"Let go of me." Sherlock pulled away and tugged his sleeve back down, turning his back again, and John let him.
"I… know this must be weird for you…"
"Shut up."
"I care."
"Go care about someone else! I don't need your pity!" Sherlock drew himself up to his full height.
"That isn't the way it works, Sherlock. And it's not pity, it's—"
"Disappointment."
"No. Okay, maybe a little, but in myself, not you."
Sherlock frowned. "Why would you be—"
"Because I couldn't stop this! Because I couldn't be enough to convince you that you're not a… a freak, or anything else! Because I can't do anything for my best friend. I'm…" He swallowed and looked anywhere but at him. "I suppose I'm getting more worked up over this than I'm supposed to be. But I can't help that. Because I've always seen this sort of thing from the outside. Patients, stories from other people, but… I've never been so helpless. And I hate it. You're my friend, that means I care about you, and you're… well, you're hurting. Now, I know you'll want to know exactly why I care so much, but I… I couldn't tell you. I don't know. I just do."
Sherlock was quiet, his eyes lowered uncomfortably, clearly perplexed by John's words.
John took another deep breath. "Look. I've been thinking, a lot, and I've come to a conclusion."
The detective looked up, as if trying to read his next sentences in the furrow of his brow, or the set of his jaw.
He wouldn't find anything there.
"I think… All this time, I've been trying to help you. Myself. I've been trying to make you stop, because I couldn't handle watching you do that. I even took all the blades out of the flat, as if that would really do anything. I wanted to force you to quit. But I couldn't do anything about the causes. And I read, somewhere, that one of the first stages of recovery is that… You have to want to get better. I didn't give you the chance."
Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off. "Don't. Okay? Just for a second. This stuff is hard for me. Let me finish."
For a moment it looked like he wouldn't, but then he shut his mouth and looked down again.
"I guess, what I'm getting at is… I'm sorry things happened. And I'm going to have to apologize to Sally, too, later, but… Right now… I do want you to stop. I really, really, want to see you quit. But I'm going to wait until you decide you're ready to. I'm here, but I'm not going to push you. But, just for the record? You are not a freak. Okay? They're all wrong, and you might be a dick sometimes, but you don't deserve that. Ever."
Sherlock was floundering again.
He frowned and glanced from John, down at his hands, and back again in a bewildered sort of way. "…What the hell am I supposed to say to that?"
"Try 'thank you.' Or, if that's too hard, just say you'll think about it. Consider it, alright? I'm really opening up here, the least you could do is try."
"I—I…"
"No, sorry. I didn't mean to say that. That's pushing you. I just… Whenever you're ready."
"I'm not—"
"Don't worry about it. I can wait. I'll just… keep picking you up off as many floors as it takes, until you're ready, I guess."
"John."
"I won't make you do anything you aren't prepared to do, okay? I'm just trying to—"
"John. Shut up."
John blinked. He hadn't expected him to raise his voice.
"Stop talking, and listen to me." Sherlock shut his eyes and took a breath and a moment.
John tilted his head, waiting.
When he finally opened his eyes again he looked resigned but determined, and his voice was soft, low, and controlled.
"Help me."