Hey so, reviews make me happy. Um let me know if this seems rough, it's pretty late right now so it probably is. Thanks for reading.
Sherlock sat slumped in his chair still, staring emptily in to the distance. His eyes avoiding John's, his arm was bound tight in a fresh white bandage. His scars were covered and it was taking every little part of his being and strength not to rip it off, for John's sake. He could hear questions being spat at him. He wasn't angry though…-which was strange- but sad and confused. Why would he care so much anyway? Who would care about a freak like him? The lights were now on in the flat, giving everything seemingly new perspective. It all semed so much less sinister in the light. But shadows stared from the walls, exaggerated limbs and
He was itching to cut again. The humiliation of being caught doing something so private and personal made him feel like his cheeks were on fire.
"Sherlock?"
He winced. The pain in John's voice hit him like a slap in the face. That was weird. Was Sherlock feeling… bad?
Why should he? It's his business if he wants to sink back in to something he found comfort in. John wouldn't understand. He probably had a nice life, happy family. He just wouldn't understand something like this-
Then he remembered. He fought in the war; he'd seen brutal massacre, then come home to an empty apartment, struggling to support his alcoholic sister, completely alone and nothing to look foreword to but a therapist's appointment maybe a few times. He hadn't turned to something like this… That must mean he was weak to succumb to this. He didn't have any problems other than bad memories and a hungry boredom.
"Sherlock please say something!" Sighed John. "Please I can get you help-"
"I don't WANT help!" snarled Sherlock.
He looked up to John. Jerking out of his chair and towering above him. Slender figure bathed in moonlight, his dark hair wild and tousled. This time John seemed to wither back in his chair as Sherlock's eyes bore in to his. He looked away, hot under his glare.
"There's nothing wrong with me. It's just stress relief." Sherlock breathed out, walking over to the window, watching the general hum of London pass by. Anything to avoid John's agonised stare.
"I-I just don't know what to say-"
"Don't say anything then." Growled Sherlock, venom dripping from his already deep tone. John looked away, trying to hold back the… what? Anger? Frustration? He couldn't tell. He didn't want help… what could he do? He felt his eyes wandering to the bandage. He remembered bandaging the arm, wiping off all the blood that drenched his arm. Sherlock barely flinched, how long had he been doing this? Months? Years?
After a while of sitting in the awkward silence John got up to go to bed, glancing one last time at Sherlock who was still sulking looking out of the window. He felt at a loss. He didn't know what he wanted, how to help. His heart screamed at him to do something… anything. Surely there had to be something-
He shook his head. There was nothing. You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. He stifled a yawn and rubbed his forehead. Striding in to his room without a word he closed his door, clicking it shut and sliding in to the cold lonely sheets he pushed his screaming conscience to the furthest corner of his mind and tried to sleep.
Sherlock heard the bedroom door of John's room click shut and frowned. His arm was now aching, crying out in agony but he was used to this. He liked the pain and savoured it. He considered cutting again but something stopped him, a flash of John's distraught and confused face flashed in his mind and he felt a horrible guilty feeling in the pit of his gut. He hadn't felt THAT in a while… interesting. But… the way John's face was… it was so pained…
The feeling grew stronger. Then it sounded again. That little voice in the back of his head, reasoning with him;
You've hurt the only person in this world who accepts you. Now look what you've done. You're a freak, how could you do something so stupid? He'll never see you the same. He sees you the way they all see you… a weirdo. Heartless. Machine. Soulless.
He cringed, letting out a pained whimper. It was right… he couldn't cut… he didn't have the guts for that strangely. He swept in to the kitchen and went through the cupboards. Nothing at all he could indulge himself in… well almost nothing…
John sat up, he slapped a hand over his mouth as a small yelp of horror escaped his mouth. He growled. "Pull yourself together John." He mumbled to himself. "You were a soldier you can handle a few bumps in the night…" Then it came again, another crash, closer now. He strained his ears; something that sounded like slurred mumbling came from the hallway. Sherlock? He groaned and rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up from his dreamless sleep. He slid out of bed, the freezing air of the flat gnawed at his exposed skin and he grabbed his dressing gown, sliding it on he stumbled out in to the hallway, almost crashing in to the doorframe.
"S-Sherlock?" he muttered.
He saw Sherlock, grabbling at the wall in the hallway, trying desperately to keep balance, but failing and letting his knees buckle under his drunken weight he slid to his knees. Muttering darkly, his dark midnight curls fell over his face. Fists clenched and unclenching, his bandage unravelled, gash in his arm naked and sore.
He sat there staring at it, muttering.
"Sherlock?" whispered John, slowly inching his way closer to him.
Sherlock continued to whimper, staring blankly at his gash.
John moved closer until he was standing directly over him; staring down at the crumbled bloody drunken man on the floor, he felt his heart break slightly, cracking at the sight of someone he loved so much completely defeated by a blade and a few voiced in his head.
"Not deep enough…" he whimpered.
John bent down until he was on his knees, staring at Sherlock's curls.
"Never deep enough-"his voice cracked.
John felt a pang of shock and hurt. He sounded so… weak. He'd never broken down like this, John swallowed hard.
"Sherlock-" he spoke with more confidence in his voice, he couldn't let this continue.. right?
"Why you?!" Sherlock snapped his head upwards suddenly; his eyes met his and the intensity of his glare intrigued and scared John.
"Why do I care that I hurt you?!" he kept glaring, he barely even blinked, John shifted uncomfortably. It felt like he was setting his soul on fire.
"I've never cared about hurting anyone in my life… why do I care about hurting you?!"
John gulped, his face growing hot. This man of deduction, this powerful mind had emotionally collapsed in front of him, he was dangerously close to coming how much he actually felt for him-
Suddenly, with great passion and force Sherlock shoved John on to his back, John was winded for a few seconds, and his whole body jerked with surprise and he let a groan escape his lips. Sherlock was steadily hovering above I'm, both arms above his head, face dangerously close to his, He could smell the heavy alcohol on his breath. He didn't hold back the urge for his eyes to wander to Sherlock's lips, stained slightly with red wine. Gulping it down too greedily… anything to keep his mind off the cutting- Great. Now he was deducing. His eyes flew up to Sherlock's blue icy glare. His heart pounded, hammering against his chest, ready to explode clean out of him. A million words buzzed through his head. Questions any sobered and not at all sleep deprived John would ask.
What are you doing? You never drink Sherlock- What the hell is going on?!
"John."
His voice was so fragile, like he could collapse at any second in to a bloody mess of tangled matted curls. John blushed at the thought of Sherlock collapsing on to him-
He opened his mouth to say something but his throat was completely dry. He didn't protest when Sherlock began to nuzzle in to the crook of his neck, whimpering softly.
"Please John-" he begged. Causing John to go redder. "Please make the voices STOP." John couldn't help himself; he ran a hand through Sherlock's silky black mane and buried his head in it.
"I can try Sherlock." He slid his hand down to his cheekbone and stroked it softly.
"Right now though I think you need some sleep-"
Sherlock let out a wail of protest but staggered up with John's help.
"Maybe some sleep will do you good-"
It was at that point he was violently shoved in to the hallway wall. He gritted his teeth and let out a groan.
"No." growled Sherlock violently.
John let a shiver work its way down his spine; his voice was rich, oozing sex. He could feel his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath again. Sherlock was very forceful when he wanted to be.
Again their faces were inches apart, John's face light with a blush. Though he could feel a pleasurable feeling working its way in the pit of his gut, he was enjoying this. Being shoved around by Sherlock, he hated to admit it but he did.
"I think… I need a doctor." Smirked Sherlock, Leaning in John couldn't find it in him to resist, his lips locked on Sherlock's and they collided, Sherlock pressed his hands against Johns wrists, pinning him to the wall. John was secured but barely noticed as his tongue slipped in and explored Sherlock's mouth. All he could hear was the muffled breathing of Sherlock and the taste of red wine that entered his mouth.
Mid kiss Sherlock smirked and without warning crashed his hips against John's. His eyes widened and let out a small moan of pleasure; surprised at Sherlock's outgoingness. He felt Sherlock's body completely push against him. He loved it, the way he felt against his skin, the way his lips were, it was like dream.
Sherlock drew away, hips still slightly attached to John's.
"Goodnight John." He smiled playfully
And as if nothing at all happened slipped in to his bedroom, slamming his door shut.
John stood breathless in the hallway, trembling, excited and whimpering, but now confused.
"Y- You can't do that!" he squeaked angrily. He started to hammer on Sherlock's door.
"You can't just leave me like this!"
"I think you'll find I can actually."
John stood there; angry and dumbfounded. Of all the things Sherlock had struck him as, a tease was never one of them. But there wasn't much he could do. So stumbling back to his bedroom he crawled under the duvets and tried to sleep off the strangeness of the past few minuets.