Happy Holidays!
I hope everyone that celebrates Christmas had a wonderful one. I got everything I wanted, I got to visit with my Grandmother and childhood dog. Couldn't have asked for more!
I'm so grateful for the positive response I got after posting the first chapter. This chapter is much darker, if you are triggered easily please don't read! Take care of yourselves and let me know what you think.
Trigger warnings: Self-harm, drug-use, and attempted suicide.
I love you.
John almost said it, but he didn't. He stopped himself from going there. Sherlock must have known what he was about to say though.
Friends say I love you to each other all the time, right?
But John meant it more affectionately than that, and he knew it. He knew something was happening inside him that he's been trying to push down for a long time. But seeing Sherlock so vulnerable and distraught brought it all back up to the surface. He wanted to protect this man, take care of him, watch over him, and so much more.
What is wrong with me? I have a wonderful wife and a child on the way, why would I ruin that? And I'm straight, of course I'm straight. Always have been.
At least until Sherlock came along.
It doesn't matter anyways, it's too late. I've made my decisions and Sherlock remains my greatest friend, that should be enough, right?
John tries to push away these thoughts as he prepares breakfast. He had spent most of the night cleaning up the flat and checking in on Sherlock to make sure he hadn't escaped through a window. Thankfully, the genius spent the rest of the night sleeping or hiding his shame from John under the covers.
Sometime in the middle of the night there was a knock at the door. Mycroft's assistant, or whatever she was, was standing there with bags of food, medicine, and John's overnight bag among other things. He thanked her, handed her the box of disgusting objects, and she left without a word. John was grateful he didn't have to leave the flat to retrieve the items himself, and was surprised that Mycroft knew exactly what he likes for breakfast.
John takes both plates of food into Sherlock's room and tries to get him to sit up. He thinks Sherlock is being more quiet than usual, probably because he feels like hell and is trying to hide his withdrawal symptoms from John.
After much encouragement, Sherlock eats a few bites of toast and washes it down with a couple sips of tea. John gives up after a while and leaves him to sulk.
He's finishing the washing up when he hears a loud thud. He drops the dishes in the sink and rushes to the bedroom. Sherlock is lying on the floor next to his bed groaning and holding his stomach. John kneels down beside him and notices the pained look on his face and how much he is shaking.
"What happened? Are you alright?"
"Bathroom. Now." is the response he gets.
John practically drags him into the loo where Sherlock immediately lunges for the toilet and starts vomiting. John feels helpless and tries to rub circles into his friends back, getting a grunt and a shove from the other man in return.
"I'm just trying to help. Is there anything I can do?"
Sherlock refuses to look at him.
"Yes, go home. I don't need you here."
John sighs and leaves the room. "I'm not leaving, so let me know if you need anything." he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
John tries to spend the afternoon reading but is too distracted. Sherlock is just in the other room, completely silent. It's maddening. He decides it's time to check on him again and finds him looking even worse than earlier.
He's curled up into a ball under the comforter, shaking violently. He's sweating and so pale, more so than usual. John prepares a cool, damp rag and tries to lay it across his forehead. Sherlock moves his head away from John's hand, stares at him angrily for a moment and turns over. He mumbles something incoherent into the pillow.
"Sherlock, you really do need to stop with this nonsense. I'm not going anywhere no matter what you say."
Sherlock turns back to him, trying and failing to hold himself up. He has pure madness and hatred flashing through his eyes.
"Leave me alone! You're only making this worse! I'm going through fucking withdrawals and you're hovering over me. I've done this many times before all on my own."
John squares his shoulders, stares him down.
"Let. Me. Help. You."
They have some sort of silent argument between them before John pushes him back down on the bed and slides the rag across his face. Sherlock struggles to get away but doesn't have the strength, he gives up and closes his eyes. John pushes the curls back from his face and has to resist the urge to stroke his jawline.
Stop it. Get your mind away from that place John.
After about ten minutes of Sherlock trying to lay there angrily, he finally relaxes and drifts off to sleep. John is about to get up when he notices something dark seeping through the charcoal-grey comforter. As he starts to pull it down Sherlock's eyes fly open and he sits up to move his body as far from John as he can.
"Sherlock, show me. Now."
Sherlock is huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. He looks panicked, his eyes darting around the room. He's holding his arms between his knees and chest, hiding them from view.
"I... No. Please leave. Please just leave me be."
"If you don't show me I'm taking you to the hospital."
He hesitates, but knows John is serious, and that he doesn't have the strength to resist him. John can read it all in his face. He slowly moves forward and holds his arms out to the other man and John takes them into his lap.
Once one sleeve is rolled up John is horrified by what he finds. On top of rows and rows of white and pink scars are slashes of red. He rolls up the other sleeve and finds the same on his left arm. Many are fading, some still healing, and some are very fresh. Too new to have been inflicted before John arrived at the flat. They're bleeding, and some look as if they were older and had reopened. He tries not to look at the track marks in the crease of his elbows.
"Don't move, let me get a few things and I'll be right back."
He glances at Sherlock. He's never seen him look so ashamed, he's staring down at his feet and let's his arms stay where John sets them on the bed. He looks like there isn't a thing going through that giant brain of his. He looks empty.
John walks briskly into the the kitchen and starts rifling through the bags Mycroft had delivered. He realizes he should have sorted through them earlier and organized it all. He finds what he needs and goes back to the bedroom. He stops in his tracks as soon as he's through the doorway, Sherlock is gone.
He's about to panic when he hears something clatter to the floor in the bathroom and Sherlock cursing under his breath. John flies across the room and tries the handle even though he knows it's locked.
"Sherlock! Open the damn door!"
He starts pounding on the door with his fists, gives up and starts trying to break it down with his shoulder. It takes a minute, but the door finally gives and swings open, the wood around the lock splintered and broken.
The sight he's presented with makes his stomach feel like it's fallen out of him. Sherlock is sitting on the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. He has a rubber tourniquet tied tightly above his elbow and is trying with shaking hands to guide a syringe filled with what must be heroin to the crook of his elbow. John rushes forward and grabs it out of his hand. Sherlock tries to wrangle it back, but is too weak.
John glances at the syringe in his hand, it's practically full to the brim. Even if he wasn't a doctor it was obviously a deadly amount of drugs. He tosses the vile object to the floor and steps on it, shattering it.
He knew it was too much, it was on purpose. He was trying to kill him himself. Oh my god. He... I was gone for maybe two minutes!
Tears start falling down his face as he falls to his knees. Sherlock has his hands in his hair, tugging at it, and is rocking back and forth. His knees are drawn up to his chest again and he's trying to hide his face. John makes a grab for him, unsure what to do. He pries his hands out of his hair and Sherlock tries to push him away.
"No! Just stop! Please, just-"
He chokes on the last word, unable to speak with the sobs starting to wrack through his body. He slumps even farther into the floor, shaking uncontrollably. He's now lying on his side having lost all control of himself, gasping for air as he bawls.
John doesn't know what to do. His heart is beating so fast and he wants nothing more than to fix this broken man lying on the floor.
Fuck it.
He kneels down and scoops Sherlock up and into his arms.
He's so light, he shouldn't weigh this little, I'm going to force feed him later if I have to.
Sherlock doesn't even struggle. He's completely limp and let's John carry him to the bed. John sets him down lightly and goes to get the supplies he had brought into the room. His friend is still a mess, unable to stop the emotion coursing through him. John thinks he's probably held it in for a long time.
Or he's just never been like this around another person...
He sits on the bed next to Sherlock and reaches out towards him. He doesn't even try to stop him as John sits with his back to the headboard and pulls the broken man into his arms, holding him from behind. Sherlock settles between his thighs as John cuddles him against his chest.
"Shhh, everything's alright Sherlock. It's okay. I need you to calm down so I can bandage up your arms. Please, just take some deep breaths. I'll make it quick and you can go to sleep." he whispers in his ear, his cheek pressed against the back of Sherlock's head.
Sherlock gasps for air, trying to obey Johns request as he rocks him gently. After a few minutes he's able to control his breathing a bit better. He's still shaking and tears are still rolling down his face but John just needed him to calm down as much as he could. He carefully unwraps his arms from around him and moves to places his limp body against the headboard, he grabs the bandages and antiseptic and gets to work.
As soon as John is done cleaning and bandaging his wounds Sherlock shrinks back into himself and slumps onto his side. He's stopped crying for the most part and is staring at the wall across from him, the empty look back in his eyes.
I can't just leave him like this. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I don't know if I can do this.
John takes a deep breath, gets up to turn off the lights and heads back to the bed. He hesitates, not sure how Sherlock will react but gets into the bed anyways and pulls Sherlock back into his arms. He spoons him from behind, wrapping an arm around his middle. Sherlock surprises him by grabbing onto him, clutching John's arm and pulling him closer.
John sighs and switches their arms so that his is on top and starts rubbing gentle circles into the back of Sherlock's hand.
He's wanted to do this for what feels like forever, he never imagined it'd be in this particular type of situation but it feels so perfect just the same. It feels right, like he's been waiting his whole life just to hold this man. He's overcome by so many feelings, but most importantly he wants nothing more than to keep his friend safe through the night. At that moment all he wants to do is protect him from harm. He holds Sherlock a bit tighter.
"I'm going to fix this Sherlock, if it's the last thing I do. I'm not leaving you, ever. I can't stand to see you in so much pain. I'm going to get you better, I promise.I love you."