When the cab pulled up in front of the flat he sat there for a minute or so, just trying to ready himself to go inside.
All this worry was taking a lot out of him. He finally opened the door and got out, looking up at the building and letting out a big breath, watching a few snowflakes spiraling down to earth.
Why did this have to happen...?
But everything would be alright. He and Sherlock would work through this, and everything would go back to the way it was before and it would all be fine.
He nodded to himself and shivered in the cold. He went up the steps and unlocked the door, edging inside so he let in as little frigid air as possible.
Mrs. Hudson met him in the foyer, giving him a warm smile. "Welcome home, dear. I checked on Sherlock like you asked, about an hour ago. He seemed just fine."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He returned her smile, but didn't think his own looked half as reassuring.
As he climbed the steps he mumbled to himself quietly, trying to get the excess thoughts out of his head, to lessen the painful tightness in his chest.
Was this the way Sherlock felt sometimes...? He pushed open the door and went into the flat. He was exhausted, and didn't pay any particular attention to anything around him, not even to switch on the lights.
...why were the lights off?
John swung his bag from his shoulder and tossed it onto the table, looking around in the dim room. "Sherlock?" He moved forward and felt his way around. "Sherlock are you in here?"
The grate in the fireplace had been moved.
Strange.
He determined the living-room to be quite empty of Sherlock, and was about to go back to turn on the lights-as he should have done before-when he noticed the soft glow under the detective's bedroom door. John paused with his hand on the doorknob. Should he knock? He decided to try once, and when he got no response he bit his lip and pushed the door open anyway. "Are you awake...?"
He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. Then his breath caught.
"Oh god, Sherlock-"
...
Sherlock looked up from his seat on the bed with an almost dead gaze. He held the scalpel tightly, as if it were a lifeline that might slip away if he let go. His face was unreadable, but his lips trembled ever so slightly.
John took in the scalpel, the little wooden box that stood open beside him on the blankets, filled with an assortment of blades, his rolled up sleeves—and acted before he even had time to think.
He tackled him in his haste and wrenched the scalpel from his hands as Sherlock held on, leaning forward and mumbling pleadingly, "John, please—no—I didn't— let go... Please... please..."
John didn't speak. He couldn't. He was aware, through a rushing haze of adrenaline, that he was holding Sherlock too tightly, that he was hurting him—but he could only focus on getting that scalpel away from him. Sherlock's grip loosened enough for him to pry the blade from his fingers and throw it as far away from them as he could. He wrestled him down onto the blankets and held him there, pinned on his back.
Sherlock shut his eyes, struggling to push him away. "Get off! I wasn't going to—"
"YOU HAD MORE BLADES!" John leaned over him and quickly examined his exposed arms, searching frantically for the fresh cuts he knew must be there.
But he couldn't find any...
"No—I wasn't—"
John gripped handfuls of his shirt in his fists. "WHAT DID YOU DO?! SHERLOCK, WHAT DID YOU—"
"I WASN'T GOING TO DO IT!" Sherlock's voice finally broke, and he lay there glaring up at him with gritted teeth and a faint flush on his cheeks.
"But you... I saw..."
"I thought about it, but I wasn't going to do it!" He hissed. "I decided not to!"
He'd... What?
John sat back a bit and allowed him some room to breathe. If—IF—he could believe him, this would be a huge step in the right direction. But just yesterday he hadn't even acknowledged that it was hurting him... Was it too much to hope that this was the truth?
Yes. Yes it was.
"Sherlock…" He let out a long, pent up breath and rested his forehead on the detective's chest in pure exhaustion. "Look. I just want this to stop. You say you're just bored. So what if I do everything I can to keep you from being bored, and we'll see if that helps, okay?"
John knew it was bull. Sherlock wasn't bored. But he had to find a way to prove it, and if being straightforward didn't work, then he was willing to try humoring him.
John was a doctor, not a psychologist, but he liked to think he could also be whatever the situation demanded-and if Sherlock had reason enough to self harm then there must also be reason for him to have a nice long talk with someone who would listen, i.e. a therapist.
But this was Sherlock.
That was unthinkable.
Preposterous, even.
So John, with his insufficient training and licensing in this particular area, would have to do.