Okay, next chapter. Sorry for them being ooc. I'm thinking about stopping writing this story. I don't feel like I'm very good at it. I don't know, let me know what you think. I'd love some reviews if anybody wants to give me ideas or let me know if they think I should carry on or just stop. By the way, the time that John refers to is another story of mine 'Freaks bleed too'. Enjoy!
It had been about three days since Sherlock had fell ill, and whilst his fever had broken, John still wasn't letting him out of the flat. And Sherlock being Sherlock, showed how annoyed he was with that fact at every possible moment.
"John, I'm bored!" the petulant voice came from the living room, where his agitated flatmate was slung dramatically over the entire sofa.
"I don't care, Sherlock, you're still sick and you're staying here. No cases." John palmed his forehead, continuing to make the tea Sherlock had near damn demanded he make. He shoved the mug into the waiting hands, slumping in his armchair. Sherlock had been driving him crazy for at least the last day and a half, moaning and complaining, blaming John for how bored he was. John knew he was being a little irrational, Sherlock could most likely deal with a few cold cases at home without getting sicker, but John was….he'd become rather protective of his friend. And despite what Sherlock believed, the detective did need protecting. Mainly from himself, and he wasn't just talking about the self-harm. He would often 'forget' to eat, 'forget' to sleep, have no care towards himself when on a case, and not really after one had finished either. John remembered a startling time when Sherlock had gone and gotten himself stabbed, and he hadn't even been there. Thank god Sally and Lestrade had been, but he'd never quite been able to forgive himself.
John, lost in thoughts, didn't realise Sherlock was talking straight away. "What?" he blinked, looking up from his own mug.
Sherlock tutted, "honestly John." He murmured, shaking his head and folding his arms over his chest. "I said," Sherlock started, sounding extremely annoyed. "What on earth is wrong with you? Because if you're getting sick…" his lips curled in distaste.
"I'm not getting sick, I'm just thinking. Aren't you always telling me to do more of that?" he snapped, completely irrationally.
His friend raised an eyebrow, silent and contemplative. After a while, he broke the uneasy silence. "Out with it, John." He said briskly, sitting up, elbows on his knees, chin resting on the back of his hands. "There's no way you're still angry about my getting ill."
John narrowed his eyes, cupping a mug to his chest. "Of course, and you know everything, right? You could have gotten seriously sick, Sherlock. In hospital."
Sherlock tutted and sank back against the sofa. "And yet, that's not what you're so angry about out. I'm not incapable of seeing emotion, John." He raised a single brow again and John stubbornly rubbed the back of his neck. Sherlock was pretty much all better, but now when it came to the time when he could talk to his friend, he found himself unable to get the words out, and the silence became deafening.
The detective's eyebrow was still raised, expectant and waiting and finally, John had to say something. "Your arms, Sherlock. Your bloody arms." He gestured forward, helplessly.
Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly, the movement would have gone unnoticed if John hadn't been watching him so carefully. This was it, there was no going back.
"I saw the scars, the cuts, and I can wager a guess that there are more elsewhere." John carried on, sitting forward slightly but making no move to reach out for him.
Still Sherlock said nothing and John's stomach turned uneasily. It was fairly usual for them to sit in silence, when Sherlock was pouting or brooding, but this was…different. He hadn't denied anything John had said so far, but how could he? The evidence was right in front of him, he didn't need to be a consulting detective to see that the hundreds of slashes were done by his own hand, he didn't even need to be a doctor.
"Sher, talk to me, come on. I don't know why you do it, but I want to understand, I want to help." And that had obviously been the wrong thing to say. One thing that Sherlock hated was pity, and John couldn't help sounding at least a little pitiful. His friend was hurting desperately.
Sherlock stood, reaching for his coat off the back of an armchair, pulling it on and tying his scarf around his neck. He moved briskly for the door, but John, used to his friends sudden disappearances, was already on the move. The detective was heads taller than him but he stood in front of the door, shaking his head. "No, you're not doing this. You're not just taking off and ignoring this. I know that you know this isn't safe. This isn't good for you. This is dangerous, one slip and you could be bleeding out all over the floor. And you're too damn stubborn to call for an ambulance or come to me." He was almost seething now, worry and fear leaking into his voice.
Sherlock's voice was decidedly calm next to his. "I'm not stupid, I just get bored. I know when enough is enough, I know exactly what too deep is. If I wanted to die, I'd know exactly how much pressure, the angle, the time it would take. If I'm not mistaken, I'm not dead." He said dryly, eyes flashing with...something John couldn't discern. Anger? Fear?
The detective grabbed the door handle, slipping past John and down the stairs. He was out the front door before John could even reach the top of the stairs. "Dammit!" he cursed, hands clenching into fists, leg aching. He pressed his forehead to the door before hobbling back to his armchair, burying his face in his hands. So that obviously had not gone well. John hadn't even mentioned Sherlock intentionally trying to kill himself, and yet he had gone one to basically say that if he wanted to be dead, he would be dead. Up until that point, it had been as if Sherlock was trying to downplay it.
'I just get bored.' Bored. That was utter bullshit. He knew Sherlock better than virtually anyone, knew he wasn't the sociopath he claimed to be. He cared, he felt, and he hurt. He'd been worried, he'd felt fear and anger and pain.
He shouldn't have let him go. God knows what Sherlock was doing now, finding a blade, finding a man to sell him drugs. He didn't really have to wait too long to find his answer. Half an hour later and his phone chimed. Slowly blinking, he grabbed his phone, hoping it was Sherlock. His heart sunk.
Get in the car outside the flat, I'm dying to know why my brother is in such a state. -MH