I am so sorry this took me so long to update. I had exams and then I lost motivation for this story and then when I did get around to writing it again I was never happy with it so kept on rewriting bits. Right now its at a stage where I don't absolutely hate it so I'm going to post it so I don't freak out about it again and rewrite all of it. I hope it was worth the wait. This is the penultimate chapter so I will try and get the last one up relatively quickly. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so far, I love you all. And I'm going to ask you all very nicely to drop a review. By now you've probably got the general idea of how much I love receive reviews! :D

It's nothing to worry about

Chapter 6- I'm better, I promise (I've never been this bad)

John frowned as Sherlock absentmindedly scratched at the crook of his elbow. The detective was bored and, as per usual, had been pretty vocal about it until John left to work at the surgery. Well, he probably carried on shouting for a few hours until he either realised John had left or, and more likely, got bored of shouting. Now John stood in the doorway watching his oblivious friend as he obviously was craving drugs. Even though John was not impressed with the cutting he couldn't help but feel a swell of pride that the detective had not turned to his other dangerous vice.

The doctor really was dreading that conversation, the one he really needed to have but was desperately trying to avoid. At first he told himself that as soon as Sherlock's temperature was down he would talk to him. Retrospectively it would have been best if John had gone through with that plan, at least then the detective would be too weak to run of anywhere whilst John was trying to speak to him. Then John told himself that as soon as Sherlock had recovered completely they'd talk. However it was a fortnight since Sherlock started on cases again and John was yet to speak to him.

"John, this is your flat too. You are allowed to come in instead of spending the night half in and half out." The sound of his friend's baritone voice caused John to jump; Sherlock wasn't even looking at him. He would never get used to Sherlock's seemingly psychic capabilities.

"Of course," John mumbled as he entered the room before automatically making his way through to the kitchen. "Fancy a cuppa?" To this Sherlock make a non-committal grunt which John took as a yes. Having lived with the man for a few years he'd learnt to interpret the unintelligible noises made by the detective. He made the tea in silence; silence was something common to 221b. It was strange really, there would either be no noise at all or there would be so much it was impossible to even think (this normally occurred when there was a case on). The quiet wasn't awkward though and that was the beauty of their relationship. They didn't need to fill each moment with inane chatter; John always felt a relationship like that would only last for as long as there was something to talk about. But a relationship where you were comfortable to simply be in someone else's presence, that was one which would last.

The doctor set the teas down on the table and grabbed the newspaper off Sherlock's cluttered desk. Just as he collapsed into his chair he saw a hint of red on Sherlock's sleeve. It was bright so it was either from a fresh wound or a reopened one. Either way John knew he was going to have to talk to Sherlock then. "Sherlock?" There was no reply; whatever the man was doing in his mind must have been interesting. "Sherlock!" John called a little louder rousing his friend from whatever it was he was doing.

"What?" the detective snapped. "I'm busy."

"Your tea's ready."

"Hmm? Thanks." John took a deep breath as Sherlock reached out for the tea, the stain on his sleeve was larger than the doctor had anticipated. Sherlock was being careless with his secret tonight and this worried John almost as much as the blood did.

"Hang on," he said before Sherlock could raise his mug to his lips. "Let me check your arms, I want to make sure everything is healing ok and that nothing is infected."

"What on earth are you talking about John?" Sherlock asked with his normal mask of disinterested pasted onto his face though John was sure he saw a flash of something akin to panic in his friend's eyes. The doctor took another deep breath; there was no going back now. Everything in him screamed to be gentle but Sherlock would not appreciate it if he beat around the bush.

"I know about the cutting Sherlock. When you were ill and had that high fever I saw the cuts and the scars. There's no point in denying it because I've seen. So please let me help you, even if it is only physically."

The detective looked at him with his mysterious eyes. Normally they were cold and calculating but now they just looked desperate, looking for any sign that John was bluffing. When all he found was sincerity in John's face he slammed the mug of tea down on the coffee table causing it to slosh out over his pale skin. The doctor winced knowing how hot the beverage still was but that was soon forgotten when he looked at his friend's face as he stood up. He looked so scared, his eyes were wide and flittering about desperately. His mouth was held slightly open in an expression of shock and he was beginning to breathe heavily, almost in panic. Slowly John stood up from his seat, arms outstretched, palms facing up to make himself as unthreatening as possible.

"It's ok, I'm not angry and I'm not upset, I just want to help you." The doctor slowly approached his frightened friend who watched him warily as he approached. He stood his ground until John was in arm's reach at which point he couldn't stay still any longer. He jumped back, made eye contact with John for a brief moment and then dashed into his room, door slamming behind him as he left. John sighed and rubbed his face in frustration; that had not been what he expected. Shouting, that's what he anticipated with maybe Sherlock disappearing into his room afterwards but a terrified detective; that was not what he was prepared for. As such he felt totally unequipped to deal with the situation. There was Mycroft but he didn't want to call him.

After a few minutes of standing on the spot contemplating what he should do John made his way to Sherlock's room, cup of tea in hand, and he knocked tentatively on his best friend's door. There was no reply; not that he had really been expecting one. "Sherlock, I'm coming in so if you're not decent now would be the time to tell me." Once again he was met with silence so John presumed that he had the all clear. Gently, so as not to scare the obviously spooked man, John twisted the door handle and silently the door swung open. Sherlock's room was dimly lit and sparsely decorated. Sitting on the bed, with arms encircling his knees which were drawn up under his chin, sat Sherlock. He was staring off into the distance as if he were unaware of John's presence. However John was pretty sure Sherlock did know he was in the room, he always seemed to notice when John entered a room but not usually when he left, curious.

Sherlock was aware that John had entered his room but it was like he was stuck in his mind, reliving a memory with no way to escape. He could smell the bitter scent of alcohol on his father's breath as he screamed in his face. Dirty, thick fingernails biting into his frail flesh as his father gripped his biceps and shook him repeatedly and his head bashed against the wall each time. He was becoming disorientated and woozy. In the background he could hear John's voice calling him but he couldn't escape. His Father's harsh words were keeping him trapped in the nightmare of a memory. "Nobody can know about this, about this cutting. Urgh, you make me ashamed to be my son. Why can't you be more like Mycroft? He wouldn't do something so foolish or, or emotional. I tried to raise you correctly; something must have gone wrong somewhere. You'll pay for this my boy, you mark my words." Sherlock could feel himself being dragged upstairs and thrown into a dark cupboard, yet because of the number of times his head had been hit off the wall he was unable to try and defend himself, not that it would have helped. But now he was alone, in the dark and…

Suddenly he saw John crouched in front of him. Good, kind hearted Dr John Hamish Watson. He was always there, why was he always so kind? Sherlock looked up at his friend, his best friend, his only friend. Sherlock's eyes were surprisingly dry considering all he wanted to do was breakdown but John could see the pain which was emanating from his eyes. Had it been anyone else he would have taken them into an embrace but this was Sherlock, who knew if that would help or make things infinitely worse. In the end he sat on the bed next to his friend and put an arm on his shoulder. The detective moved instinctively into the touch so John wrapped his arm round Sherlock's bony shoulders and smiled as Sherlock lay his head on John's shoulder. The doctor could feel every movement caused by his friend's shuddering breathing and, in what was almost a paternal action, drew him closer to his body in a need to protect the younger man.

The two friends sat there in silence for a long time, Sherlock trying to match his breathing to John's in an attempt to keep calm and John listened to every hitch in Sherlock's breathing as he resisted the urge to cry. At some point John's back started causing him grief as he was partially supporting Sherlock's weight as well as his own. So he lay Sherlock down on the bed, being sure to keep the man close in case he started to panic, and lay beside him. The instant John was horizontal Sherlock curled up towards his body, burying his face in the doctor's woollen jumper at his shoulder before taking a deep breath of satisfaction. The older man smiled as he began to run his fingers absentmindedly through the other man's curls, perhaps Sherlock would let him help, perhaps everything would be alright in the end.

The next morning the light broke through the curtains causing John to wake. It took a few moments for him to remember what had happened but when he did remember he panicked; Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He sat up quickly causing him to become dizzy and he grabbed the mattress desperately to remain upright. It was whilst he was trying to regain balance that he heard the shower running and he breathed a sigh of relief. Sherlock never took long in the shower so John went to make a cup of tea and it was at perfect drinking temperature when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. His cheeks were tinged slightly red making him look more alive than he had recently. However this look was not aided by his frankly gaunt looking cheeks and the way his dressing gown hung off him.

The detective made a bee-line for the tea and nodded his thanks to John before plonking himself down at the table. The doctor turned and put some toast in the toaster, he was going to make his friend eat even if it killed him. Whilst that was on John sat down opposite Sherlock and lowered the newspaper that Sherlock had appeared to magic out of nowhere and started to read. The detective looked at John curiously but he didn't get angry at being interrupted, normally he'd get angry. "Sherlock, look, I want to talk to you about last night."

"Ah."

"Yes, well, I'm not going to try to force you to talk about how you feel, I know that is difficult for you. I would like to encourage you to talk to someone though. That could be me if you want, it could be Lestrade or Mycroft…" At this Sherlock let out a loud laugh and John smiled sadly. "You can talk to a professional if you want. Quite frankly I don't care who you talk to, and I can't make you talk to anyone. But as your friend and as the only doctor you ever bother to listen to and even that is rarely at best, I really hope you do. Even you should realise that the cutting and not eating can't carry on."

Sherlock looked John straight in the eye and gave him the most sincere look he could muster. "I know how this looks John but I assure you I am recovered from what I was like as a teenager…"

"Sherlock!"

"No, let me finish. Sometimes I have relapses, I will admit this is one of them, but mostly I have recovered. I am better and I am well on the way to recovering from this relapse. So please refrain from trying to make me talk about feelings which I do not have to you or some random stranger. It is bound to do more harm than good." At this the sound of toast popping out of the toaster was heard from the kitchen. "Ah, were you making toast John? I am absolutely famished." Sure thought John to himself. He knew Sherlock was just trying to distract him, he knew everything Sherlock just told him was a lie and he knew that Sherlock knew it was a lie too. However any opportunity to get Sherlock to eat could not be passed off so John stood up. He's think of a better way of broaching the topic. And next time, he'd make sure Sherlock was being honest with him.