John had been watching him a lot lately, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. When he'd left their flat unexpectedly, Sherlock's first thought was to follow him, but he really did have more important things to do.
Boredom was torture for Sherlock, and he fought it through three things; solving crime, doing drugs, and hurting himself on purpose. These things weren't healthy, but he needed them, both for the thrill and for the distraction from the depression he's been dealing with most of his life.
Sherlock hadn't had an opportunity for any of these things for days, with John watching him so steadily. Surely he hadn't guessed..? No. Sherlock had been careful.
There were no crimes to solve and no cocaine available. This left one option.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bathtub in his boxers, a razor in his hand. He loved the anticipation before he cut, the excitement, the desire; his stomach felt tight with these emotions. He raised his pale wrist and examined it. Decades' worth of scars, from silvery white to angry red, scars that were too deep to ever heal fully, flawed his skin. He was glad. His skin deserved to be flawed, ruined like the rest of him. That was another reason Sherlock did this; he hated himself. He'd been suicidal before, but death wasn't what he wanted out of cutting.
He ran the blade across his wrist, over all the other scars. Small beads of blood appeared, and that was all; the cut was barely deeper than a paper cut. The next one was deeper, and blood started to drip down his arm. The next one was deeper still, tearing his skin a few millimetres apart so he could watch the cut fill up with blood.
He continued making cuts around that size until his entire left arm was mutilated. Streams of blood dripped off his arm onto the floor. Sherlock loved this.
"One more," he told himself, feeling rather dizzy.
He slashed his wrist open deep, too deep- "Shit!"
He fumbled under the sink for something, anything, that could bind the cut. He found an ace bandage, used to stop swelling- this would put enough pressure on it to stop the bleeding. He bound his wrist tightly, but was getting dizzier every second, too much so to fasten it there…
He heard the sound of the front door opening. "Sherlock?" John's voice called out. His footsteps approached the bathroom. "You here?"
"I, er, yes, I'm about to take a shower, don't come in-"
"I don't believe you. There's blood seeping out from under the door."
"John, no, I'm fine-"
The door opened.
John's eyes widened in shock. He'd had no idea that it was this bad- so much blood, everywhere…
"Get in the tub, now," he ordered, forcing his voice to remain steady. Sherlock obeyed, wobbling dangerously from blood loss.
John turned on the water, making sure it wasn't too hot or too cold, and began washing the blood off of his best friend's body, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was wearing nothing but his pants, revealing such lovely muscles and creamy skin-
John, stop it. He felt a growing sensation in his crotch. Oh, Wonderful.
When Sherlock's blood was mostly washed away, he bound his entire arm with bandages, though avoided the part with the ace bandage wrapped around it until he was done with the rest.
He unwrapped it carefully, then gasped. "Sherlock, this needs stitches. We have to go to the hospital."
"No. I'd die before going there," hissed Sherlock, voice filled with venom. "Do you know how much people would talk? You're a doctor. You do it."
"Fine," sighed John. He helped Sherlock out of the tub, wrapping a towel across his shoulders, then helping him into his own bedroom, setting him on the bed. He stitched up the cut quickly, then bandaged it, not wanting to look at it any more than he had to. Yes, as a doctor, he was used to this sort of thing and worse. But not on Sherlock. Sherlock was strong, undefeatable, or at least he gave the impression of it.
John was so busy thinking about this that he didn't notice his body acting of its own accord; his lips tenderly kissing Sherlock's bandaged wounds, Sherlock staring at him incredulously .
"Shit, I-sorry-" he babbled. "I- I love you."
"I love you too," Sherlock replied after a moment, still staring at him with that look on his face.
"You don't have to say it just because I did."
"I didn't. I meant it."
John loved him. Him. The Great Screw-up, Sherlock Holmes.
And Sherlock loved John back. But he was not expecting John to practically tackle him in a hug like did.
The force of John's body colliding against his brought Sherlock from a sitting position to lying down, John nuzzling his shoulder affectionately, Sherlock's head resting on his chest. He was amazed at the warmth of John's body, so close, so protective.
What is this. This safe feeling. This feeling like I'm addicted to John. Love, of course, I should've known. I guess it isn't so bad…
John squeezed him tighter, cradling his head against his chest with one hand. Suddenly John pulled away.
"Wha-"
John's lips were coming closer, closer, until they were touching Sherlock's. Sherlock had never kissed anyone before, and found comfort in the slow, tender movements of his best friend's lips against his own.
"Mine," whispered John, pulling away only to cuddle Sherlock some more. "My detective."
Sherlock was miles closer to understanding human contact and emotions, though he felt embarrassed by the fact he'd admitted he was capable of them. Emotions could make you weak. But sometimes, rarely, they made you stronger.
Sherlock continued to be addicted to self harm and cocaine (and solving crime) but he managed to cut back on the first two thanks to John. Thanks to the fact that John made the depression go away, and also provided him with a thrill just by touching his hand.
John understood the fact that some things about Sherlock probably wouldn't go away- the bipolar, somewhat rude attitude, the addictions, the need to be alone sometimes. None of that mattered. He understood his friend much better now.
They'd both found what they were subconsciously looking for- understanding.
The end. Review?