John rose early that morning, acutely aware that he hadn't slept a wink.
He hadn't been able to.
Every time he closed his eyes, something had forced itself into his semi-conscious mind—the fall, the look in Jim Moriarty's eyes, the promise of something more to come...
Not a very relaxing environment, honestly.
He rubbed a hand across his eyes roughly and stumbled into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffeemaker. At that moment, that was all he could let himself think about.
Hot, bitter, caffeinated...
"Hmm...?" As he stood by the sink his eyes fell on something laying on the countertop; something small and thin and reflective in the morning gloom.
For several moments he forgot to turn the tap off.
For several more he didn't care.
Razor blade.
Razor... blade...
His head snapped up and he looked toward the detective's room; the door was shut, and the light was off. But that didn't automatically mean he was asleep.
What if...
"Sherlock?" Coffee forgotten, John went over and knocked on the door.
When there was no answer he started to feel a slight flutter in his chest.
Fuck privacy.
He couldn't risk it.
There was a soft click as he turned the knob and pushed the door open, flooding the room beyond with dim light that stretched off into the far corners. The bedcovers rustled, and Sherlock groaned groggily.
"Sherlock."
"Mm... Go away..."
"I will, but can you sit up for a minute?" John's eyes searched for any signs—anything at all—but found nothing.
The detective rolled over and glared up at him through narrowed eyes, not bothering to brush aside the messy curls that cascaded down into his face. "What."
"Morning to you, too, sunshine. I just... um... can I check you over? Really quickly?"
"You could at least buy me dinner first..."
"I'm not joking! You know what I mean!"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further, and he raised an eyebrow. "I assume you mean as a doctor, but... I don't see why you would..."
John crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, you don't see why?! I think it should be pretty damn obvious!"
"John...? Have you been drinking...?" Sherlock groaned under his breath. "It's too early for this..." He rolled back over and pulled a pillow over his head in an attempt to block the doctor out.
But John would not be blocked.
"I'm not playing around, Sherlock! Listen, dammit! If you're... having trouble, you can come talk to me, okay? I just... don't want to see you go back down that road again."
Sherlock pushed the pillow aside and looked up at him quizzically. "What on earth are you going on about now?"
"You... you left a blade on the counter. I worried maybe... I mean, I can't help but think..."
"No I didn't."
John stopped, frowning. "It's okay to admit it. I won't judge you. I just don't want you to start doing that again."
"No, I didn't do that. I don't have a blade."
"Sherlock...?"
"I'm not lying—don't give me that look!" Sherlock sat bolt upright, scowling darkly. "I didn't do it!"
"Okay, but can I just see your arms...?"
"Like hell you can! You don't need to, because I didn't do anything! I'm telling you the bloody truth, okay?!" The detective had drawn himself up defensively, bristling as John took a step closer.
"If you didn't, then there's no need to be so defensive. Just let me check you."
"You're doubting me!"
"No, I'm just worried about you."
"Leave me the hell alone!" Sherlock kicked the duvet off and swung his long legs off the side of the bed, stalking past him into the kitchen. "I'm telling you, I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!"