I don't own the characters. They originally belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I simply get to play.

Again, feedback is taken well. Thanks to ticklethedragon1 for the positive reinforcement! Enjoy the chapter! Next one will be out soon. :)

Starting Over

Sherlock had seen his fair share of the harder parts of life in his, well, lifetime. Mangled and decapitated corpses, the deaths of people he loved, being cast out of society, and his own struggle with depression. It was all horrific and hard to see, but it was what he lived with on a daily basis. So he could handle it all. Or he had assumed. The one thing he realized that he could not handle was John Watson's crying, especially when he knew that it was his fault.

Sherlock held John awkwardly, whispering, "John, it's okay. I'm okay." His blood leakage had slowed gradually, and it had finally begun to clot around the wounds. They were puffy and they stung, but it was bearable. John continued his sobbing as Sherlock cradled him in his arms on the bedroom floor. The tang of salt and rust filled the air. "It's alright John. I'm okay. There's no need for you to cry."

"You...bleeding...hurt...WHY!?" John spoke between sobs.

"Sorry, come again?" Sherlock said, concealing the grin tugging at his lips. John was always so put together. It was strange seeing him at a loss for words.

John stopped crying just long enough to say, "Sherlock, you're purposefully hurting yourself! Look at all of this blood!" At the last word, John began weeping again.

Sherlock's grin faded immediately upon comprehending John's words. He glanced around the room. He saw broken glass, his reflection still able to be made out. Oh. The blood. He was a mess. The floor was a mess. It was everywhere. There was so much of it. Sherlock couldn't help the grimace that contorted his features. Even though he knew it was a lie, Sherlock began, "John, look, there's no need to worry. It's really not-" but John cut him off.

"Not that bad? Were you just going to say not that bad? Sherlock, don't you bloody tell me it's not that bad! You have a serious mental health condition. Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror recently?" John's sadness had morphed into anger, he was yelling at Sherlock for something that he couldn't control. Sherlock automatically released John and curled in on himself, throwing his barriers back up. They sat silently until John could take it no more. "Why Sherlock? Why do you do it?" John said tiredly; he had forfeit the fight.

"I...I'm not quite...sure, really. I just have all of this pain inside that is too much for me to bear sometimes. I feel like a monster, like I'm not human. So, I guess I kind of...hurt myself on the outside to...to kill the monster inside." Sherlock's eyes stung with tears again; they began to spill free without permission.

John sighed. "Sherlock..." he mumbled, then pulled the consulting detective into a hug.

Sherlock allowed himself to be hugged, but he turned away. Stupid, stupid, he thought. How could I let John see me like this? Sherlock wiped his tears away, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and gently removed himself from John's embrace.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, somewhat hurt.

Sherlock just stared at him blankly, his thoughts racing. And then he realized that he couldn't do it. It was impossible to keep himself together at a moment like this, so he flung himself at John and wailed in his arms.

"Shh, Sherlock. It's alright. I'm here. I'm here for you, no matter what. Sherlock, it's okay. You'll be okay. Shh," John gently hushed the detective. After about ten minutes, Sherlock began to quiet down, and in another five, he managed to sit up.

"Sherlock, I may be your best friend, but I'm also a doctor. You have a serious condition, and you need to stop the self harm and drug use. What if you overdose one day, or you cut too deep? Can you imagine how devastated I would be?" John asked, fear evident in his eyes.

Sherlock was silent. He didn't know how to respond. No one had ever seemed to care about him as much as John did.

"I...no. I can't John. I need it to live, and if I die one day, oh well. It will be my own bloody fault, and no one will miss me all that much." Sherlock spoke into his dressing gown sleeve, trying to hide the hurt that was clearly visible in his facial features.

"Sherlock, you know that's not true. You're my best mate. I think that I would have to move out of 221B, it would be so hard to handle your death. And that's saying something, 'cause I love this place," John said in his loving manner.

Sherlock was speechless. He didn't think that anyone had ever called him their best mate. He felt warm and tingly inside, and he couldn't help the slight smile that came to his lips.

John saw Sherlock's face change, so he took the chance to plead with Sherlock for his abstinence from drugs and self harm.

"Sherlock, I know the road will be bumpy ahead. I know that it will be hard to quit a habit that you've lived with for so long, but you need to do it. I will be here with you through everything, even if you relapse. I won't give up on you Sherlock Holmes. Do you understand?"

Sherlock took a minute to process John's words, and another one to come up with a reply.

"John, I don't think-" he began, but was interrupted.

"Sherlock, I believe in you. I believe that you can stop. Please stop. For me. Please, just for me. To make your best mate happy," John begged Sherlock, on the brink of tears again.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John's face. That was all John wanted of Sherlock, for him to stop hurting himself. It was a simple request. Could he do it?

"I...I suppose that I could...try, I guess."

"Oh Sherlock! Thank you. Thank you so much!" John hugged Sherlock again, giddiness spreading through him.

John and Sherlock just held each other like that for about ten minutes. Right when John was about to let go, Sherlock whispered, "Thank you, John."

John gave his friend a little squeeze.

"Any day, Sherlock."