Disclaimer

Warning - crime details, details of self harm through the use of sharp objects

Again, sorry for the delay - this is a busy month. But, I've managed a chapter that I hope meets expectation. I would greatly enjoy feedback, suggestions, and generally recognition for these new chapters: I'm in terrible need of assistance for crime-writing.

NOTE - from the original Sherlock Holmes books, there is actually a scene wherein John has problems sleeping, and Sherlock plays the violin for him. I thought I'd like to do a (loose) recreation of that.

Edited and editing

Enjoy

Medical Knife

The case they worked on was particularly cruel, John thought. Another young boy was found, just a day later, and it appeared that, like the death of Elliot and Marvin, save the fact that Marvin's death was by chance, the killer worked by premeditated parameters. The Elliot and the new boy, a child of 13 years, were killed the same day, hours within each other. It was obvious that this killer wasn't going to stop until caught.

It was fortunate that Sherlock was working this case, in the flesh, because that meant that the killer would, indeed, be caught. The only thing that upset was the time that it might take for a breakthrough to happen – how many more children would be lost? John prayed that they wouldn't have to discover anymore than there already were. Three small body bags was enough to dampen anyone's mood, especially when the details must be scrutinized. John sighed, walking away from the second crime scene alongside Sherlock, whose attention couldn't be diverted from his phone even to keep him from walking into the local police officers.

John pulled Sherlock's arm to keep him from colliding into a freshly turned-out academy cadet. After a stuttering apology by the young woman, one that was unnecessary of her, John pulled Sherlock down the sidewalk. "Watch where you're running, I have half the mind to take your phone from you."

"As if you could," Sherlock said, pressing his phone away in his trench. "She could have avoided me had she the mind to make a good impression."

"It's not her job to impress consulting detectives who don't know how to navigate a damn crowd."

Sherlock had the decency not to respond to that, conceding, like he is rarely ever inclined, that he was wrong – or, at least, slightly not in the right.

John had the intention of leading them away, but was usurped by Sherlock who, instead of hailing for cab, took off down a residential street. "Sherlock, where are we going?"

Their path was through the sidewalks of a shopping street far from the heart of London, through meager crowds of nannies with strollers and people on lunch at odd hours. The crime scene was several blocks behind them, lost in the clips of idle conversation that could be heard passing by. Sherlock, through intention or chance, did not respond to John.

John knew that the silence that answered his question was the only answer he'd get for the time being, so he followed just slightly behind and out of synch. They passed diners and cafes and small shops owned by elderly folk who had little to do other than knit and embroider. It took less time than John expected, and the taller of the two abruptly stopped, causing John to bump into his back rather forcefully.

"Damn it – what the bloody –"

Sherlock oriented the both of them, turning John to face a restaurant diner. "Do pay attention, and for god's sake don't look so surprised. We're here on business."

"And what sort of business would that be?"

Sherlock pulled them inside, the place sparse and ridding itself of its lunchtime inhabitants and quite honestly it wasn't all that bad.

"What are we doing?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "Sit down, let's enjoy a nice lunch."

John rolled his eyes at the image of their dating. "Come off it, Sherlock. What are we doing?"

"We, John, are here for a quiet lunch. Sit down." Sherlock looked to John, then to the seat across from him over the wooden table for two. John furrowed his brow a touch in hesitation, awaiting further instruction or detail or something that might better explain the sudden change in scenery. Crime scene to diner? What did Sherlock have in mind?

John decided to, cautiously, settle in the chair across the detective. Their menu's had yet to arrive, but their cutlery was already in place.

Was a suspect here? Possibly, was he working on the wait staff? John had the urge to look behind him, and did so (rather impossibly) with a soup spoon.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said breathlessly, rolling his eyes. "Spoons are to be used as spoons, not mirrors."

"Well forgive me for trying to tell what the bloody hell is going on. Care to let me in? I assume you're waiting for a suspect to arrive, aren't you?"

"In a manner of speaking, I am waiting for an arrival."

The waiting staff was rather alert, and a young man with Scottish features and a natural smile approached them at their table, dressed in tranquil reds and blacks. "Afternoon, Gentlemen," he said, giving them their menus.

"Just a tea for me," Sherlock said, faking his charm in a way John has seen happen dozens of times, and proceeding to order for the both of them after only seeing the menu for a few seconds. When the man, who was named Andrew, left them, they returned to a strange silence. Just what exactly was supposed to happen?

"I assume that that waiter was the killer, now, wasn't he?" John guessed.

"No, but he is stealing tips from other tables – nothing criminal, though I doubt it will be something he can sustain. Look at how bloody clumsy he is."

Their company was quiet for a while. The place wasn't busy. The details of the case were known. Their drinks arrived, and they promptly attended to them.

It was quiet, until Sherlock decided that he didn't want it to be.

"Your wrist is quite red," Sherlock said, voice laced with a slight hesitance, eyes stilled on the solid surface of tea inside his mug. "I might suggest lighter use of this alternative."

John was holding his breath. He didn't know why he felt compelled to do so. He did, however, have to breathe, and was forced to let himself exhale. "Maybe," was all he offered as means of reply. Slowly, an image was forming in his head about the nature of their not-so-impromptu impromptu lunch date.

"I don't know how to approach this," Sherlock confessed, taking intense stock of his drink for a quick minute. "I would, under normal circumstance, be straightforward in approaching this, though, as I have been told by many, among which you are included, that is not the best way to handle certain situations. I am not well practiced in being sensible and careful when it is needed. That being said, are you well?"

John laughed. This was indeed the moment he suspected would come, and he was still vastly underprepared for it. "It's okay, Sherlock… I'm well enough, though it's not keeping me…"

"Out with it."

John sighed, wishing for the waiter to return but being spared nothing of a painful confession. "It's not well enough that I wouldn't think of it. I mean… I still have had… urges." John hated how his voice grew audibly disgusted and yearning at the same time.

Sherlock nodded, though John didn't see as he was terribly engrossed in stirring his creamy beverage. "Try not to break any more rubber bands. I suspect that that is where the line should be drawn."

John acknowledged with a solemn nod, biting his cheek. He knew that the rubber band around his right wrist was a poor substitute for the real thing, for a real blade. He knew that his want of wanting to see blood, to feel the edge of something while he took a risk, was what would truly satisfy the urges, and that a mere rubber band did little but hold it off under the best of circumstance. He'd mostly been left irritable and a strange, itching sensation over his scars whenever he felt particularly unwell. He never plead guilty to these urges… but damn it, if he didn't want to cut himself to shreds, then he wanted to talk about it, even just a little, because then it would be off his chest. At the very least, admitting it to Sherlock might force him into keeping to his new, clean-cut lifestyle (no pun intended).

But it was too much to convey. In any case it would be ill-advised, so he took a drink and let the subject drop.

Sherlock saw the thought process moving behind John's eyes as they unfocused, refocused. He saw it in his intense avoidance of speaking. He would, however, not yield to the probability of his friend's desire to remain quiet about his unusual addiction, however foreign it may be to him, just because he wasn't confident in his abilities to help.

Their food arrived. Sherlock had nothing, and John was ordered a soup-sandwich number. John began with his sandwich, taking one bite.

While he was occupied, Sherlock spoke. "You're quite aware of my habits while being on a case – rightfully so, my priorities are entirely focused on the case. However, I know that your needs are different from mine, and so, when time permits, I will be taking on something new, something outside of the parameters of the case."

"And… what exactly does that mean?"

"I considered that we should be actively seeking resolution to your issues, and completing such tasks revolves around being productive."

"Productive?"

"I haven't the slightest clue as to how to assist your recovery, even though I did some research – there are many different approaches and opinions on the matter of self harm and depression and the likes, it's quite emotional and convoluted – and the majority of the literature I came upon stated that the best thing I can do to help is to talk about the issue with the addict. Simply, I will, despite limitations, do everything of which I am capable to aid you."

John was impressed that the majority of Sherlock's speech was in one breath. Still, the unease rose with every word. He knew he needed to make progress. He also knew that now wasn't the time for discussion. He nodded. "Lets… lets talk later, while we aren't in the middle of… what are we in the middle of, anyway?"

"Well, Molly is working on something for me as of this news of this new murder, but at the moment we are painfully stagnant and awaiting the work of those around us. Time, it seems, is what we have running against us, and is that which we have an excess amount of at this moment."

John's heart ached a touch at that. Time wasn't something that they had, and it wasn't something to waste. Time would only result in more deaths. Time, it seems, was as much the enemy as the killer. He snapped his rubber band, not quite present of mind as he did so. Looking up, catching Sherlock's eye, then back down quite hastily, John was more mortified at himself at doing such a thing in public, in the company of his friend.

"I just… I'm just hoping I don't have to examine any more dead children."

Sherlock simply nodded. John resisted both fiddling with his jumper and snapping his rubber band, trying to focus himself on the case. "So, are we waiting for the suspect? Because, the best I can figure, he's not yet here, and it's after lunch, and I highly doubt he's on staff because you haven't made up an excuse to talk to him yet."

Ah, there it was – the mysterious deductive skills of John that he, assumedly, acquired in part from constant residence with Sherlock. Sherlock avoided commenting on it, and simply nodded with a smile. "Quite right, he isn't here. Nor will he be. As we have nothing to do, and, as I said, we're relying on other's and their work, lunch seems appropriate… less intense, at the least. This, is for you – I'm awaiting, though not fond of the prospect, for your urges to surface. In the meanwhile, you must keep your health. Now eat."

John blinked once, feeling himself loosen up. He doesn't like to admit to himself that he liked the attention Sherlock gave him, but he did – having a man that hates every one like you and only you might give one the feeling of feeling important. Almost worthy. What fucked up thoughts to have, John thought.

John didn't trust himself to not falter in thanking Sherlock verbally, so he settled for an awkward, eye-contact free nod, and returned to his meal.

"John, your problems are of great concern to me. Now is not the time for them. But when you feel certain that you need help, I assure you that I would be here for your consulting."

John's chest clenched, and he swallowed his warm soup.

John would be needing Sherlock sooner than he would have thought. It was an after-night hour that he couldn't discern, and his sheets were moistened by perspiration, and the darkness was stifling and too vast at the same time – and dear god, what was that noise in his ears?

He couldn't tell if it was the sound of children screaming, or comrades screaming – but they were screaming. The ghost of their tormented, high-pitched yells caught in his ears, and remained fresh in mind as if they happened just a few moments prior. He didn't shoot up in bed, but awoke in a paralysis that terrified him beyond rational fear – and indeed, it wasn't rational, because the mind is a torturous place, and it's torments lied beyond rationality and remained indefinitely. His breathing calmed, but his heart still thudded against his hot-and-cold skin.

Leaning over his knees, elbows propped up to support his head, he urged himself not to feel all that persisted to infiltrate his emotions, his nerves, and the space in between.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, but he didn't have the mind to look anywhere but his carpeted floor and the tangle of shadowed sheets that wrapped around his ankles. No time to check the time.

His scars and healing wounds wanted to be tended to. He wanted to tend to them. Fuck it all, if he didn't have the means – which he didn't. Sherlock made sure of that.

So, what was he to do? The sounds of the war and of dying children faded from his ears, but remained in his memory, in his mind – and his sheets were too damp to fall asleep on, and he was too awake to want to anyway… Where was Sherlock?

Now was the time to talk to him, right? He said he would be there should the need arise…

"God fucking damn it," he said hoarsely, voice cracked and weak and small and pathetic, just like he felt. There were no distractions: no banging of odd objects downstairs, no violin solos being performed, no gun shots or thunder or the sound of a vitals machine or the whispering of nurses down hospital hallways… only his wants, only his thoughts, only his own jaw as it clicked in anticipation as he tried to stop himself from making himself feel worse.

He stood shakily, avoiding looking at the clock on the dresser so as not to make himself (more) regretful of waking up so early, and got changed in the dark.

Stepping out into the ill-lit hallway-stairwell, he walked slowly, purposefully, and incredibly hesitantly down stairs.

He met Sherlock in their living room, who immediately looked up from the papers in his right hand, on his lap, and a pen in his left hand that hovered over the paper. He didn't wear a trench coat – just the shirt from the day before and a pair of seemingly new black pants. He sat in the chair John sat in most often.

"John. I didn't hear you wake up. Which dream?"

Was nothing of John's private? How often could Sherlock hear him 'wake up'? "I think it was a new one… it wasn't very… pleasant…"

"My apologies."

John sat on the couch, feeling small, waiting for something. Anything.

An old scull watched them both intently.

"John, I'm looking through pieces of music that I've either composed or taken great liking to."

"I always said, you needed a hobby… a more discreet hobby, I mean. I didn't know you wrote music… at least, I didn't think you did."

"I don't any more, but I've found, recently, that I might find some value in picking it up again."

"Oh, yeah? What made you feel differently?" John enjoyed the small talk, like it was something else to focus on and give his negative energy to – his scars didn't stop burning or itching, and he didn't stop wanting to split his skin, but he also didn't have to be alone. And that was all he needed.

"John, can you do me a favor and lie down? Atop the sofa on which you sit, if you will?"

John shuffled to the center. "Why?" He lied down.

"Patience, Doctor – bear with me."

And so John did. He stared at the ceiling, counting ridges, feeling his heart's pace race with the anticipation of not knowing what Sherlock was doing – was he moving? Standing? Yes, he must have been. Was he shuffling paper? Why was he still shuffling paper? What was on the paper? Why was it taking so long, it must have been more than a few minutes, right? Was he just observing John for his own experiments? Was he just an experiment? Was he ridiculous to expect Sherlock to actually want to help him? How the bloody hell would –

Sherlock leaned against the arm of the sofa beside which lie John's feet, violin in hand, his back to the doctor – delicately and expertly bringing his chin to the rest, poising the bow's threads adjacent to the strings, he began to play.

Loudly, though calmly, the beautiful melody unraveled from the taut strings and poured into their warm, cozy room. John's eyes were wide, but his thoughts were quieted, intent on taking in all of the expertly created vibrations that he never before heard (at least, to his sleep-fuzzy memory, he didn't recall hearing).

Indeed, Sherlock could compose music – he was passionate and artful and filled with emotion.

Watching his shoulders, his elbow moving back and forth, his curly hair move as his head nodded in synch with the music, John wanted so badly to think that maybe this was written for him.

His chest tightened, his lips tightened in a shaky line, and he was very glad that Sherlock gave him the privacy to listen and feel what he wanted to feel. No pretending. No numbing it with blades – or over powering it, disguising it, denying it with blades – just honesty to feel and not be ashamed.

John began to feel sleepy, but he was still more awake and aware than ever. What an odd feeling.

He had no idea for how long, but eventually, as with all things, the music came to an end, and Sherlock faced John, who was looking at him and trying not to look at him but failing.

"So… was that… ahem, was… that your own…?"

"Yes, I wrote it – I thought you might enjoy it."

Damn it, he felt so guilty for still remembering his dreams, for remembering that he wanted to harm himself. How many more performances must he be distracted with before it would be enough? How much more could he ask of Sherlock? Would he even have the courage to ask?

"John, close your eyes."

John didn't have the willpower to argue, even if he had wanted to – his eyes were closed.

Music began to fill his ears, softly overpowering him with lovely sounds, and he fell asleep