All These Things That I've Done

by TonySnark729

There are things that Sherlock is having difficulty confessing to John, but only because he's terrified of scaring away the only other person in his life that has ever truly meant anything to him. M for language, violence, self-destructive behaviors and other possibly triggery things. READ/REVIEW! *JohnLock*

10. Alive

Chapter Ten: Alive

.o.o.

.o.

Maybe I just want to fly

I want to live I don't want to die

Maybe I just want to breathe

Maybe I just don't believe

Maybe you're the same as me

We see things they'll never see

You and I are gonna live forever

Oasis – Live Forever

.o.o.

.o.

A week had passed since their agreement to get Sherlock to try different antidepressants in search of the right one. John put his ear against the bathroom door to hear the gut-wrenching sounds of gagging coming from inside. He knocked on the door gently.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?'

More gagging before a sound of spitting could be heard, and then his partner's voice. "Yeah, I'm all right, John!" he called out in answer. "Do they all have this side effect? I'm not sure how much more nausea I can take…"

John bit his lip and cracked open the door, seeing Sherlock bent over the toilet, holding himself up by the wall. "It's only been a week on the new ones. Just give it another week or two. Maybe the nausea will pass. Is anything actually coming up?"

Sherlock shook his head and then flushed the toilet before he washed his hands and face at the sink. "Just bile and tea, mostly."

"When was the last time you've eaten anything?"

The detective sighed before he dried his hands with the towel. "When did you make that risotto dish?"

John looked at him in almost disbelief. "That was two days ago. You're supposed to be taking your pills with food! You can't just… not eat and expect them to do their job!"

Sherlock turned and looked at John before nodding, biting his lip anxiously. "I know, I'm sorry, John. I just forget sometimes, is all. I have my mind on other things."

John cleared his throat and rubbed his temples, trying to keep his patience. "Well, you might need to start doing a bit better now that you're on this new medication. You need to start eating, daily, and without me having to remind you to eat. Sometimes it blows my mind how you're still alive! I mean, how did you remember to eat when you were younger? Or when you lived on your own before? I'm honestly surprised you haven't starved yourself to death!"

Sherlock flinched slightly but met his eyes. "You're upset with me…" he observed.

John took a deep breath and then let it out, shaking his head. "No, I'm… I'm sorry, Sherlock. I mean, yes… I am upset but… it's just frustration. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you would remember to eat."

The younger man nodded in understand before he leaned forward and placed his arms on John's shoulders. "I'll try to remember. The great irony though is that taking this antidepressant makes me nauseous, which makes me not want to even eat in the first place."

John heard his companion's own brand of frustration in his voice and sympathy quickly replaced his own frustrations. "I know, Sherlock. It'll get better in time. You're doing really well with it though. Have you had any other side-effects from it so far?"

Sherlock straightened back up and tilted his head to the side to think before he looked down at John. "Headache, exhaustion, the usual. The same side-effects as the first, but that should pass in a couple weeks, right?"

The doctor nodded. "Yeah, hopefully. I mean, not all of them work the same but maybe if this is the right one for you, you'll feel better soon. I know it's still early but have you still been feeling low?"

Sherlock's closed his eyes and nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. John was quiet now but he knew that it was still too early to really tell if the medication was working or not. "You know," he finally spoke up after several moments. "It's rare that it would be working already anyway. It could still work. Just… just hang in there and give it time… and eat."

Sherlock gave him a weak smile before he nodded obediently. He walked out of the bathroom and into the living room, certain that his best friend had followed him out as well.

"So… have you checked your email recently? Have we gotten any cases yet?"

Sherlock sat down at the desk before turning John's laptop on and waiting for it to boot up. He gave a dismissal wave. "Only ridiculously simple ones I've been able to figure out by myself. 'Is my lover having an affair with someone else?' Those kinds of emails."

John nodded, not surprised that Sherlock wasn't too interested in including him in answering those emails. He pulled a chair over to where he was sitting. As he listened to the gentle tapping of Sherlock opening up the email on the computer, he examined the detective's body nonchalantly.

His shoulders looked broader somehow but the rest of him was looking almost skeletal. It made him think. How could someone like Sherlock be oblivious to basic human needs, such as eating? It seemed to be common sense; like showering or putting shoes on before going out the door. Sherlock's jawline seemed sharper, and his fingers looked bonier than before. It was worrying but he knew he needed to start trusting him to eat and take his medication. That was an important factor in a relationship; trust. Sherlock was trusting him not to leave him when things got tough, like they both knew it would. John felt the least he could do was trust Sherlock as well.

"Anything?"

Sherlock stared at the screen with a bored expression on his face. Then he closed the laptop before he turned to John. "Nope. God! Why hasn't there been any good murders lately? Or even a kidnapping! I'd at least take that."

John shook his head with a slight smirk on his face. "Only you could get off on murders and kidnappings, Sherlock. It's no wonder Sally Donovan tried to convince Lestrade it had been you who had kidnapped those children and fed them poisonous sweets before."

Sherlock stood up and then started to pace; at least he still had the energy to be dramatic still. John knew it wasn't just about the drama though. His friend was restless and needed an adrenaline rush. He needed a puzzle to solve.

"I don't… get off on them. I just need something that keeps my mind active and alert. I can feel it rotting from being so stationary these past couple weeks," Sherlock sighed heavily, continuing to pace back and forth.

John stood up to stop Sherlock, placing both his hands on his lover's shoulders gently. "I understand that you're bored but you need to try and let yourself relax a bit or you're going to go mad. Just… sit down, and I'll make us some tea."

Sherlock instantly shook his head. "Not this time, John. I'm sick to death of just spending endless days drinking tea that will just come up soon enough anyway! I need something."

John tried to think quickly. He thought about all the cold cases Lestrade must have locked away somewhere. Maybe that could keep Sherlock busy until the antidepressants started working? He was almost afraid of what the detective might do if his boredom became too much for him. He took out his phone and showed it to Sherlock.

"All right, I'm going to text Lestrade and ask him if he has anything for you. For God's sake though, Sherlock! Please… just sit down. Take a deep breath, try to relax for two minutes," John encouraged him, gently pushing him into his place on the couch.

I need you to come to Baker Street with a couple cold cases you can't solve. Sherlock's bored. – JW

He sent the text and looked down at Sherlock who looked frazzled, running his long fingers through his own curls. "So what did he say then?" he asked impatiently.

John chuckled in disbelief and looked down at Sherlock. "I've only just sent it! Give him a bit to reply. If you're not going to eat anything, at least drink your calories." He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass before he poured Sherlock some orange juice and brought it into him, holding out the glass.

Sherlock looked at it reluctantly before he wrapped his fingers around it. He took a small sip of it, glancing up at John. "Happy then?"

"I'll be happy once it's all gone." John nodded towards the glass, feeling like he was talking to a child who refused to eat his vegetables.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation with John, as if he was being the most difficult person in the world and not Sherlock Holmes, and took a longer drink of the juice. John sat down on the other side of Sherlock before he placed his hand on his thigh.

"I'm not trying to make you eat because I despise you. I just want the antidepressants to at least have a chance to work. I just want you to get better, Sherlock. That's all I want," he searched his eyes. "I love you, a hell of a lot, and I just want the best for you."

Sherlock set his glass down once he had drained it down halfway and nodded. "I understand, John. I do. I know how medications work. I just have to get back into the habit of eating every day. I might forget, though."

John leaned against him and smiled softly. "I'll remind you then, until you get into the habit. How does that sound?"

Sherlock nodded now and kissed John's temple. "That sounds like a plan, John." He reached up and turned the doctor's face towards him, leaning in. His lips had only grazed John's when there was a knock at the door. He growled to himself and then stood up impatiently. "For God's sake!"

John chuckled at the imperfect timing of it all and then watched as Sherlock opened the door to see Lestrade. He waved to the detective. "Hello, Greg."

The DI waved back and then glanced over at a very annoyed Sherlock before he let himself inside. "I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?"

Sherlock slammed the door angrily behind Lestrade. "You know damn right you did! Oh please, Detective Inspector! Please do come right in!"

Greg looked questioningly over at John. "What the hell's the matter with him then? Is he withdrawing from nicotine again?"

John gave Sherlock a firm look before he smirked back at Greg. "Don't mind him. It's just the antidepressants he's on. One of the side-effects is agitation. Although sometimes it's difficult to tell if it's the medication or just Sherlock being Sherlock…"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and then sat back down next to John, grabbing his orange juice again.

Greg Lestrade nodded in understanding now. "Ah, I see… that'll do it, I suppose. How's domestic life treating you two? Happy to be back?"

John smiled and nodded. "Yeah, it's great. Now I can help people at work and here!" he gave Sherlock a teasing smirk before he looked back at Greg who smirked as well. "Honestly, though. I love him. It's worth the agitation from his medication."

Sherlock suddenly slammed down his orange juice, causing it to spill over and onto the coffee table. "Stop it! Stop talking like I'm not even here! And why are you here, Lestrade?"

John's eyes widened at Sherlock's behavior now. "Sherlock! Deep breath. Just calm down, will you?"

The detective suddenly stood up before he grabbed his cigarettes from the table nearby. He ignored John as he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door. John put his face in his hands before he leaned over and tapped on Sherlock's door.

"Leave it cracked open, please!"

There was a growl come from within the room but Sherlock complied with the doctor. That, at least, had to be a good sign. No matter how angry or frustrated Sherlock was, he was still apt to listen to John.

"I'm… sorry about all that. He's having a difficult transition to the new antidepressants…" John apologized to Lestrade in a tone merely above a whisper.

Greg waved off the apology light-heartedly. "It's fine, John. I know how Sherlock gets. I think once he gets adjusted to it, he'll be better. So then, you wanted the cold cases?"

"Oh!" John straightened up now. "Yes, I did… did you find any good ones Sherlock might be interested in?"

Lestrade placed three files on the coffee table but was careful not to get it into the orange juice that had been spilt. "It's difficult to interest Sherlock but I found a few that might spark his interest. One kidnapping, one not-suicide, and one murder. They're all cases that have been locked up for about ten years."

John raised an eyebrow. "Wait, not-suicide? What do you mean?"

Greg opened the file, flipping it to the picture of the crime scene that was attached to the rest of the papers. John looked at it closer; the victim looked like he had slashes to both his wrists and to his neck. His stomach turned uncomfortably, imagining that it could so easily be Sherlock if his depression got bad enough one day.

"It looks like the victim killed himself with a straight razor, but other evidence suggests otherwise," Greg went on to explain. "It's an ongoing debate but we think that it would be nearly impossible to slash your own throat like that if you had already opened up your wrists first."

John swallowed back the nausea as he tried to focus on the possibilities. "And… if you slit the throat first…"

Lestrade half shrugged. "We're certain that you would've lost so much blood anyway by the time you think about opening up the wrists, that you'd be dead before you could pick up the razor," he finished.

The doctor pondered over this. It was certainly an interesting case but this picture and file were the last things Sherlock needed to see in his current state. It could so easily trigger him, and John was afraid of what might happen then. He closed the file and pushed it off to the side before he glanced up at Lestrade.

"You know the depressive episodes Sherlock gets and yet you pick out a cold case that looks like a suicide. Absolutely brilliant, you are," John replied curtly.

Lestrade opened his mouth, looking partially offended. "Look, I'm sorry, all right? Believe it or not, we don't have many cold cases that haven't been solved by Scotland Yard nowadays so forgive me if I can't find one suitable for the great Sherlock Holmes…"

John sighed, the image of the man still in his head. "I know, I'm sorry, Greg. I just… Sherlock can't see that one right now, not until the medication kicks in and he's… a bit happier at least. The other case files seem like they might be of interest to him, though, so later I'll sit him down and go over them with him. Thank you…"

Greg nodded politely and then walked into the kitchen before grabbing a handful of paper towels and went back into the living room. He started to clean up the orange juice mess Sherlock had left.

John tried to grab the paper towels from the DI. "You don't need to do that, Greg… it was his mess. He should clean it up."

Greg ignored John's grasp and continued to soak up the juice, shaking his head. "No, it's really all right. I've cleaned up a lot worse of his messes."

John looked at Lestrade curiously now. He leaned forward and blinked a bit. "Err… how do you mean? What, err… what sort of messes?"

It was now that Greg Lestrade realized he had said too much. He swallowed hard and then went back into the kitchen to throw out the sticky paper towels. He glanced over at the only partially shut bedroom door before he motioned for John to come out to the kitchen area to talk to him. The doctor stood up and hurriedly walked over to him, having an awful, foreboding feeling about what the DI was about to tell him.

"I don't suppose that Sherlock's told you about… his incidents?"

John felt another wave of his own nausea begin to rise in the pits of his stomach. "I-I'm sorry, incidents? What…err… what sort of incidents?"

Lestrade chewed on his lower lip before he leaned in closer to John. "Sherlock's tried to kill himself more than once. I've… walked in on him each time that he's tried to do it. Thank God, or else who knows where he might be now."

John closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath before he forced himself to look back at Lestrade. "How…H-How many times has he tried?"

The DI anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. "About five times… in the six years I've known him."

"Oh Jesus…" John walked deeper into the kitchen, running a hand through his hair and swallowing hard. "F-Five times…"

"He hasn't told you about this before? At all?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

John couldn't find his words as his mind raced. He just shook his head before he looked back at Lestrade. How could he not know about this, or rather, how could Sherlock never tell him something so important? This wasn't something you keep from your significant other. No matter what, John would never leave Sherlock but this seemed like something like a disclaimer you tell your partner before things get too involved. How could he keep so huge a secret from him?

"Well, I can't say I'm not that surprised," Greg finally admitted after several moments of awkward silence. "It is Sherlock, after all."

"But I've known him for nearly four years! I should know about this!"

"Well you can't exactly know about his past attempts if he hasn't ever told you them, can you?" Lestrade pointed out.

John shook his head and then a realization hit him. He moved closer to the DI. "Wait, why didn't you ever tell me about this? You could've told me! You've known him for longer, Greg. You know the ins and outs of him!"

"I probably wouldn't have known about it unless I walked in on him each time after he had done it! I just got damned lucky that I caught him in the act, John! Christ, he probably would've kept it hidden from me as long as he could if I hadn't caught him! Don't put the blame on me… it's not my fault he didn't tell you."

It had become John's turn to pace now. "No, maybe not but you could've told me. This is important, Greg! This isn't something you keep hidden…"

Lestrade didn't back down. "I thought that Sherlock would tell you about his attempts in his own time! I thought that he would open up to you. Besides, how would you feel if you tried to kill yourself? Would you be as likely to open up about it to Sherlock?" When John didn't say anything, seeing his point, Greg continued. "I didn't think so. Something like that is personal to a person, John! I can't blame him for not having told you. I wouldn't have told my wife about it either! I would've been too ashamed to."

John stopped pacing and leaned against the counter, feeling mentally drained. He sighed heavily, feeling more disappointed in himself than in Sherlock. He could see Greg's point about feeling too ashamed to tell him. He couldn't blame his friend; if the tables were turned, he would feel the exact same way. The thing was, though, he still felt hurt that Sherlock never told him about it in the first place.

"Haven't you ever seen the scars on his wrists to forearms?" Greg asked, now quieter. "They're fainter than they used to be, but they're still there. I'm sorry you haven't seen them, with how close you two are and all."

John felt his heart sink and break apart in his stomach like shards of glass. He automatically knew that it hadn't meant to come out so cold and condescending, but Greg Lestrade was right; John should've seen the scars, no matter how faint they were. He and Sherlock had been so intimate on several occasions that it seemed almost ridiculous that he hadn't seen every part of him yet. He felt foolish, more foolish than Sherlock Holmes had ever made him feel before they had become lovers.

"I'm sorry, John… I didn't mean to… interfere or anything. I really had thought you'd have seen them or that Sherlock had told you," Greg apologized again.

"No, umm… no, it's all right. It seems that the two of us need to have a talk, however," John spoke, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Thank you again, for the files. I'm sure… that Sherlock will appreciate them."

Greg cleared his throat, taking this as his cue to leave. "Right, then. I suppose I should be off! Keep in touch and let me know how he progresses."

John nodded and gave a weak smile. "Right, I will. Goodbye, Greg."

Once he had left, John placed both hands against the counter, holding himself up by it. He felt like his knees had become jelly and suddenly felt unsupportive. John knew what he had to do now, though. He forced himself to walk towards Sherlock's room. He opened the door all the way and walked inside, not surprised to find the detective smoking as he sat cross-legged.

"I'm not sure how helpful to you I'm going to be, John. I'm only on my second one and my brother has messaged me at least three times, wanting to talk – "

"Sherlock," John cut across him soft, but still firmly. "Can you… show me your arms?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then smirked at him. "I'm sorry?"

John put his arms out in front of him to demonstrate what he wanted his companion to do. "Your arms, put them out like this for me…" he hated himself not being able to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Sherlock took another drag of his cigarette before he snubbed it out into a nearby ashtray, along with the other fallen soldiers. He then put his arms out in front of him so his palms were facing down. John moved closer to him and then let his fingers caress Sherlock's pale skin affectionately before he gently moved his arms so the detective's palms were facing upwards.

He glanced at his face warily before he pushed the sleeves of his silk robe up and then reached over to turn on a light in the darkened room. John looked back down at Sherlock's arms and saw the scars that Greg had been talking about.

There was a long, vertical, white scar that went from both of Sherlock's wrists where his main artery four and a half inches down to where his forearms were. He couldn't make out how deep exactly it had been but it looked like it had definitely needed stitches to close it. John felt sick again, not wanting to have believed that Lestrade was right. He sucked in a gasp of hair and then traced the scars with his fingers.

John clenched his jaw tightly, closing his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me about them?"

Sherlock retracted his arms from John's grasp and curled them into himself. "They weren't something you needed to know about, as far as I could see."

"Weren't something I needed to know about? You tried to kill yourself, Sherlock! Not even just once or twice. Five times! How could you think I didn't need to know about that?" John asked him, feeling hurt again.

Sherlock wet his lips and shook his head in disbelief. "Lestrade told you, didn't he?"

"Of course he bloody told me! Who knows how long it would've taken you to tell me!" John cried out. He looked at Sherlock with pain in his eyes. "I wish it had been you who had told me, and not him."

Sherlock couldn't think of what he should say now. He sighed to himself and then looked down. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't want you to find out about my scars, or my multiple attempts."

John searched his eyes and chuckled without humor. "Ever? I would've spotted them eventually, you know!"

Sherlock shook his head, obviously thinking different. "No, you wouldn't have. I would've made sure you wouldn't have seen them. Why do you think I always laid the way I did in bed, or positioned myself so you wouldn't have been able to see me unless you turned around to look at me when we made love? Why do you think I was so quick in the shower? I did all those things with a purpose, John, I'm sorry to say. I've gone to great lengths to keep them from you, and I would've done it for longer if you hadn't been told about them."

"Why?" John asked now, feeling a plethora of different things inside of him. He felt unable to ask any other questions. "Why hide them? Why hide the fact about your previous suicide attempts? Were you ashamed of them? Were you afraid I was going to judge you?"

Sherlock searched John's face, not wanting to admit that he felt shame about them now. He gritted his teeth before he looked away. "I'm not sure. Perhaps, I was afraid of some judgement from your side. You've had to sew people's wrists back up, I'm sure. I didn't want to seem like one of those people to you. I wanted to seem genuine and maybe even something more than that. I… I told you I was depressed and that felt like enough. I felt like you could make your own deductions about my past experiences from that fact."

John nodded, able to see from Sherlock's point of view. He searched his eyes and a sick part of the doctor felt better seeing the regret in Sherlock's eyes. Whether it was regret of finally being found out or regret that he had tried to kill himself several times, John couldn't be sure. Either way it was something that was rarely found in his eyes.

"How can you be so… cold and mechanic about something like this? I mean, this is your life you've tried to end, Sherlock. Can you imagine my life without you in it?" John asked him, feeling tears rise in his eyes.

Sherlock felt his heart twinge with pain when he saw the liquid form in his lover's eyes. "I can be so cold and mechanic about it, John, because it's something that happened in the past. I haven't been on the antidepressants that long. I started them about two months before I met you. My last suicide attempt was about two weeks before I met you. I haven't felt suicidal since then, if you don't count the antidepressants. You make me better, John. You… you keep me right."

John Watson let this absorb into him and he didn't know how or why, but just hearing Sherlock say all this made him feel a bit better about the whole situation. He did mean something to the consulting detective, and it was very possible that John was the reason Sherlock was continuing to live.

"That's all I needed to hear. I love you, Sherlock. I… really love you, and I never want to come home and see you lying dead on the floor with your arms opened up," John wiped away his tears and cleared his throat to hide a sob. "Please, don't do that to me, Sherlock. I'm… I'm not as strong as you are. I wouldn't be able to handle that."

Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded before he pulled John onto the bed and pressed his lips passionately against the doctor's, wrapping both his arms around him and then holding him tightly to him. "I won't. I love you too, John Watson. I love you for all that you've done for me, and all that you'll continue to do. You're the brave one to me…"

John smiled, despite his tears and the fear that had begun to fill him up. He kissed Sherlock before the two of them lay down together on the bed, their fingers intertwined, as well as their legs. Occasionally, Sherlock brought their hands up to kiss John's knuckles. It wasn't long before the detective closed his eyes and his breathing soon steadied.

John looked up at him and carefully moved his body so he could rest his head on Sherlock's chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on the gentle rhythm of his heart, willing that heart to never stop beating as long as John was alive.