Hey guys, it's me again. I know it's been ages since I updated. I really am sorry about that. Do you remember that one time where I said this would be the last chapter? I remember saying that. Anyway, the long and the short of it is I got a request which I really liked so no last chapter for you just yet. Hope you don't mind.

I found this chapter really difficult to write actually, it was by far the hardest to write by far. I think it's because I got rid of Sherlock's support base (you'll see what I mean when you read it). I feel kind of bad but I will rectify the situation in the next chapter. I found the characterisation in this really difficult too so I hope it is ok. All in all I am pretty nervous about posting this chapter. I really hope that this was worth the wait. And, don't forget to review. :D

It's nothing to worry about

Chapter 7- Part 1

I'm ok (I just want to die)

Three months later

John stumbled up the stairs with two heavy bags of shopping in each hand and barged loudly in through the door of 221b, dropping the shopping onto the kitchen floor. He gave a sigh of relief, massaging the dents that the bags had left on his hands. Turning around he saw Sherlock, in his new favourite position, which was lying on his back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, with his legs together and arms spread wide. His dressing gown was spread out beneath him making it look like he was wearing a cape. "I'm back," John commented stepping over his friend heading to the window, he'd made it back just in time, rain had just begun to pour from the rapidly darkening sky.

When he turned around he saw Sherlock had stopped staring at the ceiling and had, instead, decided that John was a much more worthy recipient of his scrutiny. Although to John it didn't look like Sherlock was looking at him, it was more like he was simply looking in his general direction. It had been three months since Sherlock's cutting had come to light and he did seem much better now. On the odd occasion John tried to bring it up in conversation, desperate that Sherlock should talk about so hopefully they could avoid another relapse. But Sherlock flat-out refused to talk about it. He didn't get angry which John found quite peculiar, he just simply didn't talk. So instead John had to be content with watching Sherlock closely, looking for any indication that he'd started his nasty habit again. But he found no sign or symptom, Sherlock was back to his normal self, which was far from what anybody else would describe as normal. Perhaps the detective was better, it was hard to tell, Sherlock was fantastic at hiding something if he so desired to. John had never seen anyone switch a persona as quickly as Sherlock could whilst dealing with witnesses when he was on a case.

"Bored!" The familiar cry snapped John out of his reverie.

"Well do something then," John replied stepping back over his friend; Sherlock's eyes followed him to the kitchen.

"There is nothing to do," Sherlock groaned and then sighed dramatically. "Do you want a game of Cluedo?"
"Ah, no," John replied hastily determined to nip that idea in the bud. "Anyway, I've got a date soon." He began opening cupboards to put the shopping away.

"Dull."

"Yes, well, not all of us thrive on isolating ourselves from the rest of the world. Why don't you do an experiment, but preferably one which doesn't set fire to our kitchen, or make much of a mess come to think of it?" At this Sherlock sat straight up and looked at John enthusiastically.

"Do you have an idea for an experiment?" His voice had a hint of excitement in it and his eyes had lit up causing John to feel just the tiniest pang of guilt.

"No, I just assumed you'd have a few thought up in that great brain of yours." At this Sherlock flopped back onto the floor with a thump causing John to wince; that was sure to bruise.

"Don't be such an idiot John, if there was anything remotely interesting to do I would have done it or still be doing it." The older man simply grunted in reply, unwilling to continue the conversation so instead kept on going with unpacking the shopping. The silence continued for another few minutes before Sherlock broke it once again. "John!" he shouted despite being in the next room whilst the door was left open.

"What?" John asked irritably, looking up to meet the detective's eyes from where he was sprawled on the floor.

"I'm thirsty."

"Well got yourself a damn drink then." At this Sherlock huffed and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

As soon as he was done packing up the shopping John sighed, he really didn't want to make Sherlock a cup of tea but he wanted one. If he made himself a cup then he knew he would end up making one for Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to help himself. Eventually he resigned himself to the inevitable and switched the kettle on. Immediately Sherlock appeared at the doorway to the kitchen and gave John a faint smile. "Thank you." John muttered something about Sherlock being a nuisance and then instantly regretted it when he saw a brief look of hurt flash across Sherlock's face.

"Don't worry John, I-I'll make it." The change in his demeanour was astonishing and worrying at the same time.

"No, its ok, I'm doing it now. Thanks for the offer though," John replied warily, watching Sherlock's facial expressions very carefully.

Something was up with Sherlock, John knew. Whilst John was waiting for the kettle to boil he put the teabags in the cups but Sherlock couldn't keep still. The doctor had expected him to go and lie back down on the floor but he didn't, he was fidgeting on the spot, running pale fingers through his dark curls. "Sherlock, go and sit down, I'll bring you your tea in a minute." The detective practically ran out of the room, there was definitely something wrong. It could be that the man was just bored but this did seem different somehow. He seemed agitated in a way and an agitated Sherlock was never a good thing, usually when he was bored he'd be manic or completely unresponsive.

A few minutes later John emerged from the kitchen with a cup of tea in each hand. Sherlock was perched on the sofa, crouching on the edge, with his hands pressed together as if he were praying. The doctor placed the detective's cup of tea on the table in front of him before collapsing into his chair with his own cup. Quickly he glanced at the clock; he had thirty minutes before his date would be arriving. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should stay in with Sherlock but he quickly dismissed the idea. There had been far too many dates cancelled on account of Sherlock for one reason or another.

He took a sip of his tea, relishing in the bitter yet familiar taste of it. "Are you alright Sherlock?" John asked; his concern had grown to a point where he could no longer keep quiet. In response Sherlock grunted, looked up and saw the tea, then nearly fell from his perch when he reached for it. 'That's odd,' John thought. 'He's usually so steady.' He tried again. "Sherlock, listen, I'm worried about you." This seemed to get the detective's attention.

"Don't worry about me, I'm fine." He too took a drink from his cup, less bitter than John's due to the sugar, but it felt familiar and safe, just like John did.

"You seem agitated." A thought suddenly popped into the doctor's head and he frowned in concern. "Sherlock, if you feel like you're relapsing, into any of your old habits…" John was trying to be tactful but he didn't think it was working, Sherlock was sitting there looking at him curiously and it was unnerving. "You need to tell me if you're going to do something which will cause you harm, I'll be able to help you."

"I am fine, I'm absolutely fine."

John nodded at Sherlock's attempt to reassure him. The doctor in him was telling him that something was still amiss here; he just couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't have time to ponder such things, he had a date to get ready for. And Sherlock just seemed in the mood where he wouldn't move if he didn't have to, so even if he wanted to there was very little chance he would do something stupid.

With that made up in his mind John downed the rest of his tea and stood up. "What're you doing?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I'm grabbing a shower before I go out?"

"You're going out?"

"Yes Sherlock, I've got a date. I told you."

"Hmm, must have deleted it."

"Of course you did," John muttered irritably before heading off for his shower.

Twenty-five minutes later the doorbell rang and Sherlock made no move to answer it. It rang a couple more times before John shouted from the bathroom. "Sherlock, will you get that? Mrs Hudson's out at the moment." At this the detective muttered in annoyance, considered ignoring John but then decided he'd be nice just this once and answer it. Slowly he trudged down the stairs and swung the door open to reveal a rather scantily dressed thirty-four year old woman. He scrutinised her carefully before stepping aside and letting her in. 'Seeing two other men' Sherlock thought to himself as he felt rage welling up within him. From the way she was looking at him it was quite obvious she wouldn't mind adding yet another man onto that ever-growing list. "Where's John?" she asked in a sickly sweet voice which had probably been perfected over the years to seduce men.

"John's still getting ready," he replied turning around to head back up the stairs, not wanting to spend any more time with the woman than he absolutely had to. "He'll be down in a minute." But instead of staying put like he'd hoped she would she followed him up the seventeen steps. He fell back onto his seat, picked up his violin and began plucking at the strings gently. He was making a point of ignoring her. John was far too good for her, he was too kind hearted and she had quite obviously tricked him, somehow, into thinking she was the same.

John's date, whatever her name was, sat awkwardly down on John's seat and Sherlock glared at her for doing so. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes; this was fine as far as Sherlock was concerned, he doubted that she had anything of real value to say. As soon as John emerged from the bathroom, with damp hair and clad in cream coloured woollen jumper and a new pair of jeans, she jumped up off the seat and darted across to him, eager to get away from the awkward silence which had been lingering in the room ever since she had arrived. The doctor smiled at her and pecked her on the cheek in a way of greeting. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"Where are we going?" she questioned curiously in the same voice as she had greeted Sherlock at the door.

"There's a lovely little Turkish restaurant about ten minutes cab ride from here. It's a very interesting little place. Sound good?" She nodded enthusiastically before leaning in and kissing John. Sherlock could not hide his disgust.

He sighed dramatically causing both John's and Julie's attention to be drawn to him; both of them were glaring. "What? What is it Sherlock?" John demanded, slightly more harshly than he'd intended. Sherlock paused, considering what he should say but then ploughed on right ahead, not wanting John to get hurt by this girl.

"She's already seeing two other men John and she'll sleep with just about anyone that looks at her. You shouldn't get involved with her." Julie looked at him in shock and John looked at him in anger. Quietly he leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

As soon as the door was shut John was by Sherlock's side, his face contorted in rage. "What the hell was that Sherlock?" he hissed, trying desperately to keep his voice down.

"I was merely informing you…"

"No, shut up. I know you don't like the fact that I have a life outside of you but I do so I would appreciate it if you didn't try and sabotage it. She is a perfectly nice girl. Just because you're too cold to get intimately close with anyone doesn't mean that I have to be stuck with the same curse as you. And don't think I didn't notice how silent it was out here when I first came out of the bathroom or how quickly she came over to me. You could have at least pretended you're normal and tried to make conversation with her. For goodness sake Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Is it any wonder Donovan and Anderson say all those things about you and call you a freak when you will quite happily behave like this?" John was angry, John was very angry. In fact he was so angry he didn't pick up on the look of fear and panic which was rapidly spreading across Sherlock's normally pale and impassive features. He didn't notice the younger man move his arm across his body protectively or how he clenched his fists so hard blood began to well up from his palms beneath his finger nails.

"John, I-"

"No!" John shouted this time, literally shaking with rage. "I don't want to hear it. You shouldn't say things like that about people especially if I'm about to go out on a date with them. I know Julie, she's friends with Mike Stamford and I see her at the pub when I go with him. She is lovely and would never do anything like what you accused her of. That is a disgraceful thing to make up about someone. Sometimes I don't know why I bother with you because right now I'm not entirely sure you're worth the effort." With that John stormed out, calming down when he saw Julie. Guilt was starting to well up inside him already but he wouldn't allow himself to go back and apologise, he had a date to go on.

Sherlock stood, staring at the door in shock. He'd been a witness to John's rages before, of course he had. But they'd never been anything like that, not when they were directed at him. The detective darted across to the window to see John and Julie clambering into the back of the cab. Longingly he put his hands against the glass as the taxi sped off, taking John away. Taking his best friend away. Sherlock felt like crying, he really thought John liked him. He'd tried to stop cutting for John, he was the one thing in the world that made him think it was worth stopping. But when he did cut he hid it, made sure the cuts were on his hips or ribs where nobody would be likely to see because he didn't want to cause John any worry. But it was all for nothing because obviously John didn't like him. He'd driven John away just like he drove away everyone else who had ever tried to care about him.

You are nothing.

The voice of Sherlock's father echoed through his mind causing him to raise his shaking hands to his head and pull mercilessly at his curls. His eyes were screwed up in pain and distress and he was vaguely aware that he was letting out load moaning noises. He didn't care though. John wasn't coming back.

Nobody could ever love you, you're pathetic Sherlock.

He was aware of himself walking into the kitchen and throwing the table over in anger and in hurt, glass tubes and other delicate equipment smashing into pieces so that they were no longer recognisable. Next he moved to the cabinets sweeping his arm across and knocking everything off, throwing each mug at the wall and he was powerless to stop himself. But he didn't care, because John was not coming back.

I can't believe that one of my offspring can be so abnormal, such a freak.

The normally calm and collected detective punched the wall violently, the sharp pain bringing him back to reality abruptly. He looked at the destruction around him but he couldn't bring himself to care because John was not coming back.

Silently Sherlock knelt to the ground and picked up a shard of glass before heading over to the sofa. When he had sat down he removed his dressing gown and t-shirt, very slowly and methodically. He seemed usually calm despite being surrounded by such destruction, both physically and emotionally. Curling his knees up to his chest he began at his right shoulder as his right hand hurt too much to use. He cut slowly, revelling in the sharp pain, the bite of the glass which felt different to when he used a knife, fascinating. He was enthralled by the way the glass stained red with his blood. He was beginning to feel calmer already although the grief still overwhelmed his heart.

Lestrade frowned at his phone. He'd texted Sherlock with a case ten minutes ago, a triple homicide which was sure to interest him, yet there had been no response. Even after a phone call there was no response. There was always a response. Perhaps he wasn't replying because it was Dimmock's case, Dimmock and Sherlock seemed to have a kind of understanding between each other but it was obvious they did not like each other. He frowned at his phone again, there was something not right here. The DI couldn't rid himself of the niggling feeling that something was terribly wrong. In the end he groaned, stood up, and grabbed his coat. He could always go under the pretence that he was delivering the message about the triple homicide personally.

The date between John and Julie was going well, the doctor was hopeful that he'd get an invitation back to her house afterwards. The choice of the restaurant had evidently been a great choice. The food was interesting, the lighting was warm and romantic, the decorations tasteful and the atmosphere was happy and friendly. However he could not throw off the guilt which threatened to consume him if he paid it any attention over how he had spoken to Sherlock earlier. He wasn't sure if he didn't believe what he said about Julie or simply didn't want to. History would suggest Sherlock was right but Julie did seem nice, she wouldn't do something like that, would she? John wasn't as sure now as he had been when he'd been angry, and he wasn't sure who he hated most for that, Julie, Sherlock or himself.

Eventually there was a lull in the conversation after they had ordered their puddings which John took advantage of. "Would you mind if I stepped outside to call Sherlock? I just want to make sure he's alright." Julie frowned at this and looked at him critically.

"What do you see in him?" she asked, taking a sip of her red wine but never looking away from John.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice taking on a slightly defensive edge. If she noticed she didn't comment on it.

"I mean I've only met him briefly but from what I can tell he's obnoxious, cruel and egotistical. What is it you see in him?" John put down his own wine and frowned, this was not what he wanted to be talking about. Despite what he had said to Sherlock earlier he did actually care about him even if he did infuriate the doctor at times. And if Julie was planning on sitting there and insulting him John knew he would defend him and the night would not finish as he had hoped.

"Sherlock, well he's brilliant. I know how he comes across and I know at times all you want to do is punch him but he's a good man deep down. He will do anything to protect those he cares about."

"No John, I saw him. That man was not a good man. That man was self-centred and jealous. If I were you I would get out of there whilst you still can." At this comment John outright glared at her.

"Yes, he has some social issues, I am not denying that. He should try and deal with things with more tact and be more subtle about some things. But the man I live with is my best friend and he is the best man that I have ever known. If you can't cope with that then I think we're done here."

Julie took a long hard look at John before sniggering. "I can't believe it," she said chuckling away to herself. "You have the hots for him don't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You know, you want him. You're about as straight as a roundabout aren't you?" At this comment John gave up all pretences of trying to be civil with her. He opened his mouth knowing full well that he'd probably regret what he was about to say but he didn't care enough to stop himself.

Lestrade pulled up in his car outside of Baker Street. The light was on in the living room but he couldn't see any silhouettes moving in the window. Someone had to be in. The DI clambered out of the car and popped his back; he was getting far too old to be running around after Sherlock. When he rang the doorbell there was no reply, both John and Mrs Hudson must be out then, curious. He tried once more before he looked where the spare key was hidden. It was slightly orange from rust but it worked perfectly well. After flicking on the light switch he headed up the stairs and swung the door open. He was stopped dead his tracks by the scene before him. "Oh Sherlock," the older man muttered sadly.