"Come on, John." Greg leaned over the desk and looked at him wearily. "Just explain to me exactly why you punched my sergeant, and then maybe—maybe—I can talk her out of pressing charges."

John fidgeted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable, and not very willing to meet his eye.

Lestrade sighed heavily. "This better be a bloody good reason, too."

"She called Sherlock 'Freak.'"

"I know that was uncalled for, and I'm sorry, but she's called him that before and you didn't hit her. What's changed?"

John put his face in his palm and mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"He's hurting himself, Greg." He lifted his head and tried to look at him. "Sherlock. And she's exactly why… Scars all up and down his… And I can't even… I…" He sucked in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth, trying to hold his cool. "I can't… do anything for him. I can't help him… I can't… And when Sally said… when she called him a… and he didn't even… say anything, I just…"

Lestrade was silent for a minute, staring at him, his brow furrowed. "You're serious?"

"Of course I'm serious! I wouldn't have told you, but—I don't know what to do anymore! I don't like to hit women, either, but she just—I don't know—" He paused for breath. "I couldn't control it. She hurt him."

"Sherlock's really…?" He tilted his head, and glanced down at the desk to avoid John's eyes. "He's… He's really started that again?"

John's head snapped up. "'Again?' You knew?"

"Well, I mean, I've known him for a pretty good while, since he started helping the Yard out on cases, so… Yeah. Yeah I've picked him up off a couple floors, in my time. Didn't think it would come back like this, though…"

"You mean to tell me… All this time… You knew this about him," John nearly had to bite his tongue. "And you didn't tell me. Hmm?"

"Well, I—"

"You knew. And I didn't. His best friend."

"I didn't think he'd—"

"Are there ANY OTHER life threatening problems he's got that I don't know about?! ANYTHING else you should tell me?! How the hell am I supposed to be of any good around here if NOBODY TELLS ME SHIT?!"

"Look, I know you're upset, alright? And I'm sorry, but I didn't tell you because… that just seemed like something… if he wanted you to know, he'd tell you himself."

"And look where that's got us! A bloody hospital stay and over a month of lost sleep, on my part! I knew he was an addict the first day, I just didn't know what else he was so stuck on! A little warning would have been nice!"

"What was I supposed to say? 'John Watson, meet Sherlock Holmes. He's a fucking genius who did cocaine and cut himself'?!"

John let out a big breath and put his face back in his hands. "I'm sorry. Sorry… I'm just… under a lot of stress, recently."

"I know…" Greg sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "You must be worried. I'll try talking to Donovan for you."

...

When he came out of Lestrade's office Donovan was sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting room, holding an ice pack to her cheek. She looked up at him with a grimace. "Looking for your boyfriend?"

"For the last time—I AM NOT GAY!"

"Could have fooled me. You're bloody protective." She readjusted the ice pack and glowered at him. "Anyway, he left twenty minutes ago."

"I don't have time for this…" John clenched his teeth and held up a finger pointedly, glaring directly into Donovan's eyes. "Did you say anything else to him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. You hit me."

"Just answer my question! Did you say any other horrible things to him while I was in there?"

She rolled her eyes and crossed her legs, leaning an elbow on the arm of the chair. "Jesus… you take the cake for biggest over-reaction I've seen so far, this year."

"No, this is important! You—wouldn't understand."

"Well, no. I didn't say anything." Sally settled into the chair and gave him a haughty, insolent look.

"I'm so done with this…" John turned on his heel and headed out to catch a cab.

Sherlock wasn't there when he got back to the flat.

He checked all the rooms, even his own, but there was no sign of the detective anywhere.

Where could he have…?

John stopped in the middle of the living room and took out his mobile, dialling quickly.

It was probably just his over-wrought nerves, but he couldn't help but worry.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Four…

Beep.

'Sherlock Holmes. Obviously busy; leave a message after the tone. Or not. I probably won't check it.'

"Sherlock. Where the hell are you? I thought we talked about you disappearing like this. Call me, when you get this, and… change your voicemail message already, you arse."

He stood there for a few minutes after he'd hung up, looking down at his mobile.

Come on, Sherlock…

Call back already…

Finally he couldn't stand the silence anymore, and dialled another number. He only had to wait for two and a half rings this time.

"Hello, Molly Hooper."

"Hey, Molly, it's John. Watson. You're at work now, right? Listen, is Sherlock down there?"

"What? Um… no, I haven't seen him since he came down to get those fingers last week. Sorry. Is… um… is it important? I mean, is he alright?"

"Yeah, yeah probably. I just… overprotective. That's all. Just wondered where he was, since he's not returned my calls. It's probably fine. Thanks, I'll talk to you later, maybe."

The next twenty—or perhaps forty—minutes were spent alternately pacing from the window to the armchair and back again, and sitting with the mobile in his lap, willing it to make a sound.

When it finally did, John caught his breath and jolted in the chair.

One new message:

The voicemail is fine. –SH

He took a deep breath and let it out again, trying to force his heart rate back to normal.

Why was he so anxious, anyway…?

Jesus Sherlock—you nearly gave me a heart attack! –JW

What did I do? –SH

You left me hanging for over half an hour! I was worried something had happened to you! –JW

It was only 37 minutes. I was unaware I needed to send in a report of my coordinates. Wouldn't a GPS tracker be more efficient? –SH

That's not what I meant… I just worried. –JW

About what? –SH

You. Obviously. I've said that. –JW

"Don't be. I was only doing a little shopping."

He looked up as the door opened and Sherlock came in with a plastic bag in one hand and his mobile in the other.

John felt like letting himself fall face-first onto the couch and staying there all afternoon, not having to move another muscle. But instead he pushed himself up from the chair and faced Sherlock.

"You, doing shopping? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, um… we were running a bit low on antiseptic and bandages, so…"

"Sherlock…"

The detective cleared his throat uneasily and turned away to put the bag on the kitchen table and begin to undo the knot in his scarf.

"Is this a… confession…?"

"It's… something of the sort, I suppose. Yes."

That couch was looking more and more inviting.

John stared at Sherlock's back, still holding his mobile tightly. He took a hesitant step toward him. "Sherlock, you said… I mean, you promised you'd…"

"And I couldn't do it! Okay? I couldn't. I promised, and I failed, because I always—" He paused, looking down at his hands. "…It's not even important."

"Shut up. No, shut up. I punched a woman for you, back there. I've stayed right here. I have tried so damn hard to help you, when I didn't have to. So don't you dare say it isn't important. Right? Don't you dare say that you aren't important."

Sherlock seemed frozen. Then he glanced back at him with a bewildered look in his eyes. "Why did you do that, anyway?"

"I… she was being cruel to you, again. It made me angry."

"…Interesting… you felt anger on my behalf…?"

"Well, I'm tired of watching people act like shit toward my best friend and then watching you pretend like it doesn't bother you! Is that really so strange?!" He looked back into Sherlock's face, and then his shoulders slumped. "Of course it is, to you… You still don't get it, do you…?"

Sherlock pulled his scarf the rest of the way off. "It doesn't bother me."

"Yeah, that's bullshit. Let's see it."

"No."

"Sherlock, please. We've come this far, now I want to see if it needs treatment."

"It doesn't… I would know… I—"

John closed the space between them in a few steps. "I'm not playing around. Show me."

Sherlock looked down at him hesitantly, and then set his jaw and took off his coat so he could unbutton his left cuff and pull up the sleeve.

John held him by the wrist and carefully examined the new damage in silence for several uncomfortable minutes. When he looked up at him again he met his eyes pointedly. "Are you sure it doesn't bother you?"

The recent cuts had just begun to heal, enough to give an idea of what they would look like once they became permanent scars, including the one word carved into his pale skin. The first and only word he'd ever engraved into his own flesh.

'Freak.'