell me what is on your mind. And I know very well that this is the only thing holding you back.

Sherlock watched John as he read it and couldn't help but smile inwardly when he saw the effect he had. John licked his dry lips, refraining from speaking. He was obviously surprised, maybe even a little thrown off. John met the dull shines of Sherlock's eyes in the dark. Sherlock tilted his head a little, smiling just to appear smug. He'd just cracked his best friend, and they both knew it – whether or not John wanted things to get moving, they were going to move regardless. Sherlock couldn't wait.

"Excuse me, cabbie, but are we close to Baker street?" Sherlock said suddenly, his baritone voice filling the small space with immediate noise that the cabbie jolted.

"Yes, sir."

"Good, because it is incredibly rude to eavesdrop on someone without any discreteness – next time, do try to be more subtle, it's very distracting."

The rest of the ride was followed in silence, with Sherlock much nearer to the doctor, still trying to keep him on edge. Sherlock had reasoned that John was afraid to show any more weakness, and the only person whose opinion seemed to matter to him was Sherlock's. He knew that he unnerved the doctor, but it didn't occur to him until that moment why he might care so much. John looked up when the cab stopped, knowing that they arrived. After paying, they ran through the pour and quickly tried to unlock the door. John fumbled with the keys with Sherlock pressed to his back with the umbrella, opening it clumsily after Sherlock pointed out which key to use.

Mrs. Hudson was out, that much was apparent – the lights were nearly all off, and the sense of the house, filled with parchment and leather and cotton and lack of tea, was profoundly vacant.

"I doubt there are any crimes being committed now, what with all the rain," Sherlock said, quite remorseful, setting aside the folded umbrella. John hung his coat, shaking his head in an attempt to shed the water he'd collected in his hair.

"Bloody shame," John added. "No murders or serial killers or even intriguing heists to entertain you, it's amazing you're not running around this place naked for the fun of it."

"Oh, you'd like that, then?"

The fact that his back was turned to Sherlock did not prevent John from rolling his eyes. "I don't know – I might prefer it to skulking and odd-ball experiments and dislodging spent bullets from walls, but I really can't say."

"John, quit the small talk, we're here for a reason."

John scoffed, turning to Sherlock, who was much closer than he originally planned for. "Uh, yes, well, alright. Shall we?"

"I believe we already have. I must admit that I grow weary of delays, especially now, at this point, when it's clear that you delay from some misguided trust you place in your fears. Why so nervous? I was quite curious about that earlier – I thought maybe nerves had the best of you because you didn't feel comfortable being with me in a psychiatric session, but now, now," Sherlock stepped forward once, blocking John's escape route up the stairs, and forcing his retreat a half an inch. "Now, I think it's something much more complex and infinitely intriguing than merely nerves that makes you nervous, like you are now, all tense and shaken at the same time– you say it's a wonder I'm not acting on ridiculous impulse due to lack of intellectual stimulation, but you neglect to consider the possibility that I have all I need to entertain my self right here." Sherlock was now uncomfortably near John, so near that they could hear each other's breath. John, the soldier he is and will always be, stayed put, even when he was certain he could feel Sherlock's pulse, when his eyes felt stinging from the unbroken stare they shared. Their shadow's were very nearly the same, and John's tenseness could not be explained in few words, especially when he had all the room in the world behind him to back away, opportunity seen and not taken.

"So, tell me, John Watson, what is it about me that scares you?"