A/N: Thank you for the review, Ayno23! I love that you called it Shersitting and that's my new favourite word now!

I'm glad you're enjoying it! Please keep reviewing?

Chapter Four: Shattered

.o.o.

.o.

It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all

The opposite of love's indifference

So pay attention now, I'm standing on your porch screaming out

And I won't leave until you come downstairs

So keep your head up, keep your love

Keep your head up, my love

Keep your head up, keep your love

The Lumineers – Stubborn Love

.o.o.

.o.

Sherlock cringed when he woke up to the sound of a cup breaking from the kitchen, and then the faint sound of John cursing. He reluctantly rolled over and forced himself out of bed before he put on his crimson robe and pocketed his phone as he started to walk out of his bedroom.

His limbs felt disused and strained, his thoughts were still slightly fuzzy but other than that, he just felt numb. Maybe this was better. Sherlock felt his heart sink however when he saw John kneeling on the linoleum tiled floor in the kitchen as he attempted to pick up the pieces of the tea cup he had dropped. He swallowed hard, feeling like the cup was merely a euphemism for his own shattered heart.

How very appropriate.

"Ah, Jesus… I'm sorry, Sherlock," John apologized, glancing up at him. "I was hoping that wouldn't have woken you up. I… I accidentally bumped it off the counter reaching for the sugar."

The detective searched his friend's face, willing him to break up with whoever he was now going out with and get with him. "You don't take sugar in your tea," he remarked in a distant voice.

John half shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, I was making it for you, actually. You didn't seem all there last night and I just thought maybe a cuppa would help wake you up some, clear your head."

Sherlock sighed inwardly, only wanting John to move out and let him be with his dark thoughts and broken heart. Wasn't it enough he had been rejected? Why did John had to pour salt in the wound by staying at the flat with him? It felt like he was shoving his new relationship and the impossibility of them in his face. It wasn't right; it wasn't fair. Something had to be done.

"John, I… err… I believe we need to talk about something…"

The doctor finished cleaning up the remaining shards and then turned his attention towards Sherlock. "Oh? What about?"

Sherlock looked down at the rug for a few long moments, afraid to meet John's face. This was a catch 22. If he told John to leave, then he might never be able to feel John help him into bed again or smell his cologne. On the other hand, if John stayed, Sherlock wasn't too sure if he could be around the man.

Sherlock cleared his throat and finally looked back up at him. "I… I think it might be best for you if you gathered your things and moved in with your new… person of interest. I mean, isn't that what normal people do when they find someone they love?"

John gave him a curious, sideways glance before he shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, not quite the minute they figure out they love the person but eventually that's what they do, I suppose. I know why you're asking me to move out, Sherlock, but I just want to hear it from your own mouth."

The consulting detective made himself taller and forced himself to put up a front. "What do you mean, John?"

"I want to hear you tell me why you want me to move out, Sherlock. I already know but I just want to hear the words come out of your own mouth," John replied, looking at his friend expectantly.

Sherlock glanced off to the side and rolled his eyes, feeling like this was some sick game John was playing with him, tearing him into pieces. "If you already know, then you don't need me to say it." His voice was colder than he had intended but he was having difficulty hiding his pain.

John took several steps towards Sherlock until they were inches apart. He looked up into Sherlock's dark blue eyes. "You can act mechanical all you want but I know the true you. I know that things bother you, if when you claim they don't. I didn't… want to break your heart, Sherlock. This… just sort of happened and it was bad timing. You can't help who you fall in love with, and you, of all people, should know that better than anyone else. I know you didn't expect it but neither did I and if it'll make things easier for you, I will move out. I've been thinking about yesterday and all I could deduct about myself is that I probably sounded like a real prick to you but I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

Sherlock took a deep breath, thinking how to go about this. He chewed on his lower lip unsurely. He wanted to scream 'if you want to make me happy, then be with me!' but he knew he couldn't do that. That'd make him appear childish as well as needy and clingy. That's not how he wanted John to see him. He pushed back his most inner feelings and let the armour cover over his heart, shielding it from future blows by John.

"You didn't… break my heart, John. I assure you it takes more than a confession like that to break my heart. Anyway, weren't you the one who told me I haven't even got one? How can a heart break if it's not even in my body?" Sherlock drawled in his matter-of-fact tone. "I only figure if you move out, I might be able to focus on more important things. You've become a distraction with your new close friend. I just think it would be for the best."

He could see the anger grow in John's eyes now and the hurt swell but Sherlock couldn't feel any empathy for him when he felt like John had knowingly broken his heart. He had made himself vulnerable and put himself out there for the first time in his whole miserable life only to have John tell him he loved someone else. He felt like oil had replaced his blood that had once pumped through him, turning his love and his own life to sludge. He couldn't help his own bitterness he felt.

John nodded now and cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. "All right, then. If… if that's what you really want, I suppose I best start packing my things."

Sherlock kept himself straight, not daring to stop him. If he did now, it would just leave him more heartbroken than before. This was for the best. He had to do this. "Yes, I believe you should start doing that."

He turned around now and started back towards his room, closing the door behind him before John could say anything else to him. As soon as the door closed, it was now when he let his tears fall down his cheeks and cried silently on his bed as his hands trembled. He gripped the sheets tightly before he unclenched them, feeling his insides doing the same rhythm. Sherlock felt sick with himself; he had fucked up good and proper now, practically ordering him to move out of the flat. He waited until he heard John close the door before he walked back out into the living room and realized just how much of John's presence had made its appearance in the flat.

Most of a whole shelf of books were gone that John had brought with him from his first place. A couple blankets were missing off John's old armchair, as well as his shoes that he usually took off on the rug by the fireplace. It looked empty even though the rest of Sherlock's belongings were still there in the flat. As he stood there in the stillness, he felt just as empty and alone. For four years, he had known nothing else but John and the demons that haunted him. Now that both of those things were gone, all Sherlock had now was his own existence and even that seemed questionable.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to fall into pieces but he heard a strange, gasping sob escape his mouth now and felt hot tears make trails down his face. Suddenly, it felt like his legs were made of jelly again and he couldn't balance himself. John had been the third leg of his tripod and now that that leg had been kicked out from underneath him, Sherlock felt himself collapse on the floor. He cried until he felt like his lungs might burst inside of his chest. He had no idea how long it had been but then he heard his phone chime.

He took it out reluctantly and looked at the new message he had received:

I heard what happened. Do you need to talk, Sherlock? - DI Lestrade

He looked at the words on his phone and an ugly blackness crept over him, threatening to drown him. He quickly typed back in reply:

No. I do not need to talk to you, nor do I want to. For future reference, leave me alone. – SH

He hit the send button before he pocketed it and then quickly grabbed the materials he needed. He forced himself back up and grabbed the syringe from his desk before he grabbed the morphine bottle from his pocket, and then the belt from his room. He wrapped the belt around his arm before gathering the drug into the syringe, repeating the same procedure he had performed on himself the previous day.

Tap the arm for a vein.

Stick the needle in, push down on the plunger.

Slip into oblivion.

Once he felt the euphoric sensation take him over, washing his pain and sorrow away before turning it to a beautiful numbness again, he let his body fall back onto the rug near John's armchair and let himself curl into a fetal position, closing his eyes before he started to ride the high.

.o.o.

.o.

When Sherlock woke up again, he had no idea what time or day it was. He only felt the numbness beginning to disappear again to be replaced with his sadness. He thought about repeating his morphine routine again, just to make everything go away, but he was bored with it. He wanted something else, something stronger. Something that made replaced his pain with an alternative pain. A more physical pain.

He staggered to his feet and then collected himself before he moved towards the desk and started to rummage through the drawers. He remembered that he had used a razorblade to scratch away part of the wallpaper inside a house that had been the location of a past case. He dug around until he found the box he had kept it in, perhaps for the sentimental reason that it was one of the tougher cases he had been able to solve when the odds were against him.

He opened it and took out the cold piece of metal before he swallowed hard. Sherlock quickly took off the belt around his pale around from last night and then exhaled slowly before he made horizontal lines in his skin, pressing down just hard enough to draw blood and made a small incision into his skin. He did this several times before he felt an odd relief wash over him. It were as if he had opened his skin and let the sorrow and numbness out, embracing the physical pain he had inflicted upon himself instead of the emotional John had inflicted upon him. He grabbed a washcloth and placed it over his cuts to help make it clot faster and stop the bleeding.

Once it had, he rolled his sleeve back down, hiding his newfound addiction. It seemed illogical, past the point of understanding how this small weapon gave him a sick relief. Sherlock pocketed the blade and then heard his phone chime annoyingly again. He picked it up and sighed when he saw the second text Lestrade had sent him.

Let me in. I'm right outside. – DI Lestrade

He debated ignoring the Detective Inspector but knew he'd find his way into the flat eventually anyway. Besides, Sherlock no longer wanted to be alone and even Lestrade was better than no one at all.

He stood up and then slowly opened the door to see Greg balancing his phone and two cups of coffee in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at him.

"Amazing how you're able to text me with your hands full yet you couldn't find the ability to simply open the door yourself," Sherlock scowled slightly.

Lestrade ignored him and walked inside, handing him one of the cups of coffee before he pocketed his phone and closed the door behind him. He searched Sherlock's face and then frowned. "You haven't been eating, have you, Sherlock?"

I ate yesterday when you were here!" he exclaimed, half offended as he took his seat on the couch.

Greg set his coffee down on the coffee table before he started into the kitchen. "That was the other day! For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you need to eat or else you're going to wilt away and die. I'll be damned if I'm going to let that happen."

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and then looked down at it. He wanted to feel angry at Greg Lestrade for nagging him and for his determination but there was also another part of him that realized this man truly did care about his well-being. Regardless of the Scotland Yarder having had saved Sherlock from his past suicide attempts, he felt like Lestrade actually did want Sherlock to keep on breathing, even if he neglected himself so badly that he did not want to. He had to be grateful towards him; he was doing what John normally did and now that John was gone, it seemed up to Lestrade to take over.

All the times in the past, before Sherlock had met John, Lestrade had always been there to clean up his messes, cover for him, make up lies for him, make sure he ate enough to survive, and did what he could to help the consulting detective sleep during his restless nights. It was rare when this man saw Sherlock actually cry, but when he did, he never judged or asked too many questions. He listened to Sherlock rant and tried to give him fatherly advice. In his heart, Sherlock knew that he basically owed his entire life to Lestrade.

"What did John tell you?" he asked curiously, looking over to see Greg making Sherlock a sandwich.

Lestrade didn't look over at him as he shrugged. "Not much, only that you two had a… falling out of sorts and that you told him to get out. Why did you do that?"

Sherlock took another sip of his coffee, giving himself time to compile the jumbled thoughts in his head. "He loves someone else that isn't me, Lestrade. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?"

Greg finished the sandwich and brought it to him on a plate, placing it on the coffee table before he sat down next to him on the couch. "So you kick the guy out? Do you really think that punishing him for something he has no control over will somehow fix things?"

Sherlock could tell Lestrade wasn't trying to be argumentative, only trying to make Sherlock think about the situation. He looked at the sandwich and felt nauseous. He looked up at the DI. "People must be able to have some control about who they decide to base their entire lives around. I know nothing of this other person John claims to love! I'm right here, I just want him to see me and – "

"And what?" Lestrade cut across him. "Magically fall in love with you so you two can live happily ever after? I'm sorry, Sherlock but that's just not how things work in the real world."

Sherlock couldn't help but show a slight knowing smirk. "John does love me. I've seen the looks during our cases when I've figured something out. I've seen his admiration. He's loyal to me, Lestrade, and sometimes that's the most important factor in a relationship – loyalty."

Greg searched Sherlock's eyes before he shook his head, sighing in partial exasperation. "For God's sake, Sherlock, the man isn't a bloody dog! Loyalty doesn't mean much. I mean, it means a bit but it's not the most important factor. Trust is."

Sherlock waved off the word as if it was an annoying insect that had flown into the room and was buzzing about his head. "Trust… maybe. What has trust gotten me, Lestrade? I trusted John not to shatter my heart like he shattered my tea cup earlier and he did it anyway. Trust only goes as far as the other person allows it to, but loyalty shows people where they truly stand with someone else. John's loyalty to me exceeded my expectations. He chose me above everything else. He believed me above everyone else, and that makes all the difference. I know he loves me back. I just wish that he could say it to me."

Greg Lestrade could see the frustration on his younger friend and colleague's face. He gave him a small, sympathetic look. "Sherlock, I know what you're going through is… devastating for you but you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that maybe you've got your wires crossed and he doesn't think of you in the same way you think of him."

Sherlock immediately started to shake his head in denial. "My deductions are rarely ever wrong and you know it, Lestrade. I have a very strong intuition and… I need to believe that John feels the same way or else I don't know. What's the point of anything if the person you love doesn't love you back? Why even bother with anything else?"

These questions made Greg straighten up and made him shift uncomfortably on the couch. He searched the detective's face, recognizing the pain in his eyes. This was how he felt just before his past suicide attempts. Granted, at the time Sherlock hadn't been depressed about an unreciprocated love, but it was still the same longing, lost look in his blue eyes that made Greg squirm. He repositioned himself on the couch so he could fully focus on Sherlock.

"You… you can't think like that again, Sherlock. You just can't. There's a point to all of it but you need to live long enough to actually see what it is."

Sherlock set his coffee down now and looked out the window with far away eyes. "I'm sick of waiting. At the risk of sounding like a petulant child, it isn't fair that John is with this other person instead of me. We've been together through a hell of a lot more things than they have. I might as well just… climb to the top of Bart's and throw myself off of it for real this time."

Lestrade's eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock with concerned eyes. "How serious should I take what you just said, Sherlock?"

He exhaled through his nose before he absentmindedly caressed his hand over the spot where he had self-injured himself half an hour earlier. He let the stinging sensation take over. Sherlock somehow needed to remedy what he had just said. If Greg knew how serious he actually felt about ending his life right now, he'd be taken inside the hospital put on suicide watch, handcuffed to the bed until he swore he wouldn't do it.

"I'm not serious at all, Lestrade. I'm just… frustrated is all. I wouldn't attempt again," he tried to sound convincing.

Lestrade relaxed slightly but didn't look entirely persuaded. He just nodded in understanding. "Sherlock, if you are feeling that way again…" he trailed off, letting the sentence finish itself.

He shook his head curtly. "I'm not, I assure you. I'm not planning on ending my life any time soon so don't go making reservations for me at St. Bart's. I'll get through this but I don't need your help, Lestrade. Most of all, I don't need a babysitter to watch me."

Lestrade looked like he wanted to dispute this with Sherlock's past history but he said nothing. He just bit his lip and took another sip of his coffee, leaving the two of them sitting in a long silence before he glanced at Sherlock's uneaten sandwich. "Come on, at least eat your lunch. You need to eat something or else I won't leave."

The threat of staying where he was made Sherlock reach for the sandwich grudgingly and took a small bite out of it before he chewed and swallowed. Lestrade smiled now and chuckled, shaking his head at Sherlock.

"I knew that would get you to eat."

Sherlock took another bite, eager to get Greg out of the flat as soon as possible. His patience with him had been cut short once the DI had started to silently threaten to have him locked up somewhere to prevent another attempt. He hadn't needed to even say anything at all. Sherlock knew what Lestrade had meant when he had asked him how serious he was. It was an assumed threat; a threat that Sherlock did not appreciate.

Once Sherlock had finished his sandwich, Lestrade had stood back up but hadn't left yet, casting unsure looks in his direction. He scratched the back of his head nervously. "If… you need anything, even just someone to talk to, don't ignore me. You have my number and you bloody well call it if you're not feeling your best. Do you understand?"

He sensed a playful coldness in Lestrade's voice but he knew better than to assume the DI was angry at him. Sherlock was smart enough to know by now that the ice that covered Lestrade's words were only there to hide his anxiety about leaving him alone. He nodded and looked up at him with almost fearful eyes, daring to let his vulnerability show.

As soon as Lestrade had made his way over to the door, Sherlock found himself filling up with sorrow again. He realized maybe he really didn't want to be alone again after all. "E-Err… I believe there might be another football game this afternoon in case you'd like to… maybe stay and watch it here for a while?"

Greg turned around to look at Sherlock and nodded, sighing but smiling a soft smile. "Sure, of course. Let me just go run an errand real quick and I'll be back in about twenty minutes. Will you be okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again in fake annoyance. "It's twenty minutes, Lestrade. I doubt I'm going to be overcome with crimpling depression in that time." It was a huge façade and the DI saw right through it.

"Don't even joke about it, Sherlock! You know just as well as I do that it has happened in the past. If you feel it coming on, text me and I'll be back here as soon as I can," Greg left the flat, leaving Sherlock alone.

The truth was that the depression hadn't gone completely away, even when Lestrade had shown up. It had only receded into the corners of his mind, still lingering there and lying in wait. Sherlock took a deep breath, fingering the outline of the blade in his pocket and suddenly feeling dizzy with the urge to use it again.

No. He couldn't cut into himself again, at least not within twenty minutes. That wasn't enough time to let himself feel the relief the blade brought him and clean himself up afterwards. Besides, if he cut too deep, Greg would see and take him to the hospital himself. Sherlock couldn't take that risk. He took a few more deep breaths to try and calm himself before he took out a cigarette and lit it instead, letting the nicotine swim through his system freely, helping him relax again, at least until Lestrade came back.

What would happen then though? Sherlock could only talk him into staying at the flat for so long. What would happen once he finally went home?

He knew the answer to that, and it scared him but only for a few moments. Then the thought excited him, making him feel dizzy again. Sherlock exhaled the cigarette smoke, a part of him hoping that if he did go through with it, John would see his broken body and know that he was the reason for it. Sherlock knew he was being vindictive and vengeful in the worst way possible but he couldn't stop the anger and agony he felt inside of him, eating away at his broken heart and gnawing away at his clouded thoughts that were riddled with depression like shrapnel in a wound. He only wanted the one thing he couldn't have.

John Hamish Watson.