Chapter 3

*Please be aware that this chapter includes triggers for self-harm and depression. If this bothers you, please do not read it. (However it does have a comforting, reassuring and fluffy ending)*

John just stared at Sherlock in awe. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had thought that Sherlock was asexual, and had no attachment to anyone whatsoever, but apparently he had been incredibly, wonderfully, fantastically wrong.

Here he was, Sherlock in his bed. His bed. There had been a time when he thought that having Sherlock anywhere within a metre radius was wishful thinking, and that Sherlock would never in a million years love him back (since John was average, and Sherlock was…well... exceptional. In every meaning of the word.)

Sherlock had always told John that he was 'stupid, boring; annoyingly so, in fact'. Even though he would never admit it to anyone, let alone Sherlock, John always felt a pang of heartbreak and worthlessness rip through his chest at the sting of those cutting words. Usually he would excuse himself in order to promptly remove himself from the situation: ie. by running to his bedroom, locking the door and crying his eyes out because the love of his life thought he was a waste of space. He knew that Sherlock didn't intend to hurt his feelings; he also knew that Sherlock needed to sharpen up on his social skills… but that still didn't prevent John from believing every word that came out of Sherlock's unskilled mouth.

And that was when the self-harm had started.

John wasn't proud of it; it was something that he just needed to do in order to vent his anger, which was always directed at himself. Every time Sherlock would say something less than encouraging, John would etch it into his skin with a knife, so that every time he saw it he would be reminded of how worthless he was, and how much Sherlock despised him, and how it would probably be better for Sherlock if he was dead.

John had truly believed that he was stupid, that he was worthless, and that he didn't deserve to be loved by anyone, least of all by the brilliant detective.

He had always thought that he was a nuisance to Sherlock, and had hated himself every day for it.

It took all the will John could muster to stop his jaw dropping open.

"But… but… how could you love me?"

Sherlock looked at John with a quizzical expression.

"Why wouldn't I fall in love with you? I work with you every day, share a flat with you, and have been in many life-threatening situations with you. You've saved my life before, and in return, I've saved yours. It's only logical that I would have feelings for you after all we've been through."

"But I'm an idiotic, dumb, ugly piece of shit… I'm not worthy of your affection… I'm broken, insecure… I'm just average, and you obviously deserve so much better!" At this John burst into tears in front of a stunned and bemused Sherlock, covered his face completely in the sheets and wept.

Sherlock went to gather John in his arms, but John wasn't having any of it. Sherlock's eyes were wide, his caring, worried gaze penetrating his flatmate, his thoughts practically screaming John, John, John, tell me what's wrong. How could you be so insecure? You're the best person the world has to offer. You're my heart and soul. Surely you know that. What could make you feel so awful about yourself?…

Then he saw them. John's pyjama sleeves slipped ever so slightly down his forearm and exposed a tiny bit of bare skin, but it was enough for Sherlock to notice the damage John had inflicted on himself. He gasped in shock. John cowered even lower beneath the sheets. Being very gentle and delicate, Sherlock pulled the sleeve down John's arm to expose more skin. And surely enough, when he did this, he saw the horrors: UGLY. . painted in massive crimson letters on John's upper fore-arm. Waste of space scratched out with what seemed to have been a blade just below that. And thousands, no, millions of tiny white scars littering the area around the foul words, marring his soft skin. It made Sherlock sick to the stomach to know that he was the cause of John's torment. He had never, ever meant to cause John any harm or hurt…. nor would he ever. John was his heart. Now it felt like someone had cast a giant spear through his chest, and his heart bled and ached.

One by one, Sherlock bent down to press butterfly kisses to each and every one of the scars on John's arm.

"Shhh…." Sherlock hushed, trying to calm John down. "What on earth could have made you feel so worthless, John? You're wonderful; the world wouldn't be the same without you. My world wouldn't be the same without you. You're irreplaceable, and I don't think I'll ever feel about anyone else the same way I feel about you. You've saved me, John… you've made me a better person. Your social skills complement my lack of such skills…God, I love you. I love the way you know I have feelings, even though I don't like to show them very often. I love how you put up with my endless experiments. I love the way you force me to eat, just because you want to see me healthy. I love how close we've gotten. I love how you alone can cheer me up when I'm sad. I love the way you make tea for me in the morning, the way you put up with my whining, the way your hair looks when you've just woken up, the way you defend me when others say they can't stand me, your amazing medicinal abilities, your heightened awareness of others' feelings, I even love your smell. There are so many things that I love about you John… I just wish you could see them."

John looked up from the duvet he was hiding under. "You really think so?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied warmly. "In fact, I might even go as far as to say that it is I who is unworthy of you. You're such a beautiful, caring, kind, brave person, whereas all I have is my intelligence, and my adoration of you."

"So… you don't think I'm stupid and average? You don't think I'm boring? You don't think I'm a waste of space?"

"Oh John… you're far, far, far from it. Please give no heed to the idiotic accusations I had previously hurled at you. I hate to admit it, but I only said those things because… well… I didn't want you knowing that I loved you. I thought you would feel uncomfortable and distance yourself from me if you knew. And I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing you again…."

It was Sherlock who got teary-eyed this time, a rare thing for someone who is usually so good at putting on a brave, impassive face. John wrapped his arms around him and whispered that he would never in his wildest dreams leave his detective. And if Sherlock was taken from him by some evil ill-fate, John would stop at nothing to be able to return to his side once more.

"…but I never thought that you would pay any attention to those stupid comments. I can't bear the thought that I hurt you so badly…please forgive me. I know it will take time, but please, please, forgive me. I'm not as socially developed as you are, and I'm still learning. Trust me when I say I will do everything in my power to heal the hurt I have inflicted on you, my beautiful blogger. Remember that you are my world. You deserve everything this world has to offer, and more. Please, stop self-deprecating and realise your immense worth… there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. And for the love of god and my own sanity, please stop damaging your exquisite body."

With that Sherlock shyly intertwined their hands under the bedsheets, and gave John a slow, worshiping kiss that seemed to ask for nothing, and offer everything. John broke off gently, his cheeks a delicate pink colour, his breathing loud.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said.