Warning: this chapter is angsty and contains graphic mentions of self-harm.
He sits up, back throbbing, and tries an innocent look.
"I was on my way to get milk and my leg cramped."
"Please, John, credit me with a little intelligence. Your leg pain, as we both know, is psychosomatic. And even if it wasn't, you've been sat out here long enough to have walked to the shop and back twice, so I repeat: what is going on?"
"Nothing. Look, I just haven't been feeling very well. Flu or something."
Sherlock's brow furrows, and John allows his flustered and embarrassed expression to show.
"Why didn't you just say? Well of course; fear of appearing weak – military background, potential causes…"
John tips his head back, letting the words wash over him. Another bullet dodged – maybe, he could never really tell with Sherlock – but something else would pique his friend's interest eventually. He was going to figure it out eventually.
Sherlock has clearly finished talking now and is looking at John with veiled concern.
"Back inside, I think" he comments, helping John to his feet with surprising gentleness and shepherding him through the open door and up the stairs.
"Tea?" he enquires, and John barely fights back a groan.
"Alright" he says, moving towards the kitchen, but Sherlock blocks his path.
"I was offering, not ordering" he says, with a quirk of his lips, and John blinks.
"Well that's unusual. Um, no, don't fancy it. Thanks though."
He shuffles upstairs, feeling worse by the second, and has to stop outside the bathroom to empty his stomach before remembering the state of his bedroom. As much as he wants to curl up in bed, it doesn't appeal and he strips the sheets exhaustedly, the room spinning around him as he moves towards the door.
Sherlock makes no comment as he sets the washing machine onto a high temperature and takes a fresh set of bedding from the cupboard, although he feels his gaze as he climbs the stairs.
Unable to go make it any further than the bathroom, he decides to take pity on his body and run a bath. The fragrant steam as it fills makes him feel slightly better and once he sinks into the hot water his aches just seem to dissolve and he sighs happily. He luxuriates in the hot water for longer than he should, until his skin begins to shrivel and he forces himself up, gripping the sides of the tub and trying to ignore the ache of his shoulder as the cool air hits it.
The sudden rush of blood from his head makes him sway and clutch at the side of the bath, and as he sinks to the floor his relaxation gives way to fear, a knot building in his throat and his shoulders shaking. He can't cry – Sherlock will hear him, will know that something is very wrong – he has to stay strong. He bites his lip, hard, feeling the coppery tang of blood on his tongue and a little burst of pain, and it helps a little, but he still feels like wailing. He digs his nails into the delicate skin on the inside of his elbow and drags down, hard, and it loosens the knot some more, leaving a pink train in its wake, but still…
…he hasn't cried since he was a boy…
…his eyes drift to the razor, discard it as a terrible idea, drift back. The idea of Sherlock walking in, seeing him weeping on the side of the bathtub, the idea of the pity or the revulsion if he found out…
His eyes prickle and burn and before he even knows what he's doing, the blade is poised over his upper arm and he's drawing it down, seeing the skin split open. He has never cut himself before; it's not really what doctors do and he's seen enough blood for a lifetime in Afghanistan and in the course of his work with (for?) Sherlock. It hurts – it stings, and it takes his mind off the panicked burning in his eyes and throat. Only a shallow cut, a few droplets of blood coalesce and trail down his arm, and he finally allows himself to take a deep breath and stand more slowly.
As though on autopilot he rinses off the blade and dries it, puts it back on the shelf, dabs a little Savlon on the cut and covers it over with a plaster. It probably doesn't need it, but now his head is clear he just wants to cover it over and forget about it. The irony doesn't escape him.
He braves downstairs and is relieved when Sherlock barely looks up at him aside from a cursory glance. His stomach is grumbling furiously and he needs something to eat, even though there's a good chance that it won't stay down.
"Toast?" he offers, and Sherlock grunts a yes without looking up, and starts telling John about his research.
Maybe, John thinks, things are going to be okay.