A/N: So I wrote this at two in the morning. Forgive me, no amount of editing could make this less bizarre but no amount of bizarre could make me not entirely too tempted to post it. Enjoy.

Word Count: 960+

Pairing(s): sortofplatonic!John/Sherlock

Warning(s): almost-fluff, nudity, self harm (undetailed), and general weirdness.

Cracks in the Marble

The silence was something that Sherlock had warned him about. For days on end, maybe even weeks, Sherlock was known to simply stop talking. At one point it had become so bad that, when called for a case, Sherlock had written his deductions on his arms and, when he'd run out of room, on Lestrade's. After initially living through it, nobody ever stopped to question this behavior, simply marking it off as Oh, Sherlock and calling it a night.

John, however, lived with the man and although he was no consulting detective, John figured it out before even Sherlock did.

The first time it happened had been after a particularly long case and Sherlock hadn't spoken a word for almost twenty-four hours. He had himself draped across the couch, silently contemplating nothing at all, when John walked in with two cups of tea and sandwiches. "You're hungry," John said after Sherlock had stared at him for a while and, after devouring the first sandwich and then a second and a third, Sherlock realized quite quickly that, oh, yes, that had been it after all.

The silent spells thus became shorter and shorter. It was, John thought, much like taking care of a very large infant except that, instead of wailing incoherently, Sherlock simply stopped talking and stared at you helplessly. Some days, he was exhausted to the point where he couldn't feel the need to sleep and John had to guide him (or, on occasion, man handle him) into his bed; others, Sherlock would be having a massive migraine and not seem to even fathom its existence until John intervened, armed with the correct dose of pills and a comforting pat on the back. Some days, the needs were more abstract, and the silence would last for days before John figured it out – Sherlock didn't realize, but some days he just needed to be simultaneously held and left alone and would curl in his bed and just say nothing; on these days, John would climb in after him, tie a blindfold around his eyes, and pulled the detective against him for however long he needed him to. Sherlock never cried, but those days were as close as he ever came. Other days, Sherlock would come to John an endlessness in his eyes and John would comply immediately, taking Sherlock's hand and allowing himself to be dragged out of the apartment on any whim; more often than not, it was just to go shrieking through the streets of London, nearly getting hit by buses and trampling several pedestrians but, none the less, clearing Sherlock's head and leaving John feeling entirely too breathlessly giddy. The strangest days were the tired ones, quiet ones that went entirely unmentioned, where Sherlock would climb into John's bed in the middle of the night and they would simply lay together, never touching each other, just staring and watching and, John suspected, privately confirming the existence of the other until eventually Sherlock would nod, whisper, "Brilliant," and slip out of the room again. One way or another, the silence was always broken.

What Sherlock did to quell himself before John moved in, John had no idea. Probably, he did nothing.

This day was one of those days. Sherlock had been silent for nearly seven hours, and despite the doctor's contemplative efforts he couldn't sense what was wrong with him. He never tried until he felt that he knew, too scared of pushing Sherlock farther away, as if the detective may flip and spiral straight over the metaphorical edge if pushed in the wrong direction. The act that revealed the detective was startling, although John did his best not to show it, simply looking up at him over his tea and trying his best not to let his ears burn too red.

Sherlock had walked into the kitchen completely naked, fists clenched at his sides, hair wet from his morning shower. Coming from anyone else, John would have felt invaded upon, even sort of molested, but somehow there was nothing sexual in the way Sherlock stood in front of him. Shrugging the initial shock of nudity off his shoulders John put his tea down and got to his feet, gaze never leaving Sherlock's face until, by some unspoken oath, John had permission to let his eyes wander.

The basic state of Sherlock's body did not surprise him. He was pale, stunningly so, and thin to the point where John thought he could count his ribs even from this distance, although without the blockage of clothes it was clear that the detective was also very fit. His collar bones jutted out in an almost appealing way; Sherlock's spidery hands shift to rest on his narrow hips and John's eyes wander there automatically, and although he tries, John looks Everywhere. There are things John did not anticipate, but he is not surprised by. There are scars covering Sherlock's body, new and old. Some are clearly from his adventures while others are even more clearly self-inflicted, drawing over his biceps and thighs in crudely intricate patterns. The bruises that cover him, some dark and fresh and others faded and retreated, over him in the most careless of places, on elbows and hips and shoulders and abdomens.

John looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes again, his mind scrambling madly for words. He wants to ask him why he felt this was necessary; he wants to ask him why he seems so uncomfortable in his own skin; he wants to demand the story between the self inflicted scars, if they came Before or After him and if the cause was still breathing. He wants to touch him, maybe sexually and maybe not, but gently; he wants to hold him close and feel his jutting bones against his body, feel his chest rise and fall with boring breath; he wants to kiss the ancient, fading lines across his skin. John wants to show Sherlock how he feels, even if he's not sure himself; John wants to laugh and cry and maybe break something.

Because John loves Sherlock, he just stands there on the opposite side of the room and he whispers the only thing he can think to whisper. "You're a work of art."

Sherlock blinks and draws into himself a little, Adam's apple bobbing slightly, and John watches as his fingers brush the scars over his thighs. And then – John sighs with relief – Sherlock replies, "Not a good one."

"It's just as well," John says. He takes a blanket from the chair and, gently, drapes it around Sherlock. "Nobody ever treasured a perfect painting." And then, all out of poetic things to say, John opens his arms and just holds Sherlock there, feeling very strongly that, if he were to let go, they'd both simply float away.

It will be a while.

Reviews would be lovely.