The day had passed, and the sky was dark at 10:00pm. John was washing up the plates and mugs by the side of the sink, his arms up to his elbows covered in soap suds. The cutlery was in a small bunch on the draining board. Amongst it lay a single sharp knife with a wooden handle. The handle that still bore the stains of John's blood, where it had trickled down the blade, as he had cut deep into his wrists.
John dropped the tumbler he had been holding into the water in the sink. He heard a loud glassy crash as it hit the bottom, not broken, but nearly. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the knife. This was a fear he couldn't regulate, one that wasn't like the fears that caused his mind to focus and steady. He could feel the blade in his skin, he could hear his groans as he pulled the knife up his wrist, and he could smell the blood that dripped down his hands and onto the floor.
Nausea hit him like a sledgehammer, and he stumbled away from the weapon on the side of his sink. He backed away from his past as it haunted him with memories far too vivid to ever be forgotten. He could barely live with himself when he was like this; so afraid of his history that he tripped over his own feet on the way to the bathroom.
Reaching into the cupboard, John pulled down the anti-depressants that he'd saved for occasions such as this one. He cried tears of self-hate, and they spun away down the plughole as he tipped two pills into his mouth and swallowed them without the aid of water. His stomach flipped and bile rose into his mouth, but John swallowed it again, unwilling to let the pills' effect be wasted if he vomited.
Having Sherlock back had worsened his shame. Because Sherlock knew, and Sherlock had asked to see, with all this pity and sympathy, but John hadn't shown him. How could he reveal his scars to Sherlock, and see how his face would drop with dismay? It would ruin John to show him how far he had fallen. And Sherlock didn't deserve the remorse and the agony that it would give him.
John sat against the bathroom wall as he waited for the tablets to take effect, with salt water streaking his cheeks. It felt like he'd been sat there for hours before the drug-induced euphoria made its way into his sealed veins. With great effort, he stood, and proceeded to make his way to bed. He'd had more than enough from the day. He needed to sleep now, to clear his mind through dreams and unconsciousness.
He climbed the stairs with heavy legs, and he stumbled into his bedroom, only to see a dark-haired shape fast asleep in his bed. Sherlock. Of course. John thought for a moment, and considered going back downstairs to sleep on the sofa. He quickly dismissed the thought, and he began to undress, slipping off his jeans and shirt before climbing into the bed next to Sherlock, careful not to get too close or move the duvet too much lest he wake up. He didn't want to sleep alone tonight. He was too frightened. All he wanted was to be close to his friend.
John's tired eyes fluttered shut, and he was unconscious within seconds.
Sherlock's angelic mouth turned into a smile.