What about John?
What about him?
The same thought tumbled over and over in Sherlock's mind in the following days like an animal caught in a trap. He went over it again and again, sounding out the words, applying meanings, related words, definitions, applications, possibilities, conjectures, hypothetical situations, variable details-and yet he could not come to any satisfying conclusion.
Was it selfish of him?
...if John cared?
If John cared, was Sherlock then doing something horrible and unforgivable by still wanting to hurt himself? How could that be, if it had all began long before John had even entered the picture? After that first time, it was more than difficult to stop. And after so many years...
And yet, Sherlock ought to have absolute, unyielding control over himself. If that were true then he ought to be able to just stop.
Cold turkey.
Right?
So why was it so hard? He cringed to think that maybe he was powerless in the face of something that should have been completely under his control. It was all self-inflicted.
Why couldn't he stop wanting it?
Addiction:
Main Entry: ad·dic·tion
Pronunciation: \ə-ˈdik-shən, a-\
Function: noun
Date: 1599
1 : the quality or state of being addicted addiction to reading (or self-injury) 2 : compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal ; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful.
Sherlock frowned quietly to himself. He'd faced other addictions before, and subsequently beat them, with some difficulty.
This should not be any different. Therefore he could claim no logical excuse.
Unwilling:
Main Entry: un·will·ing
Pronunciation: \-ˈwi-liŋ\
Function: adjective
Date: before 12th century
: not willing: a : loath, reluctant was unwilling to learn b : done or given reluctantly unwilling approval c : offering opposition : obstinate: an unwilling student
This must be his stumbling block.
It WAS his fault. It WAS selfish of him. And therefore...
Sherlock shifted from his position on the sofa and twisted about carefully to glance at John, who was typing away on his laptop, obliviously busy.
He must hate him...
How could Sherlock have been blind to this?
Self correction: he had not been blind, he had been unwilling to face the whole truth because of what it meant.
Because he'd been afraid of that.
-No, afraid was a hateful word.
Substitution...
'Adverse.'
He'd been adverse to what that meant.
And even if Sherlock had been clean from his bloody little addiction for the past two months and 12 days, that meant nothing. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't enough to wash away the guilt that already lay on him like a heavy layer of toxic sediment. And everyone could see it.
Everyone knew just how heartless he was.
What a failure of a friend he continued to be.
Normally it wouldn't have bothered him that people thought he didn't have a heart, that he was cold and unfeeling-but for some reason he now felt a pang of something... an urge to prove wrong anyone who thought Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less about his blogger.
Of course he did.
Of course...
John was his blogger, assistant, and best friend. To be perfectly clear. His.
And Sherlock would not allow anything to happen to that. If that meant becoming painfully aware of his own most recent faults and short-comings in order to face them head-on and to mend them, then so be it.
He could take it.
Sherlock sat there for a long time, watching John work, half-attempting to read his focussed expression while at the same time not bothering to put on any sort of smile or untroubled mien; it didn't matter.
John wasn't looking at him.
Eventually, finding no success in reading John's inner thoughts, he sighed quietly and lay back again. Even if he couldn't see it directly, he knew it must be there.
Hatred? Anger. Disappointment. Frustration. Pity.
Bad things.
He supposed that this was the sort of time normal people took to say 'sorry.'
But a simple word didn't seem to fit. It didn't seem to be anywhere close to enough to atone for Sherlock's mistakes. How that useless practice came to be commonplace in society was beyond him.
A word wouldn't fix anything.
All it could ever do was represent the idea that perhaps the apologetic party was beginning to feel vaguely remorseful for his actions-not that he had any intention of or plan to actually do anything about it.
Stupid.
But he really did. So saying it wouldn't be necessary. John would know.
Sherlock would make sure of that.
How, he wasn't exactly sure. But somehow he would.
Regardless, it was his fault he was in this mess in the first place, and that he had something to feel guilty about.
It pressed in on his chest like ten pound weights; it gripped at his shoulders and threatened to drag him down through the floorboards into its soot-lined lair; it dragged its icy fingertips over his old scars and made them tingle with...
Anticipation?
No...
NO...
Please no... not right now... not back to this again...
It was just like it used to be.
John in his armchair, busy and oblivious, and Sherlock on the sofa, fighting that painful longing all over again.
He couldn't...
This could not be happening.
Not so soon after he'd determined to fix what he'd messed up. To give in would be... That is, he would...
He was aware that he was stressing, and that perhaps that in turn would be a trigger to him-but he couldn't back down from what he had to do. He couldn't give up.
He couldn't just say sorry and hope for the best. He had to do something.
Anything that happened was and would be his own fault, completely, plain and simple.
Idiot:
Main Entry: id·i·ot
Pronunciation: \ˈi-dē-ət\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French ydiote, from Latin idiota ignorant person, from Greek idiōtēs one in a private station, layman, ignorant person, from idios one's own, private.
Date: 14th century
:1 usually offensive : a person affected with extreme mental retardation 2 : a foolish or stupid person