Amazingly, Sherlock did not pull away. Okay, he didn't reciprocate the hug but he didn't pull away. That was something. Eventually John pulled back, flushing softly. "Let's get you to bed, okay? No arguing." He said firmly, sliding his other arm around his friend and helping to haul the long limbed man to his feet. He still looked pale, startlingly so. John wasn't sure that he was not going to collapse again. He helped shuffle the man to his bed and placed him on top of the covers, "Do you feel cold? So I know whether to get blankets." He asked softly and when Sherlock nodded moodily he chuckled softly and ruffled his sweaty curls. "Chin up, Sherlock. Might never happen."
Sherlock shot him a glare and John just laughed, shaking his head and wandering to his room. Gathering armfuls of blankets, he walked back to Sherlock to see him under his duvet. It was tucked under his chin and he looked evermore the petulant child. He tucked the blankets around his friend and left the room again. He came back with one ibuprofen pill and one acetaminophen pill. Alternating doses of them both would help prevent an accidental overdose of one or the other. He handed Sherlock a cold glass of water. "Swallow the pills and finish that glass. It will help with that nasty fever of yours." He used his 'I'm in charge' voice and the detective sullenly did as he was told. He had no qualms about voicing his distaste however but slowly the mumblings turned into rather incoherent babble.
Placing the wet cloth from earlier over his forehead, he waited until he was definitely asleep before pulling up his sleeve. Now that he had longer to look, he could see that the scars were in lines, some deep, some shallow, some long, some short. They all varied in direction and colouring but one thing was certain for them all. They were self-administered marks and judging by the scars, they had been done using a sharp instrument. Mostly likely a knife or a razor blade. John swallowed thickly, tracing a finger over a few particularly deep ones on his wrist, just under the heel of his palm.
Feeling vaguely sick, and sensing that he was intruding into something Sherlock did not want him to see, he picked up the needle and within seconds had the makeshift IV up and running. He hooked the bag over the lamp and prayed that Sherlock didn't move much in his sleep. Unlikely with the way the fever would be bubbling away at his mind.
John walked slowly into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. A brief spasm of pain ran through his 'bad' leg and he winced, kneading his thigh. It had gone within seconds and he wandered briefly what had caused it. After finishing making his tea, he flopped onto the sofa, placing his mug down and pulling his laptop onto his lap. He felt unnecessarily guilty as he pulled up google and typed in 'Self harm in adults'.
John was a doctor; he had seen people who hurt themselves. He wasn't a psychiatrist but he helped refer people who came to him to therapists. He had even stitched up a few self-inflicted wounds in his time. But this time it was different. He knew that self-harm could occur at any age, he had just not seen it happen to anyone over the age of about seventeen. Not only was Sherlock an adult but he was… Sherlock. John had never believed that Sherlock would do that. It hadn't ever occurred to him. To him, Sherlock was a machine sometimes. Didn't feel, didn't care. Obviously he knew that Sherlock did care, very much so. He had let John see that numerous times. If anything, this, just proved it even more.
'It can feel to other people that these things are done calmly and deliberately – almost cynically. But we know that someone who self-harms is usually in a state of high emotion, distress and unbearable inner turmoil. Some people plan it in advance, for others, it happens on the spur of the moment. Some people self-harm only once or twice, but others do it regularly - it can be hard to stop.' He muttered as his eyes scanned the page. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered softly. How had he not noticed? How long had it been happening? Why? So many frenzied questions ran around his mind. Sherlock was hurting. Obviously very badly, and he hated himself for not noticing. For not seeing like he should have.
'Common problems include, physical or sexual abuse, feeling depressed, feeling bad about yourself, relationship problems with partners, friends, and family, being unemployed, or having difficulties at work. You may be more likely to harm yourself if you feel that people don't listen to you, hopeless, isolated, alone, out of control, powerless – it feels as though there's nothing you can do to change anything.'
John slammed the lid down on his laptop and pushed his hands through his hair, tea forgotten. Oh jesus, what was he going to do? He had to help Sherlock, he had to try at least. But would the younger man even accept his help? He just didn't know what to do. Standing, he made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. He checked his friend and made sure he was comfortable before pulling over a chair and sitting down, reaching across and resting his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't feel his hand, he was mumbling again, turning over feverishly every few minutes.
John hummed softly under his breath, prepared to keep the silent vigil by his friend's side until he awoke. He would never leave the man alone again.