Oh look I'm back, not dead or anything. Hah. Okay, so on with the story. Thank you to all who have favourited and followed and reviewed. It means the world to me, reviews make me very happy. By the way, not so sure where I'm going with this but hey, I'm just going to roll with it. For all Avengers and Agents of SHIELD fans, I'll be writing a few one shots so keep your eyes peeled. Enjoy.
Warnings for graphic self-harm and suicide attempt later in the chapter.
John stared at the text, annoyed. Couldn't Mycroft just stay away from their business? John had sworn to himself that he would not get Sherlock's brother involved unless the situation was dire. The Holmes brothers had some sort of feud going on and Sherlock really rather detested his brother's interventions. Thinking now to the scars littering his friends arm, he wondered just how much Mycroft had to do with his self-abuse. How Sherlock's childhood and relationships had affected him. It wasn't like the doctor held Mycroft responsible, no, that would surely be unfair. But….well, he couldn't stop the lingering thoughts that he had impacted Sherlock's life, and not in a good way.
Bring Sherlock home. If he wants to talk to you, he will, otherwise please stay away from him. –JW
The doctor shoved his phone onto the table, rubbing his eyes and standing, moving to the window. A black car sat idly outside, all windows tinted so he could get no look inside. Surprisingly enough, the car soon pulled away. Mycroft had listened to him?
Returning to the chair, John slumped visibly, head in his hands as he waited. The minutes passed agonisingly slowly as he waited for his friend to return. Please be okay.
Sherlock would be okay, he had to be.
The man himself roused John from his thoughts and he was on his feet in an instant. "Sherlock." He said gently, taking a small step towards him.
He looks awful, John thought distantly, eyes raking over Sherlock's thin form for signs of injury. Pupils seem normal, no twitching, doesn't seem to have used drugs. But that didn't mean that he hadn't hurt himself.
The sullen detective shrugged out of his coat and still John was none the wiser; Sherlock's shirt was a deep purple, he couldn't tell if the sleeves were wet, if his best friend was goddamn bleeding and why the hell was Sherlock so quiet?!
"Sherlock." John prompted, taking another step forward, hand stretched as if to touch him. Sherlock's reaction was not what he was expecting. The detective jerked back violently, reeling as if his touch would burn. He then started forward, giving John a wide berth as he rushed to the bathroom.
John panicked, following soon after and knocking on the door. "Sherlock, talk to me. Please. If you're hurt-" his voice hitched. "If you're hurt, at least let me clear you up. You don't have to talk about it." Not yet, anyway.
All he could hear was a frantic scrabbling, like nails on the floor. John's panic increased, his heart thudding in his ears. "Okay, Sherlock, open the door." He nudged it with his shoulder, frantically tugging on the door handle.
Silence. Somehow that was even worse. John knew what he was doing, oh god, he just knew. He should have stopped him. Should have pushed him into a chair. Anything to stop Sherlock doing what John knew he was.
"Please." his tone was pleading as he feebly banged on the door. The silence dragged, John was sure he was going to be sick. He wasn't sure how long it had been when the door opened. Sherlock pushed past hi, leaving the faint smell of metal.
John closed his eyes for a few seconds before glancing inside the bathroom. It was spotless, no signs of what he was sure had just taken place. No blood, no towels, no blades in sight.
He turned and rubbed his thigh before walking into Sherlock's room, determined. He closed the door behind him, crossing his arms. Sherlock wasn't going to get out of this, he had hurt himself and now he was going to deal with it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Sherlock's back. "I know you don't like this. I know you didn't want anyone to see. Okay? I get that but this is not something I'm going to ignore. Not only am I your doctor but I'd quite like to think that I'm your friend. I'm not going to make you talk right now but I am going to ask that you let me see what you've done. Your body's just recovering from a bad flu bug, infection or too much blood loss could put you in the hospital. I know you don't want that." He said gently, and okay maybe he had been rambling a bit. This was out of his comfort zone and Sherlock wasn't saying anything.
"Sherlock?" he said quietly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. John's stomach flipped and he swallowed forcibly to stop himself being sick. You're a doctor. Get a hold of yourself. Just another patient, not your best friend and- shit, shit that's a lot of blood.
John pulled Sherlock onto his back, and realised that okay, Sherlock wasn't ignoring him. He was passed out.
He leapt into action, yanking the sleeves of his shirt up, they were soaked through. No, no, too deep. Far too deep. He's hit something. Fuck, Sherlock. Three lines on each arm, deep enough to see muscle. Way deep enough. It was the one on the left that worried him so, it was vertical. John knew the veins, knew that horizontal cutting was unlikely to kill, veins were easier to sew there. Vertical and you were asking for death. John's hands were already covered with red as he fumbled for a shirt off the floor. He pressed the material to one of Sherlock's wrists before grabbing another for the other wrist.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, come on, wake up. Don't do this." he choked, nudging his friend frantically, eyes darting for a phone. Ambulance. Need ambulance.
He didn't have enough hands. He judged the worst arm, momentarily letting go of one of his wrists, jamming 999 into his phone. He placed it on the pillow before, applying pressure to his arms. The shirts were covered, red bleeding into the blue material.
Sherlock was pale, so fucking pale. John's frantic mind went to the bathroom, wiped clean, spotless. Sherlock had cut himself, cut himself vertically and then goddamn cleared up and gone to bed.
"If I wanted to die, I'd know exactly how much pressure, the angle, the time it would take."
John froze, just watching the blood seep and knowing he could do nothing except bark instructions into the phone and keep Sherlock's arms in a vice-like grip, elevated in the air.
He hadn't thought that…this wasn't just cutting now.
Sherlock had tried to kill himself.