In all outward respects this felt like any other afternoon spent indoors in the living room of 221B, with the curtains half drawn to block out the bleak pitter-patter of rain on the glass, with Sherlock curled on the sofa in his blue silk dressing gown, and John in the armchair with the reading lamp on, where it was perched precariously on a stack of old science books.

But John wasn't reading; he wouldn't have been able to focus on a book anyway, because this was not quite like just any other afternoon in the flat.

He supposed Sherlock sensed that, as well, but it was just bloody like him not to mention it and to drag out the uncomfortable silence.

Or maybe that was all in John's head.

There had been a lot in there recently. Too much to deal with.

And this, this was probably only going to increase the volume of things he had to worry and think about.

He found himself wishing yet again that he could be like Sherlock and delete particular memories from his mind, and never have to bother with them again. Wouldn't that be lovely.

Which ones he'd delete first was the next question... Perhaps the breakup with his latest girlfriend. He had Sherlock and his smart mouth-which he'd never learned to close-to thank for that one.

Or perhaps he'd delete the moment he'd found out about all this.

That particular moment had been weighing heavily on him ever since, and it never quite left him alone.

The sheer number of scars, the depth of them, the way the deeper cuts reflected a sort of lack of control... It scared him.

And he wasn't even the one who had spent a night in a hospital bed being treated for blood loss.

But it did, because... It was so unlike Sherlock. So... human.

Maybe that was another reason he'd kept it hidden so well; he'd do anything to make sure no one ever knew when he lost control.

Or was it a form of control in itself? Discipline the flesh for what the soul was feeling or needing?

He shook his head dazedly.

This was getting much too philosophical for his own good. Back to reality now.

Sherlock had said then that this was 'an old habit he'd gone back to.' But how old of a habit did that mean? That might be a good place to start, he supposed. At least, he couldn't think of anything better.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Can I talk to you?"

"That depends entirely on what you're going to say." Sherlock rolled over a bit. "If you're worried about the petri dish in the oven, I assure you it isn't as infectious as you think it is."

"No, I-what?"

"Continue. I'm listening." Sherlock stretched out on his back and propped his head up on the couch cushions, lacing his fingers together over his chest.

Well, that just completed the little therapist/patient scene this was likely about to become.

Perfect.

John sighed heavily and scratched the back of his neck. "Look... There's just been something I've been wondering, about this whole cu..." He stopped. "thing." He found he didn't want to say it out loud, for some reason.

"Cutting. That's what you mean, yes?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Of course." He hadn't expected Sherlock to be so blunt about it, but he probably should have, especially from him. "I just... You said it was an old habit."

Sherlock nodded, but offered nothing more. He might as well have just rolled his eyes and said 'so?'

"So I was wondering if you could tell me exactly when that started, if you haven't deleted that too."

A little smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I may have. Is it important to you?"

"Well, it would be nice to know, you know, to help me get a better picture..."

The smile disappeared, and was replaced by a slight frown. "Not this again. I told you before, I was merely bored."

This was definitely going to be a challenge in patience, on John's part.

"...right. Then you telling me when it started would help me figure out exactly what it was that made you bored enough to... to..."

"Cut."

"Yeah. Help us figure out the trigger, you could say."

Sherlock took a breath and let it out again, examining his knuckles as he considered the idea thoughtfully, and apparently didn't find it all that horrible. "Hmm. Perhaps you're right for once."

Going to ignore that one.

"Okay, good." John found himself letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. This was going really well, actually. "Good. So. Do you think you can remember when...?"

"The first time..." Sherlock shut his eyes and rested the tips of his steepled fingers against his lips in deep thought. After a while he nodded, without opening his eyes. "I do seem to remember. 12, I believe."

John sat there for a few seconds, his brow furrowed. "12. 12 years old? Sherlock, that's... I mean..."

What had John been doing back when he was 12 years old?

Softball?

Getting solid B's and C's in school?

Playing tag with his friends?

And meanwhile the young Holmes had been likely holed up in his room with scalpels and razors and whatever demon he was up against...

John found it difficult to imagine even being aware that self mutilation was an option at that age.

He wished Sherlock hadn't been aware either.

But it was much, much too late for that.

But if it started when Sherlock was 12, then he would still have been living at home. And it must have continued for a long time, so why hadn't anyone noticed? Admittedly, it had taken John himself an entire year to realize-but still, his parents...

"Didn't anyone... You know, find out? Try to stop you?"

Sherlock scoffed, and really did roll his eyes this time. "Who would find out? My parents were practically living overseas at that point, and Mycroft spent days at a time away at school."

"So who were you living with, then?"

"Myself." He smirked condescendingly. "I, unlike most children my age, was mature enough to take care of myself."

Wait, that meant...

"Maturity has nothing to do with it. What you're telling me is that you were basically alone for days and days in your house with no one to talk to, or..."

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I want to talk to anyone?"

"Of course. Why would you want to do that..." John spoke with quiet resignation, pursing his lips and resting his chin in his palm. "Do you think that was part of it?"

"Mm?" Sherlock glanced over at him, for the first time since the conversation began.

"Er, do you think that all that solitude could have made you a little, well, lonely? And maybe that-" He continued quickly before Sherlock could say whatever he was surely about to come out with. "-could have resulted in you being bored. Bored enough to do this."

Sherlock lay back again and considered. "Hmm... Bored... You know, that might be a just slightly feasible hypothesis. I'm surprised you came up with something so logical."

John almost smiled.

But not quite.

His heart clenched at seeing how eagerly Sherlock latched onto this little game that let him direct the focus of the conversation onto anything other than his own feelings, how he was so pleased to be able to explain his problem away in terms of boredom and logic and maturity... How contented he was to pretend it didn't exist, or that John didn't know...

It was almost pitiful.

And John felt sorry for him.

But he could never have said that, or this entire thing would backfire and all the careful work he had done to keep the conversation going without making Sherlock feel he was being psychoanalyzed would go to waste.

God.

This was so backwards.

Sherlock was supposed to be the one psychoanalyzing, if any such thing needed to be done, not John.

Then again... quite a lot of things seemed to be backwards these days.