"Can I get you a cup?" John offered. He could tell Sherlock was in the midst of deducing what had been happening in the few months of his departure. Liquor bottles scattered around parts of the room and clusters of pill bottles that had not been ingested. Here and there along the wall there were kitchen knives that had been thrown. The smiley face in the wall even had more bullet holes.
"Uh no, I'm good, thanks though." Sherlock's heart nearly stopped when he saw John's new beverage choice along with the all too familiar pills. John hadn't been kidding around when he said that, he was serious about his suicide. Sherlock gulped when he saw dried blood on the floor obviously John had actually tried to commit the act in an attempt, but stopped because he thought Sherlock would come back. Sherlock moved back out of the room slowly gripping the door frame until his knuckles turned a deathly white his muscles protesting. His face had been a mask before but now his eyes where full of fear and compunction towards John and him losing his blogger again.
"Alright. Sorry about all the dust. I guess I never really got around to cleaning the place much." He set his cup down on the side table realizing that Sherlock saw the blood on the floor. He quickly went back into the kitchen and grabbed a rag to clean it up. Once he did that, he started pulling the knives out of the wall and picking up the empty liquor bottles. He put them in the kitchen and returned with a trashcan. He dumped all of the pill bottles into it. After all, he didn't have to worry so much anymore.
Sherlock watched John for a moment trying not to seem like there was something wrong however, on the inside his was trembling violently. He took off his coat and scarf and placed them on their hooks appearing as nonchalant as possible. "I'm uh going to take a shower and then maybe we could talk if you'd like?" He asked quickly not knowing if he could act like this much longer.
"Alright. I'm just going to sit here and drink my tea. There should be some clean towels in the linen closet." John said all of this on a much happier note than he had been earlier today. He felt a new sense of meaning to life and felt that he was being pulled out of the depression gradually.
Sherlock walked swiftly out of the room and into his own which was completely untouched as he expected. He grabbed a random set of clothes and walked into the hall and then into the wash room. He nearly ran into the room and shut the door quickly and leaned his back against it trying to calm what he had seen around the flat made him very ill thinking about it. His stomach churned uncomfortably and his skin was clammy. He then crossed the room straight for the shower turning it on making the faucet stream water to the tubs floor, making a pleasant sound that he sighed to. He turned to set his clothes on the sink like always, but froze still when he saw what was on it. There were piles of pill bottles stacked precisely into stacks. They were of all colors and sizes. But that wasn't the worst part. All along the side walls and mirrors were papers taped up in a stray of organized mess. He dropped his clothes to the ground making a sound thud sound and took a step closer to the notes. They were scribbled in John's handwriting each in vivid detail about how each of the drugs that lay mockingly on the mantle of the sink top could kill a person. Each one had red angry circles around the desired death that John apparently liked. Some had seizures listed or total organ failure or uncontrollable bleeding. Sherlock's stomach rolled violently and his breathing quickened the room filled with hot steam that made him sweat even more than he was. Bile rose in his throat wanting to leave him, he felt his stomach clench and he doubled over the toilet to vomit violently. He trembled and shook with each dry heave that left him breathless and weak. After a few minutes the heaving thankfully stopped and he sunk down to the cool tile where he remained for a long time, taking a slow breath to calm his stomach and his mind. Luckily he had put the shower on first so that John wouldn't have to hear his retching from the other room. He stared at the ceiling for a long while thinking about all the terrible things he had done all the emotions he made John suffer through.
John sat in the sitting area drinking his tea, unaware of the events that just occurred upstairs.
Sherlock sighed; self-loathing ensnared him in his own mind he would have to do something about that if he wanted to stay strong for John. He pushed it to the back of his mind for the moment however as he realized that the room was thick with steam and he was wasting water, not that he cared, but John would. He slowly got up from his place on the floor and held onto the towel rack for support. He reached over the flush the toilet as he was very ashamed of himself for that sort of behavior: yet another thing to hate about himself; he didn't want pity; he didn't deserve it. He then carefully peeled off his ivory shirt and black pants that he threw to the corner of the bathroom. He bent over to pick up his new clothes and placed them on the towel rack he was leaning on still as his legs were wobbly from the lack of energy. He then stripped down to nothing and stepped in the scalding rain of water. He wanted to turn it down but the pain distracted him from the guilt for the time being. The hot water make the marble white flesh turn pink in protest of the temperature. He looked up to the shower head, allowing his face to be burned. He stared at the silver of the faucet his eyes reflecting back at him, taunting him, yelling at him. He was memorized by the way they flashed as a new thought occurred to him. He hadn't realized that the minutes went by and that John was still waiting down stairs.
John figured Sherlock was going through some thought process, so he let him be. He sat patiently typing away on his laptop. He was looking back at his blog that he had abandoned for a very long time.
Sherlock quickly finished showing which didn't take long as he hurried so John wouldn't be more upset. After the soap was out of his hair, he turned to face the temperature adjuster; he placed his hand on it and slowly turned it to off. He didn't want to move; he just wanted to stay in the shower forever and never do anything, but he knew that John would go back into his depression that he was facing at the moment. John had passed on to him the very stage that left him thinking of suicide. Sherlock however would not do that as he obviously realized that he needed to be alive for the blonde's safety from himself. Sherlock sighed softly and stepped back out of the shower, reached over the towel rack to grab a navy blue one, and securely wrapped it around his hips. He then grabbed his emerald green shirt and buttoned it up to the very last one. He quickly finished dressing carelessly, as he didn't care anymore if the clothes were wet from the droplets on his body or if his hair was still dripping; he had lost his passion for immaculate appearance. He walked down the hallway to the living room where John sat in the living room on his laptop as he heard the keys type. He stayed behind the door frame, peeking his head inside to see John.
John was sitting patiently twiddling his thumbs. It's been an hour, he thought. He had finished his cup of tea and had gotten bored with scrolling his neglected blog. He just wanted to see Sherlock again, a face that he had really missed.
Sherlock cautiously walked out and stood in front of John. He wasn't sure where John wanted him to sit. He cleared his throat and took a breath "Hi John," he said nervously. He wasn't sure what John planned to converse about.
"Oh hey..." He didn't mention the fact that Sherlock was in the shower for almost an hour. "Go ahead and sit down. I dusted off your seat for you." He took one look at Sherlock's face which was still pale from having seen all the pills on the counter and the sticky notes on the mirror, and knew he had seen them. "Oh God you saw the...things didn't you? Sherlock, I'm sorry."
Sherlock sat down stiffly as he took in John's words. "Uh…yes I did see that," he whispered out hoarsely as his throat was still very raw.
"I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to see that." He sat awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.
Sherlock wanted to say, 'John, yes I do deserve to see that to see what you went though'. But instead, he took the rule of the coward and hung his head. He curled his body up close to him and attempted to act like it was nothing, but even a master of deception like himself couldn't just hide the fact that his best friend had planned his death in various ways.
"Sherlock..." John started, "you need to forgive me. I was having a really hard time coping with the fact that I was never going to see you again. I'm sorry that I spooked you. Please just try to forget that I went through a low point in my life. You're back now and things are going to get better. Please understand."
Sherlock looked up. John…apologizing to him? No, he did not want pity from John of all people. He looked down at the floor angrily as he actually had the nerve to say he does understand and that he forgives John. It should be the other way around; John is perfect and never did anything to receive the pain Sherlock gave him. John always stood by his side. John was always there for him, but when John needed him most, he was gone. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he felt bile rise again, so he quickly close his mouth and swallowed it down with a grimace.
"I know I have caused you a lot of pain by looking at the mess I became." John lowered his head. "I could tell something had put you off."
Sherlock was fuming at himself the pit of self-loathing magnifying by every passing moment. He took a deep breath, one that he didn't earn; he thought silently and answered, "I caused you more," he said in a horse whisper.
John moved closer to him and placed a hand softly on his shoulder. "I am sure that all that you did had good intentions. It just went through my head differently than you intended it to. I have forgiven you. It's your turn to forgive yourself."
Sherlock's breath stopped. John forgives him? Well, that was good, but he could never forgive himself after making John almost kill himself on numerous occasions. He needed to leave right now or he would do something he would regret even more. "Of course I have," he said, speaking his lie of the century. But John couldn't know that because that would make him weak and needy for John's compliments that he never deserved again.
John looked at him, puzzled. He didn't believe him for one second. "That expression on your face says otherwise."
Sherlock wanted to yell at him for prying, but instead he bit the inside of his cheek rather hard, making him taste the metallic tinge of his blood. The force that he bit down with should have hurt, but inside it made him feel a little better, being able to control the pain and redirecting it from the long ache in his heart.
"If you haven't yet, I'm not mad. Eventually, you will. I promise." John tried to be as reassuring as possible even though he doubted it would get into Sherlock's head.
Sherlock wanted to call out to John for help, telling him all the things he was feeling at the moment, but that was selfish; John needed him more than ever at the moment and he didn't want to burden John with more troubles. "Okay," he breathed out. He doubted it immensely, but John had always given him that bit if hope and encouragement when everyone denied him.
"If you ever just need to talk about it, I'm always here to talk." John smiled weakly. He still knew that Sherlock was hiding a lot of his emotions, but he didn't need to pry tonight.
Talk? About emotions? Sherlock nearly scoffed at the preposterous idea of conversing about his feelings. "I'm fine John." He watched John's face fall, making him angry at himself once more; can he do anything but hurt John for once in his life?! "However thank...you for the offer," he added very lamely.
"Anything." John couldn't tell if Sherlock had any of the same feelings that he felt for him. He's just so hard to read, he thought. He decided he would not make any more romantic advances like he did earlier at the cemetery.
Sherlock needed to be alone and think about all events of that day, but he didn't want to leave John. "I…well it's late and I do believe I am going to retire for the day. If that's alright?" he asked wanting to make sure that John was okay with it too.
"Yes that's fine. I'm tired as well. Well, I guess goodnight then Sherlock." John stands, and walks upstairs to his room. At first he had some trouble falling asleep, but once he had the assurance that Sherlock was back, he slept like a baby.
Sherlock sat still for a long while before slowly getting up and walking to his own room. Once inside he paced for hours on end until his feet were numb and his ankles weak.