Final chapter, YAY! This did take longer than I intended it to but it is significantly longer than I anticipated it being so I hope it was worth the wait. I had to write half of it tonight (I've been writing constantly since 10:30pm and now it's 03:15am) because I am starting university in two days! :D So I'm not sure when my next opportunity to write will be but I am glad I got this chapter (and story) done before I left. Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please don't forget to review. It is super important you do this time because it is the last chapter. ENJOY!
It's nothing to worry about
Chapter 8
I want to get better (I don't think that I can)
All the way back to Baker Street John could feel his best friend's thin frame shivering violently against him. Despite the measures to try and keep him warm he was still frozen even after John had managed to find a couple of bright orange shock blankets under the seats and wrapped the younger man tightly in them. Every few seconds he would see Lestrade glancing in his rear view mirror to check on them, it was kind of sweet but John wished he would just focus on driving because then they'd get back to Baker Street faster. The quicker they got to Baker Street the sooner he'd be able to get Sherlock warmed up and then he'd be able to check on his friend's wounds and see if a trip to hospital was necessary. He really hoped it wouldn't be necessary because he wasn't sure Sherlock would be able to cope with that, not right now anyway.
'Sometimes I don't know why I bother with you because right now I'm not entirely sure you're worth the effort.' John's own words from earlier that evening echoed loudly in his ears, a stark reminder that Sherlock was in this state because of him so he was damn well going to fix it. Subconsciously he pulled his friend closer to his person protectively. Sherlock was definitely worth the effort, despite all of the baggage, figuratively speaking, he came with. What Sherlock had said to Julie earlier was wrong, there were no two ways about it, but the younger man didn't know better. Other human emotions were something he didn't really understand. But John did know better, there were no two ways about that either, and he had absolutely no excuse for saying the things he did to Sherlock. At the time he had meant them, he was angry, but now he wasn't angry and he could see how utterly untrue his words were and how cruel he'd been to his best friend. First he'd get the detective warmed up and recovering and then he'd go about apologising.
A few seconds after they pulled up outside Baker Street the door was flung open to reveal Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway. She'd obviously gone up and seen the state of the flat, John was yet to see how bad it was, and had been anxiously waiting for them to return. She was really very sweet but her fussing was not what Sherlock needed right now. Together John and Lestrade managed to manoeuvre the worryingly passive detective out of the car and then practically carry him up the steps into Baker Street as he could barely get his legs to move let alone support his weight.
"Oh my, what happened?" She asked, not even bothering to try and mask the concern which filled her voice. Instinctively she put a hand to his forehead and hissed as she felt how cool he was. "Oh, John dear, his lips are blue." Immediately John looked at his friend's face more closely, his lips hadn't been blue earlier so that was definitely not a good sign. Desperately he searched through the mass of blankets surrounding Sherlock and dug out a hand revealing nail beds which were also tinged a disturbing shade of blue. "Damn it," he muttered loudly. "Mrs Hudson, go upstairs and run a warm bath whilst we get him upstairs. Then make him some soup if you have any and a cup of tea." Normally John wouldn't boss her around like that, he wouldn't boss anyone around like that, but this was urgent and she seemed to understand that manners would be taking a backseat until Sherlock was out of the danger zone. She nodded, eager to help, and headed up the stairs as quickly as her hip would allow, as the three men made their way slowly and laboriously up the stairs behind her.
No matter how hard he tried John could not ignore the state the flat was in, more specifically the kitchen. It looked more like somewhere that had been recently bombed than somewhere people prepared food or, in Sherlock's case, carried out meticulous experiments. The table was on its side and various colourful liquids formed puddles on the floor. Nothing remained on the cabinets but shards of porcelain and china which had once been mugs and crockery. Amongst all this destruction and devastation there was one sight in the kitchen which drew John's attention, a dent embedded conspicuously in the wall which had not been there earlier in the evening. And the worst part of it was there were smudges of blood within it. Despite John's inferior deductive reasoning even he could tell that this was made by Sherlock punching the wall in a rage, the doctor's gut twisted as he once again realised whose fault all of this was. He must have punched the wall pretty hard, probably hard enough to break a finger or two.
Forcing himself to ignore these harrowing images John continued his journey to the bathroom by which time the bath was half filled with water and the air in the bathroom was both warm and moist. "I wasn't sure if you wanted bubble bath in there so I didn't put any in and I didn't know how warm to make it so I had to guess…" she rambled nervously, she was practically oozing with worry for her obviously sick tenant. The doctor was only half listening to her as he sat Sherlock down on the closed toilet seat and reached into the cupboard for the thermometer. "Thank you Mrs Hudson, you're a saint," he commented, truly grateful for all she was doing for them. The doctor reached down and popped the thermometer into the detective's mouth, his body had listed to the side slightly where he was resting at an angle against Lestrade's leg and his head was resting on the older man's hip. It was kind of stupid but everyone expected Sherlock to spit out the thermometer as soon as it was placed in his mouth but he didn't which caused everyone yet more worry.
Soon the thermometer beeped, John frowned at the reading, and everyone burst into action. Mrs Hudson went off to make the tea and soup whilst John and Lestrade unravelled Sherlock from his cocoon of jackets and blankets and dumped him unceremoniously into the bath. This elicited the first real reaction they'd gotten from the detective since they'd bundled him into the taxi other than his creepily compliant behaviour.
There was a small gasp of surprise and a brief pause before he started to frantically try and scrabble back up onto his feet; his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, completely different from his usual graceful self. Of course the slippery bottom of the bath prevented his feet from getting purchase so all he succeeded in doing was pushing himself up slightly before his injured feet slipped and he landed again with a thud on the hard surface. Firmly John and Lestrade held his shoulders down to stop him from hurting himself any more than he already had. After a few more seconds he stopped struggling and instead began to let out small whimpers of pain which tore and both of the elder men's heart. The water which seemed quite an ambient temperature for them must have felt like it was searing through Sherlock's cool skin but they couldn't afford to cool the water down, Sherlock's body temperature had to increase. John wanted nothing more than to hoist the damaged man out of the bath and heat him up some other way but he knew he couldn't, this was the most efficient way considering he was attempting treatment at home rather than a hospital. However he was rewarded when Sherlock's lips gradually changed from the unhealthy and disturbing blue colour to a healthier pinkish colour.
At this point both the doctor and the DI relaxed slightly. John sent Lestrade off to find Sherlock some warm clothes whilst he tended to Sherlock's injuries. He couldn't help the few tears that ran down his cheek as he saw the cuts on his arm, thankfully they weren't too deep but they were there. He'd cut himself and run away to try and get hold of drugs all because John couldn't control his temper. Damn it, he'd been keeping himself composed so well. The doctor only gave himself a few seconds to deal with the overwhelming sense of guilt which washed over him; there were more important things to be tending to. Wallowing in self-loathing could wait until Sherlock was no longer on the brink of freezing to death or at risk of getting an infection from one of his lacerations.
With gentleness that only a doctor caring for his best friend could possess John began to wipe clean the cuts, each one causing regret to shoot through him. All in all the cuts weren't too dirty, a few of them had small pieces of grit stuck in them from where Sherlock had been lying on the floor but apart from that they were ok. Still the doctor cleaned each and every single one of them meticulously, unwilling to let his friend suffer any more than he already had.
Near the crook of his elbow Sherlock had a particularly deep cut so John began to dab at it with the cloth, removing some of the dry and crusted blood. "John, no, please stop," Sherlock whimpered quietly causing John to look up in surprise.
"Hey," he said kindly, keeping his voice down. "How're you feeling?"
"Mm cold," he slurred slightly.
"I know you are but this bath is doing you good. You'll be up chasing criminals in no time. Look, let me take your temperature again," John said reaching for the thermometer and going to put it in Sherlock's mouth. Characteristically, though unexpectedly, Sherlock bashed John's hand away and shook his head. His caused John to smile, that was more like his Sherlock than the passive shell he'd been looking after for the past however long it was.
"You need to let me take your temperature you idiot. If I don't know if you've warmed up at all you'll be staying in there all night." The detective huffed and then complied begrudgingly with John's wishes. "I'm just going to finish cleaning these." At this Sherlock's eyes went wide as he looked down at his arm, as if only just realising John had seen his self-inflicted injuries. He opened his mouth to speak and the thermometer fell out and landed with a plop in the water but he made no move to retrieve it.
"I-I'm sorry John. I d-didn't mean to… You don't have t-to clean them. I won't… It won't happen… I'm sorry," he finished finally, looking down as if the bath water as if it were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. His eyes began to sting as he fought back tears that were threatening to pour from his eyes.
John was going to leave again and he'd be alone. He knew John didn't like him cutting, he'd tried to stop for John, but he'd gone ahead and done it anyway. It'd felt good whilst he was doing it but John hated it and now John would hate him and leave all over again. He hadn't meant to upset John earlier either, he was trying to protect him because Julie simply wasn't good enough for him but then John had gotten all upset and Sherlock still didn't know why. That fact frustrated him, he was so stupid. Why couldn't he figure it out? Stupid, stupid, stupid his internal monologue ran.
"Stupid."
"Idiot."
"Freak."
"Waste of space.
"Nuisance."
All these things ran through his mind at lightning speed and he raised his hands to tug at his curls as was his habit when he was emotionally distressed. But gentle hands caught his before they could entangle themselves and then his hands were enveloped by their warmth, they were like an anchor which pulled him back to reality and away from his mind whilst it was attacking him. Slowly he looked up from the water and met brown, concerned eyes. "It's alright Sherlock, I'm not angry, I promise. We'll talk about all this later but really, I am not at all angry at you." Sherlock didn't think he could believe him but there was something in his voice, something genuine that he wasn't used to, that made him want to believe him. The detective nodded and John smiled at him. He reached to the bottom of the bath and placed the thermometer back in his mouth and John continued cleaning out the cuts.
About a minute later there was a light tapping at the door and Lestrade opened it slowly looking in. "How's it going?" he asked, looking at Sherlock, concern was coming off him in waves.
"Sherlock was talking earlier which is a good sign. Are you feeling any better mate?" John asked, looking up at him. As if in response the thermometer went off and Sherlock removed it from his mouth, giving a slight thin lipped smile as he glanced at the reading, before presenting John with it triumphantly. Unlike Sherlock the doctor gave a wide grin, delighted at the reading. "Well, it's still below what I'd like it to be but you're not going to immediately die so that is a definite improvement." The Detective grunted and made a move to stand up but was stopped by John's gentle but firm hand. "Is there anything else that hurts or needs fixing? If there is we might as well get it sorted now."
Sherlock didn't reply and the silence stretched out awkwardly, and that answered John's question much more clearly than Sherlock ever could. If there had been no more injuries then he would have been certain to inform John of this even in his odd state. His silence was worrying; it was obviously something he didn't want John to know about. Suddenly John remembered Lestrade and looked at him, he'd been too busy worrying about Sherlock to even consider why he'd come in to the bathroom. "Sorry Greg, was there something that you wanted?" Lestrade nodded, having to peel his eyes away from Sherlock.
"Um, yeah. Sherlock doesn't really own anything warm, well, except that big ass jacket of his. Otherwise there's nothing." John should have known that, hell, he did know that, it had just hadn't crossed his mind when he told the DI to find Sherlock warm clothes.
"Well, er, get some pyjama bottoms for him and then go up to my room and look for the biggest jumper you can I suppose. I can't think of anything else." Lestrade nodded and disappeared, closing the bathroom door behind him.
Once the door had clicked shut John turned his attention back to Sherlock. "C'mon mate, what's hurting you?" he asked in a tone which said Sherlock needed to tell him because he wanted to help. In a voice which sounded impossibly small for the usually unquenchable personality Sherlock replied, "Feet." John had not been expecting that, he didn't really know what he had been expecting but that wasn't it. Although, Sherlock hadn't been wearing shoes before, well he hadn't taken any off him before getting him in the bath.
Gently he lifted Sherlock's foot out of the bath, the top was fine. But when he checked the sole he winced, there was glass in there. Maybe they would be having a trip to the hospital after all. Although, it did all look rather close to the surface, he could give it a go with the tweezers.
Luckily he managed to get the glass out with tweezers relatively quickly and efficiently. Sherlock was definitely uncomfortable but who could blame him? He was sitting in a bath wearing nothing but a pair of boxers after being found crying in the pouring rain by his best friend then carried up the stairs, the same friend who had just cleaned out his self-inflicted wounds. Now he was sitting there whilst Lestrade held his foot in place and John was dabbing each of the wounds with antiseptic. All Sherlock wanted to do now was get out of the bath and crawl into his bed and never emerge again.
It wasn't long before John was all done and, after warning him his feet were going to hurt like hell whenever he used them for the next few days, helped him out of the bath. The doctor did not lie and the detective couldn't help the hiss which escaped through his teeth. Lestrade draped a warm fluffy towel over his shoulders and then presented him with a pile of his clothes and John's cream coloured jumper sitting on top. "Do you need a hand or will you be alright?" John asked though he was obviously uncomfortable with asking.
"Of course I'll be alright," Sherlock snapped, a hint of his normal personality showing through. Usually John would have snapped right back at him but not this time, this time he smiled obviously relieved. "Alright, we'll be in the living room if you need us."
The two men walked out and closed the door gently behind them. As soon as the door was shut John automatically seemed to wilt, leaning against the wall and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "You alright?" Lestrade asked, making sure he kept his voice low to prevent Sherlock from overhearing them.
"Um, yeah. I don't know, maybe." John took a deep breath to steady himself. "I mean, did you see him before? He shouldn't look like that; nobody should look like that, but especially not him. He's meant to be invincible. And I did that to him, he's like that because I couldn't keep my damned mouth shut." The doctor finally voiced the guilt that had been plaguing him, his voice also kept low but he sounded angry and very stressed.
Lestrade patted John firmly on the shoulder and shot him a sad smile. "This isn't your fault mate. What happened was always going to happen, he was always going to have a breakdown and relapse into his cutting. The only reason he ran out of the flat was because I found him. Doesn't make it my fault though. You getting angry at him may have triggered it but it was always going to happen. And everyone gets angry at him, you do much better than everyone else, myself included, but it doesn't mean he sometimes has it coming. Hell, I've decked him a few times after he overstepped the mark. Trust me, he's already forgiven you. Hell, in his mind there will have been nothing to forgive. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud he thinks the world of you John." A moment of silence passed between them as John processed what Lestrade had told him.
"I'm not really buying all of that Greg, but suppose for a second any of that crap was true, it doesn't make me feel any better about my role in this."
"It never does mate, just keep looking after him like you have been and over time you'll stop tearing yourself up over it. Now, I think we could both do with a cuppa." At the thought of tea John nodded his head eagerly and they both moved into the living room.
What they found in the living room was not what they were expecting. Mycroft was sitting back comfortably in Sherlock's chair sipping gently at a piping hot cup of tea. The pristine man looked completely out of place in their humble flat. The homeliness and general disorder of 221b contrasted greatly with Mycroft's perfectly tailored attire which practically screamed of grandeur that Baker Street simply did not have. Two freshly made cups of tea sat innocently on the coffee table; it was obvious the elder Holmes was there for a chat. John was about to take a seat when he heard a slight scuffling sound from the kitchen causing him to look around to see what was going on. Two suited men were busily sweeping up smashed pieces of glass and crockery and mopping up spilled chemicals. Both Lestrade and John had to force themselves not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous the sight was.
"I thought you would appreciate that mess being cleaned up," Mycroft stated following their gaze. The sudden sound drew the two men away from the scene before them and they sat down, Lestrade slightly nervously and John did it simply out of curiosity for what Mycroft had to say. He never paid a personal visit to Baker Street unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. If he ever wanted to speak to John personally he'd kidnap him. If he wanted to speak to Sherlock he would call him, if his younger brother was in an amiable mood then he would tolerate talking to Mycroft. However if Sherlock was not in an amiable mood no amount of kidnapping or harassment would make the stubborn man listen or respond to what was being said in any way.
"How is my brother?" Mycroft asked. His tone was as neutral as ever but he seemed to lean forward slightly. After years of knowing Sherlock both men were experts at reading the Holmes' and they both knew that this spoke volumes of the deep concern Mycroft was feeling, even if he wouldn't admit it.
"Not brilliant," John responded the supped up his tea. At this point in time he thought he could do with a slightly stronger drink but he did not voice this out loud. "He's a lot better than he was when we first got him home. How much do you know?" John didn't really want to go into too much detail on Sherlock's condition with Mycroft but it would help if he knew exactly what Mycroft knew so John would know exactly what to leave out.
"I know he relapsed back into self-harming and I know he ran away from here in the pouring rain and that he disappeared from our surveillance. I'm assuming that something happened, he probably became hypothermic at the very least." Lestrade nodded.
"We found him in front of his old dealers flat but he hadn't gone outside. He had hypothermia when he came in."
"His temperature is still a couple of degrees lower than I would want it to be," John continued from Lestrade. "But he is out of the danger zone in that respect. Being in a set of warm and dry clothes should help a lot and Mrs Hudson is making some soup for him which should do him a world of good."
Mycroft nodded. "I should like to see my brother now Dr Watson." Ah, there was the Mycroft Holmes John knew and loved. Well, maybe not loved, perhaps tolerated would be a better word.
"Well you can't see him right now, he's getting dressed," he responded slightly irritably. He then carried on in a softer voice. "Anyway, no offence Mycroft, I'm not sure that seeing you would be in his best interest. I mean you two aren't exactly close and stressing him really would not be a good idea right now."
"I understand your concerns Dr Watson but I still wish to see my brother once he is decent. I assure you though that if I believe that my presence is causing him any emotional distress then I shall leave."
"Fine," John replied knowing that no matter what he did or said. I Mycroft wanted to see Sherlock then he damn well would be seeing Sherlock.
The next few minutes passed in awkward silence as they sipped at their tea. Lestrade and John were not sure what to do or say and Mycroft sat across from them, staring at them both with an analytical gaze making the other two men feel highly uncomfortable and as if they were being judged every time they so much as moved. When Sherlock wandered into the room neither John nor Lestrade could have been relieved. Sherlock looked rather adorable; he was stumbling slightly as the hypothermia had messed with his coordination and his feet had to be hurting him. The jumper he was wearing was ill fitting, being too short in the arms and body but it hung loosely from his thin frame. His curls were damp from the bathwater and hung limply down by his pale face. Vibrations shook his body as it fought to raise his core body temperature. The fact that he was shivering was a good sign. When they had found him he had been shivering but by the time they had made it back to Baker Street he was not which, when hypothermic, was definitely not a good thing. With his own temperature regulation systems back online Sherlock's recovery should occur much more efficiently.
Strangely enough Sherlock did not seem surprised by his brother's presence, instead he just looked annoyed. "Get out o-of my ch-chair," Sherlock ordered him, fighting hard to control his shivering. Mycroft complied without a single argument and took a place on the sofa which surprised everyone but the detective thought pointing this out was far too much effort so he just sat down. The others in the room didn't have a death wish so decided not to mention it either. As soon as Sherlock was sat down he found himself being tucked under several layers of blankets courtesy of one Dr John Watson and then the thermometer was put in his mouth again, he was already sick of it. "I'm going to go downstairs and see if there is any soup for you," John told Sherlock. "Don't you dare spit the thermometer out until it has finished reading." Before he went down the stairs John shot a look which said he better make sure things between Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get nasty and the DI nodded.
"I was worried about you," Mycroft commented as soon as John was out the door. Lestrade looked on in shock. Such an emotional statement coming from a Holmes was completely unheard of. Sherlock seemed to ignore him, drawing the blankets closer to his body to salvage more heat. "How many cuts?" Mycroft asked sadly and Sherlock sent him a look. Greg couldn't believe what he was seeing. Mycroft was being sensitive and Sherlock had given him a look which spoke of unfathomable pain, something which had been with him pretty much since the day he was born. "That bad?" Sherlock nodded and the thermometer beeped, the detective spat it onto the floor glad to be rid of the thing. "How deep were they? Are you in need of any medical supplies?" Sherlock shook his head. "Well Sherlock, I am very glad that you are allowing the Detective Inspector and Dr Watson to care for you."
Suddenly Mycroft's phone began to ring, he slipped it from his pocket and sighed when he looked at the caller ID. "Excuse me," he said before standing and heading to corridor. "I thought I said specifically not to interrupt me."
…
"I don't care, don't interrupt means don't interrupt."
…
"I hope you realise that right now I am incredibly displeased with you. I am not a good man to make an enemy of."
…
"Oh just tell me, you've already interrupted."
…
"Fine, I'll be right there. But once I have found out who is responsible for this I assure you, there will be an execution at dawn."
When Mycroft walked back through into the living room Lestrade pretended not to have heard the violent threats and Sherlock just didn't seem interested. "I am afraid that I have been summoned," the elder Holmes apologised. "I shall have to leave, but if you need anything to give me a call." The last statement was issued as an order and directed at Lestrade who simply nodded in response. After years of knowing the man he still intimidated him, it probably had something to do with the fact that if it took Mycroft's fancy he could easily make Lestrade simply disappear. "I'll come and see you as soon as this latest crisis is over Sherlock," Mycroft said to the younger man, placing a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. The detective flinched at the contact but did not pull away and a small smile played at the edges of Mycroft's lips. The look was there momentarily before it was lost to the usual look of bored indifference Mycroft wore. He strolled casually out of the flat, swinging his umbrella in his right hand as he did.
Not long after Mycroft had disappeared John reappeared carrying a large cup of soup. "Mrs Hudson made this for you," John said, handing the cup over to Sherlock who curled into it to soak up any heat which emanated from it. "It's lentil, your favourite," he continued whilst bending down to pick up the thermometer which had been cast onto the floor. 35.2 degrees, that was much better than it had been but there was still a little way to go yet. John wandered through to the kitchen, pleased to see the mess had been cleaned up and the men had left, and put the kettle on to make Sherlock a tea. "Where did Mycroft go?" he called across.
"He was summoned by a lesser mortal by the sounds of it," Lestrade replied joining John in the kitchen. The doctor smirked and carried on with what he was doing. "Look, John, I hate to abandon you but I should probably get back to the Yard, my superiors are going to want to know what the hell is going on." John nodded in understanding and gave him a grateful smile.
"That's fine Greg, you've been a great help. And, er, cheers for trying to make me feel better."
"Any time mate. Just give me a call if you need anything." They said goodbye as John poured hot water over the teabag then Lestrade left down the stairs and John made his way back to the sitting room. It was time to talk to Sherlock.
The doctor placed the cup of tea down on the coffee table and sat down and carried on with his own cuppa. Sherlock was taking gentle sips from the mug; he seemed calm, small vibrations still wracked his body occasionally but he was beginning to regain what little colour his face would usually bear. "Sherlock," John began, knowing if he tried to put it off he wouldn't be able to manage this talk at all, it was going to be intense and of this he was sure. "Look, I know you won't want to, hell, if I'm going to be honest I don't really want to, but we need to talk about this. We need to talk about me getting angry, you getting upset and doing… doing that to yourself." John wasn't sure why but he couldn't bring himself to say self-harm out loud. Not to Sherlock and not about Sherlock, it just felt wrong. "You running off and nearly dying. Even you must realise something has to be done about this."
John stopped, feeling his blood pumping through his ears, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. He expected anything and everything as he really could take this attempt to initiate a conversation a multitude of ways. "John, please, can we not discuss this?" His voice sounded pleading which was incredibly uncharacteristic and all John really wanted to do was tell him everything was alright and that they never had to discuss it ever again if he didn't want to. That voice, it tore viciously at his heart and it destroyed him to see his friend, the brilliant man, reduced to such depths of despair that he would plead with a man so ordinary as Dr John Watson. But he couldn't give in to Sherlock's wishes because in the long run it would do him good.
"No Sherlock, we need to discuss this. I really am sorry mate but we do." The detective looked up at him, his eyes were practically begging John to just drop the subject and the doctor could feel his resolve beginning to crack. Those brilliantly blue eyes should not be speaking of such pain and should most certainly not be glazed over with unshed tears.
"Please John, we can discuss it later, I-I promise. I'm just so tired. Please, can I go to sleep?" Sherlock was asking his permission to sleep? That certainly was unusual and very painful to hear. Taking a longer look at the detective John could see that he was, in fact, completely exhausted which come to think of it was not exactly surprising. His eyes were rimmed with dark shadows, his skin was still paler than usual but was not the unhealthy grey it had been earlier and his eyes were slightly blood shot. John couldn't say no, as a doctor he knew that getting a good night's sleep could do wonders for a person.
"Alright, but I swear Sherlock, as soon as you are conscious again we are having this conversation." That came out a lot firmer than John had intended but it seemed to have the desired effect. Sherlock nodded, looked down and took another sip of his soup. "Well you finish that up and then head off to bed," he said firmly but gently. Surprisingly Sherlock did have all the soup and didn't complain once. Perhaps John should remember soup as a possibility next time Sherlock refused to eat for days.
Getting Sherlock into bed was a long and painful process. Every joint in his body ached from where the cold had soaked in and each of the lacerations on his feet had become tender. Whenever Sherlock put any pressure on them he couldn't help but moan as the pain shot through his feet like electrical impulses. In the end John basically had to carry him through to his room. Once he was settled down John turned to leave but Sherlock's arm shot out from under the covers and grabbed John's arm. The doctor turned to look, curious, and his heart melted at the look Sherlock was giving him. John couldn't help but wonder when he had become such a softie.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, his voice was thick and he was probably fighting off any tears which might fall.
"Yes Sherlock," John replied kindly. Suddenly Sherlock looked alarmed and he let go of John's jumper and began to curl in on himself. "Hey," he said, perching on the edge of the bed. "It's alright, what is it you wanted?"
"Nothing, it doesn't matter," he murmured, trying to turn away from John but the doctor would not allow him to do so.
"It does matter, come on, what do you need?" the detective turned his head towards the doctor, his eyes searching, a mere shadow of the usual, purely analytical look he would use on anyone or anything which stimulated any sort of interest whatsoever in his mind. John smiled kindly and patiently which seemed to convince Sherlock to ask whatever it was he wanted to ask.
The man who was currently looking far too fragile pushed himself into a sitting position then rested his back against the head of his bed, clearly feeling exhausted from that slight movement. John had to force himself not to help his friend, feeling independent in every way he could was important for Sherlock right now whilst he was obviously feeling so vulnerable. "John, can I ask you something? It is important?" he asked hesitantly, John couldn't help but notice how he seemed to studiously avoid eye contact.
"Of course Sherlock." Sherlock took a deep breath, seemingly to mentally steel himself.
"Are you my friend?" That, John had not been expecting and it kind of hit him where it hurt. Wasn't it obvious how much Sherlock meant to John? But then again this was Sherlock, the master of misunderstanding and misinterpreting his and other people's emotions, especially when they were connected to him directly. And after John got so angry at him he was probably struggling to understand all the emotions which were involved in this situation. The doctor felt a tear slide down his cheek as he realised just how deeply the words he said earlier had wounded Sherlock. He'd always been so sure of their friendship and now he doubted it. He really needed to fix this before it got any worse.
Apparently he had been silently mulling the question over in his mind for far too long. "I'm s-sorry, it was a stupid thing to ask. I-I am sorry," he said looking away once again and he drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Crap. He only had moments to fix this.
"Of course you're my friend, you are my best friend." Sherlock still seemed to be withdrawing into himself so John had to do the only thing he could think to do. He reached out and held Sherlock's chin and turned it so he was looking directly into John's sad eyes. The doctor was now openly crying, distraught at how despairing his friend was and upset in his own part in making him that way.
"Listen," he ordered, keeping a hold of Sherlock even though he was trying to pull away. "You are a deductive genius and you have always had the uncanny ability to read me like an open book. You can tell I am telling the truth when I say you are my friend, my best friend. I am so sorry for what I said to you earlier, it was wrong, but I am still your friend and I want to help you." Sherlock's eyes searched desperately, hoping that John was indeed telling the truth. Nobody had ever thought of him as their best friend before. All he could see in John's eyes was honesty. Desperately he clung to his friend without even realising it. The relief was overwhelming, John still liked him and it felt better than he could possibly imagine. At some point he felt John lying him down and then stroking his hands gently through his hair. He felt safe and protected and content, feelings he could not remember feeling in a long time, if at all, and it was with these feelings that he fell asleep.
The yard was completely deserted, the sounds of his shoes echoed loudly in the abandoned offices. It was daytime outside so why was nobody there, at all? There didn't seem to be any power either, none of the computers seemed to be powered up and there were no flashing lights on any of the hubs like there usually would have been. Sounds of London permeated through the empty rooms. Sherlock looked around, there was no sign that anybody even worked there. There was no paperwork in the trays, no personal photos scattered around the place and no abandoned coffee cups which were always permanent fixtures at Scotland Yard.
Slowly Sherlock made his way through to Lestrade's office, carefully looking around him all the way there for any indication that people usually inhabited the building but there was none. And if he could spot nothing then there was obviously nothing to spot. The detective let out a sigh of relief when he saw John standing and looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back. There was something strange about his posture but he was too intrigued about Scotland Yard to concern himself with that for now. "John, there is something strange going on," he announced and John turned around. There was something weird going on with him too and it was beginning to make Sherlock feel uneasy.
"Do take a seat," John said casually as if nothing strange was going on around him.
"I don't think…" Suddenly Sherlock found himself sat in Lestrade's chair; he wasn't tied there but no matter how hard he tried he simply couldn't move. He was stuck.
"John?"
"Shut up!" John shouted violently, slapping Sherlock squarely on the cheek, Sherlock tried to raise his hand to clasp his cheek but he found that he could not. What was going on, he was scared now? "I have had enough of you Sherlock. I've decided to do the kind thing for the rest of the world and rid it of you." He produced a nasty looking blade from his trousers and began to twiddle it about playfully between his fingers. "I might as well have a little fun in the process though," he continued. "I mean, you do deserve it from the amount of pain you have caused me since I met you." Sherlock shivered slightly, this had to be a dream, it had to. He tried to pinch himself but obviously he could not. But there was no way this was real, him and John were friends.
"I thought we were friends," he stated defiantly.
"Ha!" John laughed as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world and Sherlock felt his stomach drop. He'd been so sure, he really thought him and John had been friends.
"Why would someone like me want to be friends with a freak like you?" he asked whilst still laughing horribly, it was more like a cackle than anything. Sherlock shrugged and dropped his head in shame. How had he been so stupid? Of course John was right; nobody like John could possibly even want to associate with someone as messed up as Sherlock. "Answer me!" John shouted angrily, raising Sherlock's chin with the blade of his knife forcing him to look into the same eyes he'd seen earlier. The eyes were kind but the words were full of hate.
"Y-you wouldn't," Sherlock stuttered hesitantly, now absolutely terrified of the situation he found himself in.
"Correct," John replied in a voice of absolute loathing. "Now Sherlock, tell me what you are. I told you earlier so I hope that big brain of yours can figure it out." Sherlock had to pause to replay their conversation and once he worked it out he felt sick, he didn't want to say it but John looked a little too keen to start playing with that knife for Sherlock to be willing to antagonise him at all.
"I'm a freak," he replied in a choked sort of sob. This hurt, John had been his best friend and now all John wanted to do was hurt him.
"Aw, poor baby's crying," John mocked. Then suddenly the doctor thrust the knife into Sherlock's arm and he howled. His arm exploded in a miasma of pain. John began to carve his arm and after the 'F' Sherlock knew it would read 'Freak.' He could feel skin tearing and muscle ripping and it was absolute agony. Somehow he managed to control his stomach and not throw up. "I want the last thing you see to be this, to make sure you die knowing what a freak you are." Sherlock looked up and he no longer only saw John but also his father slicing into his flesh. Their faces alternated quickly. This was the last straw and he vomited violently everywhere just as the room around him was beginning to shake. There was someone calling his name, the pain in his arm began to lessen. What the hell was going on?
"Damn it," John muttered when Sherlock threw up the remainder of his soup from earlier, at least he'd had time to digest some of it, the skinny man really needed to get as many nutrients as he possibly could. But that was something to think about another time; right now he needed to get the distressed man awake.
It was had been about quarter past three in the morning when John was awoken from where he was lying on the couch by the whimpering and moaning of the detective. John was instantly on his feet and running as fast as he could into Sherlock's bedroom. He was lying incredibly still except for his head which he was waving about frantically. He was crying out in what sounded like fear and pain but it was hard to tell. There were words coming out of his mouth frantically too though they were mostly indecipherable but John was sure he heard his name in there a few times. All he knew was he had to get Sherlock awake. Suddenly there was a get wrenching sob and Sherlock threw up all over himself. "Sherlock" John shouted, turning Sherlock's head to the side to stop him choking on his vomit. "Sherlock, wake up!" he tried again, this time shaking Sherlock's shoulders. Before long the cries of pain became quieter and quieter until Sherlock shot up from the bed, eyes wide and breathing elevated. If mind numbing terror had a face it would be the look Sherlock was wearing.
The detective took one glance at John's worried face and scrambled desperately, obviously terrified, to the other side of the bed. Worry twisted relentlessly at John's gut; that must have been a horrific nightmare. "It's alright Sherlock," John said reassuringly, not too sure what to do. Maybe he should call Lestrade; Sherlock needed help right now and if John couldn't help maybe that would be best. John decided against, that would be a last resort. Sherlock shook his head violently and wrapped his arms around his body protectively.
"Please don't hurt me," he begged, looking at John with eyes wide with fear and John gawped, did he really think John would hurt him?
"Why would I hurt you? You're my friend, friends don't hurt each other. Not on purpose," he added at the end remembering his words which had caused this whole catastrophic event. Sherlock looked at him with a look of utter confusion.
"But you said… you told me… you could never be friends with a freak like me." John hated that word, he really did. But he was beginning to understand what the dream was about and why Sherlock was so afraid of him.
"That was a dream Sherlock, I would never say something like that to you, I promise. You are my friend; do you remember me telling you that earlier right after you went to sleep?" Sherlock nodded though he didn't look convinced John was telling the truth. "What I said earlier is still true, and you deduced I was telling the truth now because you are a genius and you are brilliant."
The detective still looked scared but when John walked over to him he didn't pull away. Tears were streaking their way down his cheeks leaving shining trails over his prominent cheek bones. "Do you believe me?" John asked gently, kneeling in front of his friend. Sherlock nodded, looking very young as he frantically tried to swipe the tears away. Without even thinking about it John raised his hand and rubbed the tears away with his thumb affectionately. The sharp smell of vomit was very pungent as the sick still rested on Sherlock's chin and was streaked down the jumper he was still wearing but John didn't mind. It was worth it to see the look of utter shock on Sherlock's face which soon morphed into one of trust. That was the look John had been longing to see ever since the incident with Julie.
The doctor took this as his cue; he needed to get Sherlock sorted. The younger man allowed himself to be led out to the living room then sat on the sofa. John helped him take the dirtied jumper off, draped a blanket over his slender shoulders, and then handed him a damp cloth to wash his face with. For a moment John disappeared to strip Sherlock's bed and Sherlock felt such a deep sense of loss that he began to cry all over again, he no longer cared if anyone saw him, he just didn't want to be alone and he didn't want to be without John. John made everything hurt just a little bit less.
The doctor made sure he was quick as he stripped Sherlock's bed and bundled the whole mess into the washing machine as he could hear Sherlock's sobs, each one tore a new wound into his already damaged heart. Deciding remaking the detective's bed was going to be too much for Sherlock to cope with right now he returned to his friend's side and helped him up, intending to take him up to his own bedroom to sleep. The distraught man took one step on his damaged feet which then decided they had suffered enough abuse for today, and he fell backwards onto the sofa, letting out little choked sobs as the pain shot through him. In the end John did carry him up the stairs and into his room. It was a slow journey and by the end John was completely exhausted. All the way up Sherlock had clung to John as a small child who had just fallen over and hurt their knee might cling to their father. His head was buried into the crook of John's neck and the older man could feel the warm tears flowing onto his skin. He couldn't help but feel relieved that Sherlock's body was now releasing heat so he must be pretty much recovered from his brush with hypothermia. That was one less thing to worry about.
Half way up the stairs Sherlock choked out, "John, it hurts."
To which John replied, "I know it does mate, I know." They both knew Sherlock wasn't just referring to the physical injuries he had sustained. When John tried to lay Sherlock down on the bed the detective refused to relent his vice-like grip from John's jumper so in the end he resigned himself and lay down next to Sherlock. It felt weird but he knew it was what he had to do. If being close to John was going to help Sherlock then John would make sure he stayed close. Sherlock snuggled in close to his best friend, enjoying his warmth, and John ran his hand comfortingly up and down Sherlock's spine. Soon the sobs coming from Sherlock began to increase until he could barely breathe and his head pounded. "Shh, it's alright Sherlock. Just try and calm down, you're going to make yourself sick again." It was easier said than done. He'd finally let his guard down and the floodgates were open, years of emotional pain and turmoil were flowing through. He finally felt safe enough and cared about enough to let John see him for what he really was. Broken.
Eventually he managed to calm himself down but John still held him, letting him know that no matter what he was not going to go anywhere. All his life Sherlock had coped without someone he could rely on, and now he had someone he could trust, he didn't think he could go back. "John," Sherlock whispered with a thick voice.
"Yes Sherlock," John replied.
"I want to get better."
"That's good, that's very, very good Sherlock," John said, smiling.
"I don't think I can."
"Of course you can, you have people who love you. Me, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. We'll help you get better. Hell, Mycroft cares though I'm not sure you'll believe me on that one." Sherlock chuckled and John felt so much better for hearing it. "You can get better and you will, we'll help, you don't need to worry. Just get some sleep."