Author's note – WOW! Updates updates.Alright, this has become really angsty, and I'm totally going with it. I have random fragments written up for future chapters, and I can guarantee right now that this is absolutely not the end of their rollercoaster relationship, for better or for worse. I hope I'm not tormenting you guys too much.

A huge thank you to everyone who's favorited, followed, and reviewed this fic. I get the hugest goofiest silliest grin on my face when I read your reviews, and I'm so glad that at least someone is enjoying my writing. So thank you, and please keep it up.

Lastly (this is important) I feel obligated to give a little trigger warning: this contains references to self-harm, cutting, and the like. If that is a sensitive topic for you (and I completely understand, having gone through it myself), you can skim it, as I do get a little graphic. Quick summary, just so you don't miss out on plot (SPOILER ALERT if you're going to read the chapter in its entirety): John discovers that Sherlock's been self-harming in his absence to deal with the feelings of abandonment. Mycroft confirms that the best thing to do is for John to leave Sherlock alone. Tall orders, tall orders.

Sherlock

John's eyes widen with a sharp intake of breath as he sees what Sherlock has spent the past six months attentively concealing.

Thin, deep cuts (or their remnants, now; Sherlock has not purchased new razors in close to a week). Ten, to be exact, placed exactly perpendicular to his median antebrachial vein. Once an angry scarlet, now the sickly light brown of dried blood, scabbing, and scar tissue.

Appalled, John lets out a small whimper, a little oh escaping his lips, and the tail end of a why?

Sherlock stares straight ahead, eyes fixated on a section of gray wall behind him. Comfortingly bland. He takes a deep breath and says, "I am aware that I have entered into a cycle of self-mutilation, which can only exacerbate psychological vulnerabilities while being simultaneously calming, due to the corresponding release of endorphins perversely associated with the 'high,' so to speak, of the said behavior, this illusion being perpetuated by the incorrect, ultimately self-destructive inception of repetitive neural patterns. I apologize if I have concerned you."

John gapes at him, shuts his eyes. He looks as though he is in severe pain. "Sherlock," he says.

Sherlock hastily pulls his sleeve back down. "It's fine," he says. It's not.

"How long have you...?"

The cat's out of the bag now; he might as well be honest. His mouth is dry with anxiety and sadness and fear as he presses on blindly. "Since after the wedding. I suppose I felt... abandoned. I was abandoned, in virtually all senses of the word. You chose Mary, over me. And I just couldn't handle 'space' but I couldn't handle anything else when it came to you, either. I was alone; the pain of loss was too sharp, too excruciating, and I am not one accustomed to emotions. Losing you somehow magnified the voices, effectively ignored until this point, telling me that I am, in fact, no good. Not worth living, really. So I turned to this." He shrugs. "Whenever I felt bad, if I heard your name, or glanced at your chair, I picked up a razor. It dulled the emotional pain. I realize that this is far from a salubrious manner of consoling myself, but it's what I have." This conversation is so very tiring; he is weary, weary of watching John across the room while his chest grows heavier and heavier, weary of waking in the middle of the night because he remembers that kiss, weary of days filled with analyzing bloody wounds, only to return home and inflict his own.

He is cautious, deliberate, clean about it. Careful, as he is with most other things. Recklessness has not served him well in the past, and the man standing before him is an excellent example of this. When everything is spinning out of control, self harm gives him a sense of safety. He is the master of his own pain. How deep, how long, at what angle the blade pierces his skin – it is up to him, where his feelings are not. The first few times he gazed in astonishment at the small crimson beads, breathed in the piquant sting, felt the calm. Now it is commonplace.

John looks as if he is going to cry or punch a wall. "Sherlock, I – I don't know what to say."

"Yes, well, I have errands to run, so –"

"Don't you fucking go off and buy more sodding knives," says John, grabbing Sherlock's arm.

"I..." That is, in fact, what he was planning to do. Has he grown more predictable? How unpleasant. "I'm going back to the flat."

"I'm coming with you."

"Please, John, that's really not necessary."

"I insist." The set of John's jaw is alarming. Defiant, stubborn, angry (at himself?), hurt. Sherlock has rarely seen him so determined.

"Are you... okay?"

"No, I'm bloody not okay. How are you supposed to fucking feel when you find out that you drove your fucking best mate to cutting, when you could have simply stayed?"

"I didn't want you to stay. It isn't as if you had a choice in getting married. You were in no position to call off your own wedding, particularly given your love and connection with Mary."

"This is my fault."

"That is where you are wrong, John," Sherlock says firmly. "The feelings indirectly spurred by your actions fed my drive to self-destruction, yes. But my reaction was entirely my own. Nobody can force another to cut. You must understand that."

"No, Sherlock, no fucking thing you say is going to change my mind. It's my fucking fault and –" John's voice breaks. Sherlock does not know what to do, cannot handle or risk hugging him, though that is probably the appropriate response in such a situation. "How can you do this?"

"I did not intend for you to ever find out."

"Clearly. I mean, god, Sherlock. When were you going to stop? I mean, you couldn't have thought you could just go on like this, not get help. Doesn't Mycroft know?"

"Mycroft is a tad involved at the moment. He's currently engaged in a flirtation with a young lady named Kate, and has therefore been lax about surveilling me."

"So who were you going to tell?"

"I believe the obvious answer is no one."

"You couldn't have confided in –"

"John," Sherlock interrupts. It is imperative for his friend (if he can be called that anymore, which is a little doubtful) to understand. "It isn't your fault. What's done is done. Nothing, nobody, could have prevented this. And no, I was not going to stop. Self harm became as essential as eating and drinking. A routine, no more, no less. Simple. Easy."

"Sherlock, I..." John's voice breaks. "You need to stop. I'll do anything. How can I help?"

Sherlock looks at him sadly. Break up with Mary. Miraculously fall in love with me. Kiss me. All equally impossible scenarios. "You can't. Go back to your life."

"I refuse to –"

"John." He is surprised at the emotion bubbling up, the strain of keeping everything under wraps at all time, and damned if he is about to let John watch him fall apart. "Go home. Go back to Mary. Please. For me."

John is openly crying. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would be embarrassed. But this is not other circumstances. These tears are for him, precisely why he cannot allow himself to be in John's life any longer. If anything, this is his fault, isn't it? He started it, he complicated things, he fell in love, and he drove John to this state.

"It's too soon. I invested much of my life in you, and four years cannot be forgotten in six months. Considering this development" – he gestures ruefully to his wrist – "I think it is most prudent for us to keep a distance. I do not want to cause you any more grief. I cannot. I... my life was never messy, until you. And at first, I must admit, I was intoxicated with such disorder. I experienced a broad variety of emotions that, to my feeling-depraved self, were simultaneously beautiful and overwhelming. I will not attempt to deny that. But there is a reason I have shied away from complicated situations, and this is why. It's my fault, John. I have upset you, caused you inexpressible stress. I cannot in good conscience continue to haunt your existence."

"You are a fucking idiot!" John shouts. "You think you can just leave me, just like that, just give me a taste of my own medicine while I sit back and twiddle my thumbs, knowing that someone I love is hurting themselves, because they can't deal with feelings that I provoked? You're not 'haunting my existence'! Far from it! So far it's in another fucking galaxy! You've made my existence brighter, better, in so, so many ways. I can't even... Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock. My god, you're... you've done so much for me."

Sherlock feels his throat begin to constrict. Breaking down leads to irreparable damage, and he must avoid further damage at all costs. He tears himself from John's eyes, so saturated with emotion that it's physically blinding, and walks away.

"Don't –"

Sherlock swallows hard. A single tear betrays him, trickles down his cheekbone, and he turns his head to conceal it.

"Sherlock –" John is panting, keeping up with his pace.

"Please go back to Mary. This is... too much."

"But I love –"

Sherlock stops so abruptly that the people behind them almost collide with his back. Casting him dirty looks, they veer around the two men. "John, I've reserved you and Mary a hotel in Bora Bora. The wait list was quite long, but I received an email today that your spot has opened up. All expenses paid. I pulled a few questionable strings to do so, which doesn't matter now, as the parties involved are indisposed. I didn't murder them," he feels it is necessary to clarify, and John gives a watery half-chuckle. "I've faxed Mary the tickets and itinerary already. You two never went on a real honeymoon. Now you can."

"You're insane," John says, shaking his head. "I'm not going."

"You must."

"I can't leave you like this."

"Then I will be forced to leave you, which, rest assured, is the last thing I want to do."

"No."

"Yes."

"I won't."

Sherlock can't breathe. He stops, has to lean against a telephone pole for support. "Go, John."

"What if I don't? What if I just show up at the flat? What if I move in again?"

"We both know that isn't going to happen."

"I won't leave you alone, you know."

"Bora Bora has –"

"SOD BORA BORA! Sod everything! The only thing I care about is you, Sherlock. You can't keep pushing people away like this! It isn't fair!"

"I have no other options." John's determination is frightening. Sherlock feels a panic attack edging its way into his mind palace, a figure dressed in white, a pulsing red button. "I have many resources. You know that. And I will regrettably be forced to utilize them, if you cannot accept my request and walk away, right now."

"Sherlock?" The expression on John's face is terrifying. Sherlock has never seen such twisted features, such pain, such blatant agony. Mouth contorted, muscles twitching as he cries, water droplets hanging off his delicate eyelashes, forehead wrinkles bluntly apparent, hands clenching and unclenching with the effort of staying calm. Sherlock starts hyperventilating, sinking into terror, the arms of an old friend. His fault. Always his fault.

And so he runs.

–––––

John

He stumbles into the house, thankfully empty, and fumbles for his phone. Sherlock, wiry and agile as always, is long gone. Lost in a sea of other faces, other heads. Fuck.

He dials the number. "Mycroft," he says hoarsely.

"John. How's life in paradise?"

"Fucking hell."

"Harsh words. Fighting with the wife?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock is cutting."

"Come again?"

"He's hurting himself. Razors. Knives. I don't know. He's miserable."

"Well, any fool could've told you that. Did you see him at the wedding?"

Heat radiating off of Sherlock's skin, lips slightly dry, soft as they slid against his. "Yes."

"Then you would've noticed."

"I didn't."

"Hm. I believe Molly –"

"THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD NOTICED BUT ME!" John roars. "That's not the goddamn point."

"So Sherlock is... self-injuring?"

"Yes," he says bitterly. "It's my fault."

"Don't jump the gun." Mycroft is thrown; John can hear it in his wary intonation. He keeps his voice impressively level. "What did you say when he told you? I thought you two were taking space, actually. That was the impression I got from Mrs. Hudson."

"How did she know?"

A sigh. "It was perfectly obvious. She ran into Sherlock crying over an old newspaper article about the two of you and –"

"Don't fucking guilt trip me, Mycroft."

"Touchy, are we? It's true. Neither here nor there, though."

"Sherlock didn't confide in me." He is shaking so hard he may well drop the mobile on the tiled floor. "Lestrade was suspicious, thought it was the drugs, and I confronted him."

"Remind me to thank Greg later. For now, I need you to do this." He pauses. "I assume that Sherlock sent you off, told you to go have your own life, something to that effect?"

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"This is my brother we're talking about. I know him far too well."

"Well, I shouldn't leave him, right?"

"As a matter of fact, you should."

"Are you mad?"

"Sherlock is not good with emotions, which is a universal fact, really. Falling in l –"

"Don't," John says sharply.

Mycroft doesn't ask questions, thank god, and amends, "Getting involved with you, developing your friendship, only to see you go off with someone else, took an enormous toll on his brain. Overworked it, nearly to death. He will miss you and pine for you and feel the pain no matter what, but with you out of his life, he can recuperate. In the long run, it is best if you respect his wishes."

John leans sideways against the windowsill, cool glass against his flushed face. "Can you help him?"

"I will."

"Do you promise?"

"My word is good."

"What will you do?"

"I know people who are knowledgeable about these things."

"Can you get him therapy?"

"I would like to, as it has done wonders for myself and many of my acquaintances, but I don't know how conducive a therapist would be to Sherlock's state of mind right now. Down the road, yes. I will push it then. But right now... right now he needs something else."

"What?"

"I don't know. I'll figure it out."

"Can I keep talking to you? I can't... it can't be like this, I can't be in the dark."

"I will give you updates, however vague, in the form of infrequent texts and/or phone calls. You do care deeply for my brother."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Then I would say that you deserve to know what's happening."

"I don't know as I deserve anything, at this point."

"Everyone deserves things, John. Listen, I need to go to Baker Street, I'm hailing a cab right now."

"That was fast."

"He's my baby brother. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him. If you relay that message I will destroy you," he adds conversationally.

"Noted." John takes a deep breath. "What if I go insane?"

"We all go insane. Your turn's coming up one way or another."

"What if I –"

"Don't 'what if' yourself to death. It's exceedingly pointless, not to mention unproductive. Go on your honeymoon now."

"You knew?" Why is he even surprised anymore?

"Of course I did. I helped Sherlock make the arrangements. I think you'll find it quite lovely."

"Hard to find anything lovely, when my best friend's hurting himself because of –"

"It's not because of you," Mycroft says sternly.

"Fine. I don't know about Bora Bora."

"The limo will take you and Mary to the airport at seven o'clock tomorrow."

"But –"

"I recommend packing a lot of sunscreen. I hear you have sensitive skin."

"Excuse –"

"I'm pulling up in front of the flat now. Goodbye."

The line cuts out before John can do anything.

He stands in the center of the living room, seeped in fading light, and thinks of Sherlock. He does not respond when Mary calls, does not get up to answer the door, does not move. He stands, he cries, and when he is empty, he falls to the floor and stares unseeingly into the distance.

The next morning, when the limousine does indeed arrive to transport them to the airport, John's limp has returned.