Sherlock made himself open his eyes and focused on John as well as he could with an intense glare. "No. I'm fine, I just need rest, that's entirely out of the question. Don't be stupid, John."

He could not go to a hospital. If he did, they would invariably discover everything, and then everything would be horrible. He'd be forced to stop the only thing that helped now, and he'd be treated like a child and they'd all regard him as a sad little freak and John would be disappointed.

John.

He might be so uncomfortable with it he'd leave.

Sherlock could NOT go to a hospital.

John sighed. "Sherlock..." He sat on the edge of the bed, making it clear he wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon. "Will you at least answer a few questions for me?"

He would have to take the silence for a yes.

"Alright... First of all, have you eaten anything recently?"

"Yesterday, the toast you crammed down my throat."

"I didn't cram it down your throat! I just can't let you go that long between meals!" John stopped to compose himself again. No use getting worked up. "Fine. How about anything to drink?"

"Tea, last night."

"Any chills? Headaches?"

"Yes, and yes."

"When did all this start?"

Sherlock hesitated. The truth was going to sound odd. "...two o'clock this morning."

Expectedly, John frowned in thought. "That's sudden. It's only six now, and you already look awful. Sorry." He gave him an apologetic shrug in response to the daggers Sherlock was glaring at him.

He normally wouldn't have put up with so much bad temper from his flatmate, but he could tell Sherlock was in a bad spot and knew from experience as a doctor that patients can get snappy when they're hurting.

He got up from the bed and went to get a thermometer, coming back to stand by Sherlock's head. "Open up."

Sherlock pressed his lips together and refused to look at him. He had no intention of doing anything so pointless and futile as to-He let out a sound of surprise as John took him by the chin firmly and wrenched his jaw open just enough to get the thermometer in. John's own jaw was set in determination, and he seemed to have gone into full doctor mode. "Look, I'm sorry, but you're being childish."

Sherlock's eyes widened in fury and he tried to pull back, but John held on tightly. At no other point in time would he have let himself be manhandled the way John was doing, but there wasn't much he could do about it other than shoot him death glares and make feeble attempts to turn his head away.

At last the thermometer beeped and John removed it and let go of him. He inspected the readout critically. "35C... Sherlock, that's low."

"What, not good?" He scoffed, still trying to regain his composure after being held against his will.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah... A bit not good. Especially since it came on so suddenly. I'm starting to think about calling the hospital again, honestly."

No.

No, no, no.

Sherlock's brain went into high gear, searching desperately for another excuse, a different approach, something that would convince John. Anything. But what?

"If you do that I'll never speak to you again." Where had that come from? It was ridiculous and he knew it. It wasn't going to convince John of anything, and he knew that too. It had just slipped out.

"I know you hate hospitals, but I'm getting worried. You're ill and I don't know what's wrong. Won't you at least humor me? Maybe they can help you feel better."

He bit back the derisive laugh in his throat and rolled his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Them, make him feel better? Honestly.

John reached out and took his wrist to check his pulse, but he hadn't anticipated the detective's immediate, violent reaction to the touch. He frowned as Sherlock drew his arm back with a hiss and curled into himself on the blankets.

"The hell? I'm just trying to take your pulse, no need to be so defensive."

"My pulse is fine."

"Oh? Then let me check it." John wasn't letting this one go so easily. He was clearly still being just as stubborn as he'd been a few minutes ago.

Seeing no way around it, Sherlock slowly held out his left arm. He'd bandaged the very bad cuts the night before, so there wouldn't be any bleed-through, and his sleeves were long enough to cover everything. With any luck, John would only touch his wrist, which was still clean and smooth, like untouched snow. He probably wouldn't notice a thing. Clueless John.

Unbidden anger suddenly welled up in him and he bit his cheek to keep a straight face. How could John not notice? How could he let this go on like it had? Didn't he care? Wasn't it obvious?

But no, it wasn't obvious. Sherlock himself had gone to great lengths to make SURE John stayed in the dark about it. It wasn't his fault he didn't know.

But that didn't automatically mean he cared.

John laid two fingers on the underside of his wrist carefully and left them there for much longer than Sherlock would have liked. "Hmm... It's faster than it should be." His brow furrowed, not removing his hand. "Okay, something's really not right. I'm making the call."

Sherlock sat up quickly, forgetting what happened last time in his haste. But even through the dizziness he felt it, felt John's fingers brush over an old scar as his arm moved when he sat up, and could only hope John hadn't felt it too.

"What was that?"

Damn it.

"What was what?" Sherlock made it a point to keep his voice as nonchalant as he could make it.

"Something on your arm. I touched it." John's eyes had narrowed. He might as well have said it out loud: 'I think you know exactly what I'm talking about.'

...

At John's words Sherlock had instantly shut down, stopped responding, and seemed determined to at least pretend he was asleep.

John bit his lip. He knew trying to talk to him now would get him nowhere, but he didn't want to let this go. He might just be paranoid, but he had a bad feeling about all this. If being a doctor had taught him anything, it was how to pay attention to your patients. And now something didn't add up.

Sherlock hated hospitals, hated being fawned over and cared for, but something was obviously very wrong now. Low body temperature, dizziness, fast pulse, pale skin, nausea... John was almost certain his friend would have enough common sense to let himself be taken care of this once, when he needed it.

But Sherlock was still resisting.

Why?

And not to mention what he'd felt on his arm. John knew a scar when he touched one, thanks to military and medical training. It might just be a token from one of the many dangerous situations Sherlock got himself into, but then why was he being defensive?

Maybe he could use Sherlock's resistance to his advantage...

"Alright. You seem to know what's going on, and I obviously don't." He slid off the bed and stood up, crossing his arms over his chest. "Here's the deal: I'm going to call the hospital, and they can tell me what's wrong, or you can do it here on your own terms. Your choice."

"Bastard..." Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John didn't move.

"So that's a no? I should call?" He took his mobile from his pocket and unlocked it.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, but he still looked up at the ceiling instead of at him. "No-don't."

John waited expectantly, knowing he had to handle this carefully or Sherlock would close down again and he'd be right back where he started. "Alright, I'm listening."

There was silence for a long minute.

"I . . ." Sherlock hesitated, sighing. "Blood. It's blood loss."

Everything clicked together in John's mind, all the symptoms made sense, except for one thing-how? Sherlock didn't appear to be about to clear that up. He seemed to be waiting to see if John had figured it out himself. He hadn't, obviously. He expected too much of him, John thought with mild annoyance.

"Are you going to tell me...?" He ventured carefully.

"No." The reply was blunt and decisive.

He pursed his lips and turned back to his mobile. He punched in the hospital's number. "Fine then..."

"Wait-" Sherlock had sat up again, looking vaguely panicked. "Don't. I'll tell you. Just don't."

John raised an eyebrow. He went back over to the bed and stood there a moment before he took a seat on the edge, beside Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard in silence. He opened his mouth as though he were going to say something, then shut it again.

John was feeling more and more confused, and more than a little worried; the detective was never this indecisive or hesitant about anything. Ever.

So why now?

And how had he gotten hurt?

Why hadn't he said something?

"John." Sherlock's low voice broke through his thoughts. He looked up, and was startled by the look on Sherlock's face. He appeared genuinely distraught, even pained. "Er..." He faltered again. "It isn't logical... It won't make sense..."

"Sherlock, what are you-"

He only shook his head and brought his arms up, pausing with the edge of his sleeve in his fingers, as if trying to steel himself against something. Then he slowly pulled it up to his elbow.

John's blood chilled as his eyes traveled up the pale arm, past the untouched wrist and then up over the countless white scars that decorated Sherlock's skin, laid over with newer ones, some very recent and still red and angry. Halfway up his arm the bandages started, sloppily done and already soaked through with scarlet.

It felt as though the bottom had dropped out of John's stomach. He felt sick.

He didn't want to know exactly what this was. But he did. He knew.

He'd just never thought...

Sherlock quickly pulled the sleeve back down, taking his silence and pallor for revulsion. He turned away in an attempt to curl in on himself again, to shut him out. But John quickly leaned forward and took him by the wrist firmly. He pulled the sleeve back up and knelt on the blankets in front of him, examining the damage carefully, every cut, every line.

At last he choked out, "For how long...?"

Sherlock lowered his eyes. "...a year. It's... an old habit I went back to."

John looked at him and breathed, "Why?"

He fell silent again.

"Sherlock please-" He barely noticed how tight his grip on Sherlock's wrist had become, and only when the other man winced quietly did he become aware and relent slightly. "Sorry... Just... Why? Why would you do this?"