The day was a cold one. John watched the little puffs of frozen breath escaping from between Sherlock's lips as he sighed silently. Other than that he might not have known the detective was still breathing.

He hadn't spoken a word the entire cab ride home from the hospital to the doorstep of 221B, though John had snuck little sideways glances every now and then, watching Sherlock's expression reflected in the frosty window.

It hadn't told him anything.

Sherlock tightened his coat around his shoulders. This way, John supposed, with scars covered up and no strained conversation, everything almost seemed back to normal. If he could call it that.

He fumbled for his key with numb hands while Sherlock stood by impatiently. It had only been two days since he'd found out about his flatmate's 'little problem,' and already he was at a loss as to what to do about it. He'd never personally known anyone with this kind of vice, but he'd seen a handful of patients with it in his work at the clinic. They never stayed long.

And if he'd thought that that prepared him for dealing with it in the form of his closest friend, he would have been dead wrong.

At last he got the door opened and the two of them went inside, the warm air a welcome relief to their cold cheeks and frozen noses. Sherlock immediately went up the stairs, pulling off his scarf and coat, and John hurried after him with a vague feeling of paranoia. He didn't like leaving him alone anymore.

Thankfully Sherlock went straight to the sofa and threw himself onto it, being careful to avoid hitting his arms. How he could stand to lie around so much was a mystery to John.

John stood there in the doorway for a minute before he hung up his own coat and surveyed the chaos of their flat. He was going to have quite the job ahead of him. The kitchen was his first stop, where he gathered up all the knives he could find and deposited them all in a cardboard box on the dining table. Next he moved on to the living room, searching every surface and turning up a few scalpels and an old penknife he'd forgotten existed. Everything sharp went into the box, and when he figured he was finished he closed it up and set it next to his own bed. He'd have to find something better to do with it later.

Sherlock watched him from the sofa without comment. John couldn't tell from his expression what he thought of his actions, but he decided that he'd ignore it no matter what, because he damn well wasn't taking any more chances.

"What am I supposed to use for my experiments now?" Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"...I suppose you're out of luck. Maybe you can do some experiments that don't involve slicing anything up." The last words felt bad on his tongue and brought up mental images that made his heart hurt, which was odd because he hadn't meant them that way.

Sherlock didn't respond, having fallen back into the moody silence that had become so common for him recently.

John walked over and settled into his chair. Should he pick up a book? No... He couldn't focus on reading if he'd tried. The silence weighed heavily on him, like a physical incarnation of Sherlock's mood, pressing in on his chest and making the atmosphere in the room uncomfortably thick.

He licked his lips and glanced at him again. A year, he'd said... John was suddenly kicking himself mentally.

A year. A whole damn year.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of blissful ignorance on his part, and that whole time Sherlock had been quietly 'dealing' with whatever it was that made him do this. He'd never said anything.

But then, John had never asked.

Now that he thought back on it, there had been signs. Signs he hadn't seen, times he could have made a difference but he hadn't because he'd been so stupid he couldn't recognize what was happening.

Why hadn't he pushed the issue further when Sherlock had worn long sleeves even on warm days? Why didn't he question the fact that he was so uncomfortable with being touched, especially on his arms?

It had been obvious. And he'd missed every cue. Every single one.

He sighed softly. If this was his fault, he was now determined to make it right.

Back in the hospital when they had been talking, John had been surprised by how open Sherlock had been-how vulnerable he'd seemed. It was a side he'd never seen before, and quite honestly one he imagined didn't exist. But he didn't doubt it now. He knew for a fact Sherlock had feelings, even if at times it seemed he didn't, and the scars only showed that they weren't always happy ones.

No matter how many times he heard it John would not believe that Sherlock was just bored. As bad as the cutting seemed, he knew it only scratched the surface of the problem. It was a result, and results always have causes.

"...Sherlock?" It was a shot in the dark, and he knew he probably wouldn't get a reply, but the silence was about to suffocate him.

Sherlock only groaned into the cushions.

"Can we talk?" John waited in vain for another response. "It doesn't even have to be about... it, if you don't want to. Just something."

He had almost begun to think he wasn't going to get anywhere when Sherlock spoke at last. "Talk about what, then? The weather?"

"Is that what it's going to take?"

"Mm."

Was that a yes or a no? "It's cold out. It might snow tonight."

"Mmm."

"Is there something on your mind?" He ignored the stupidity of the question.

Even he knew the answer, but he still needed to ask it.

Sherlock shifted a little to stare up at the ceiling. "John, I think you know exactly what's on my mind, and I'm doing my best to ignore it. Talking about the weather isn't going to help."

"Oh." John sat there looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "Yeah."

He should have known.

"Well, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, there isn't!" Sherlock half sat up. "You've done everything I didn't want you to-you forced me to the hospital, you forced me to tell you about this-" He gestured to the bandages angrily. "-you cleaned out the flat because you don't trust me, and you're trying to force me to stop doing the only thing that helps make things more manageable, and-" He shut his mouth, realizing he'd said too much.

John stared at him in surprise. Forced him? Wasn't this for the better? Wasn't this saving him a lot of pain? "I'm only trying to help you. I did those things because I care. Why are you angry with me?"

"I'm not angry with you!" Sherlock rolled over again. "No, wait, I am! I'm fucking furious! Why couldn't you have just left me alone?! I don't want this!"

John took a deep breath. "I know you don't. And I'm sorry if this seems selfish, but I can't stand to see you hurting. So I'm doing what I have to do."

"Well congratulations, then, you can't see it anymore! And if you can't see it, it's gone, right?!"

"That's not what I-"

"Maybe not, but it's what you're doing!"

"I just... I don't want you to do this anymore. If that means fixing other things too, then we'll do that. But this isn't a good way to cope. You can see that, right?"

Sherlock went quiet again, and lay back on the sofa.

"I'm serious," John persisted. "Can you see why I don't like this? It isn't good for you. It's hurting you."

"No." Sherlock muttered. "It was helping."

"Honestly?! I had to take you to the hospital for blood loss! You had to have stitches! If I hadn't been there and found out you might have bled out and DIED!"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and said nothing. The heavy silence that settled back over the room made it clear that the conversation was over, even though John felt he had more to say.

He sighed and heaved himself up from his chair, unable to stand staying in the room any more. "I'm going to bed. If you need me, just-"

"I won't need you."

...

John slept fitfully, and when his alarm clock went off at 6:05 am he lay there for several minutes before rolling over and turning it off. He'd called Sarah the other day and explained that, for reasons he hadn't disclosed, his flatmate was in the hospital and he had to stay with him and miss work. But now that Sherlock was home he didn't have an excuse.

Maybe it would be fine. He'd removed all the blades he could find from the flat, and he could drop the box off at Mycroft's on his way to work-Mycroft likely already knew about some or all of this, the sneaky git-and he wanted to trust Sherlock. He really did. He was aware that he'd given him no reason to, but he had to start somewhere.

To be on the safe side, though, he would ask Mrs. Hudson to come check up on him while John was out.

Sherlock was still on the couch when he came downstairs, and responded grudgingly to John's 'good morning.' He looked alright, so John felt better about having to leave him.

He had a cup of coffee, tried unsuccessfully to talk Sherlock into having something, and ran out to catch a cab.

The day passed slowly. Nothing very interesting or difficult to treat turned up at the clinic, and he found himself praying for his shift to end.

Sarah seemed to notice he was bothered, and during a lull she came into his office.

"John?"

"Mm?" He looked up from the papers he was going through. "What is it?"

"Are you alright? You just seem a little preoccupied."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. It's just..."

"Your flatmate?" She smiled sympathetically as he nodded in slight surprise. "You said he was in hospital."

"Oh, right." He shrugged. "Well, he's home now, so..."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

John hesitated. He hadn't told anyone about Sherlock's problem since he found out himself... And it was weighing heavily on his mind and on his shoulders, a weight that talking might help lessen... But then, if he wanted to trust Sherlock he needed to be trustworthy himself, and he knew his friend probably wouldn't like having just anyone know.

So he shook his head and gave Sarah a small smile that he hoped looked convincing. "No, it's alright, thanks." He glanced at the office door. "I think I just heard someone come in."

"Oh, you're right-"

She hadn't tried again after that, and John was thankful for it. He might have given in if she had. Finally his shift ended, and just in time too, as he was starting to feel the effects of his poor night's sleep.

He left the clinic, waving goodbye to Sarah, and caught another cab back to 221B.