Chapter 6

The days that followed consisted mostly of their casual routine: John making tea in the morning, looking for the milk in the fridge and subsequently finding out that A) they had run out of milk – again – and B) there were now several grotesque, squishy, pinkish white pickled eyeballs floating in jars where the milk ought to be, Sherlock sitting quietly in the living room using his 'I'm concentrating very hard' face while resting his long, clever fingers in a steepled position just under his chin, John finally giving in to temptation and rushing out of the house to hastily buy three more bottles of milk, only to spend fifteen minutes caught in conversation with the shopkeeper who knew him way too well, and returning home to Sherlock's usual greeting: 'you're late.'

Except that there were now a few important additions to their daily routine; this time, Sherlock complained that he had missed John while he was tarrying at the supermarket. There were also several gentle, reassuring touches that passed between them regularly now, almost unconsciously. Sherlock's fingers would linger over John's for a fraction of a second longer when he gave him his tea. John would curl up beside the other man while they were watching tv, resting his head in the hollow of Sherlock's long neck for comfort. Sherlock would press a chaste kiss to John's forehead when he returned home from work, tired from his long day, and envelop him lovingly in his arms, letting the stress and worry seep out of John as he held him.

How had Mycroft so delicately put it? Ah yes, 'domestic bliss'. Although his meaning was purely sarcastic at best and even verged on mocking, John couldn't help but acknowledge that Mycroft was right; it was in fact domestic bliss in every meaning of the phrase.

It was simple and repetitive, yet John loved it.

On a more serious note, the feather-light touches, reassuring kisses and newfound warmth between them had recently taken John's mind off cutting his skin, and was beginning to instil in him a vital sense of self-worth. Granted, it had only planted a little seed of hope in John's brain, however that little seed was beginning to germinate and spread, and John was finding it increasingly easier to ignore the temptation to cut.

One evening, while they were curled up on the couch together, Sherlock received a very unusual call from Molly, of all people. Apparently word had gotten out that Sherlock and John were seeing each other (John mentally cursed Mycroft and his invasive hidden cameras). Molly was adamant that they have dinner together to 'celebrate the new lovebirds,' and even though Sherlock insisted that they were busy, Molly would not relent, and simply said that she was coming over 'this very minute!' with Lestrade, and that they'd better get everything they needed to do out of the way before she arrived. Sherlock's jaw had dropped open and his brain was trying to find the correct words to say when Molly abruptly hung up. Great. This was just great. Sherlock shot John a pleading expression that seemed to cry 'what do we do now?'.

John sharply sprung into action, proceeding to shove what remained of Sherlock's gory, disturbing experiments into cupboards, remove the squishy pickled eyeballs that were staring at him from the fridge and lay out the absurdly expensive tablecloth that John reserved only for visitors. He was just placing a bottle of cheap wine (having had no time to buy anything nicer) on the table when a loud, insistent rapping was heard at the door.

They sighed defeatedly. That would be Molly.

No sooner had Sherlock opened the door than Molly strode in confidently, as if she wasn't effectively breaking in, a reluctant Lestrade in tow. Sherlock stood there gaping, struggling for something conventional to say to them.

Molly hung up her coat in the hallway and turned dramatically to face them.

'We brought Chinese!' she squealed elatedly, in a tone that sounded suspiciously like she was high.

Sherlock looked pointedly at the take-away boxes and nodded mutely, not having yet regained the ability to talk.

It took John a second to adjust to the suddenness of it all, before he managed to stutter out: 'Ehm, lovely… that's wonderful. If you would follow me…'

He awkwardly led them into the kitchen, Lestrade looking apologetic, Molly giggling girlishly and babbling on about how good it was to see them, and how they hadn't seen each other in ages… when truthfully it had merely been a week since their last visit. Molly was always one to dramatize everything.

The dinner was going well enough, as well as unplanned and hastily organised dinners can go really, and before long they were beginning to get into their usual flowing conversation.

Molly complained that the dead bodies at the morgue weren't coming in quite as clean as she'd hoped lately; Sherlock harrumphed at this and stated that there had been a string of bloody murders in London recently that were unfortunately poorly planned by the attacker and therefore too base and below his level to bother investigating, and said that maybe that was the cause of the influx of crimson-coated corpses. John smiled and nodded at Molly sympathetically; Lestrade rolled his eyes playfully and said that Sherlock was too big headed for his own good.

All was running smoothly, until the reason for Molly's visit reared its ugly head.

'So Sherlock, tell me… what's it like being with John? Surely you don't believe that this,' her eyes fleetingly darted to John, 'could ever match up to what a woman could offer you?'

'Molly!' Lestrade whispered chastisingly at her, a blush rising in his cheeks, embarrassed at the very thought that she, let alone anyone else, would say that.

Molly ignored him, draining her wine glass in one gulp and continuing to dig herself a drunken hole.

"I mean…," whispered Molly seductively, lavishly pooring even more wine into her glass until it was almost overflowing, "just look at him. You could do sooooo much better…."

John lowered his eyes to the tablecloth in front of him and wished for all the world that he could just disappear and pretend he hadn't heard what had been said, because he really couldn't come up with a suitable retort… everything Molly had said so far was true. Tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes, and he fought desperately to keep them concealed.

Molly was presently leering over the table at Sherlock, batting her eyes ridiculously, and shooting death glares at John.

"I'm perfectly happy with my blogger at the moment, thanks" said Sherlock coldly, leaning back slightly in his chair. "And if you're going to insult him like this, I suggest you leave before things get ugly."

Molly's face immediately contorted into a pinched, humiliated expression, and her eyes flashed with anger. She lividly rose from her chair, knocking it over in the process and lost her balance, staggering backwards into the wall.

She pointed at John with one long, crimson-painted finger. "You will regret choosing him one day," she seethed, "and when you come crawling back to me, you will forgive me if I slam the door in your face."

And with that, she stalked out the door haughtily, high-heels clicking on the floor as she went.

Lestrade turned around to John to say he was so sorry for Molly's drunken behaviour, but John had disappeared. He apologised profusely to Sherlock instead, and promptly ran after Molly, saying that he needed to ensure that she didn't get herself into any more trouble.

As soon as the door shut behind Lestrade, Sherlock looked around for John. His eyes flew wildly around the room, searching in vain.

He was gone.

Soon after Molly had let that dreadful comment slip, John all but ran to the bathroom, shutting the door hastily behind him. With no-one to witness his wretched weakness, the tears let themselves loose and he fell to the floor, leaning his back against the door for support.

He couldn't understand his feelings properly; he was upset, of course, but why? Sherlock loved him.

But then again….

John just couldn't get rid of the niggling feeling in his gut that told him profusely that he was worthless. This very moment the darkness was taunting him, teasing the outer edges of his consciousness, trying to find its way into his brain so it could mutate and spread like a virus. He knew, logically, that Sherlock loved him…. however that tiny, evil voice that he had kept hidden in the deepest depths of his brain told him otherwise.

John's brain didn't register what he was doing until he was grasping it, holding that achingly familiar silver blade, pressing it down and tearing apart the soft skin underneath it, crimson rivulets pouring down his arm from the gash in his wrists, and all he could see was blood, blood, blood. Distantly, as if he was in another world and not the one where his body was crying out in pain, he gazed down at the wounds, and they seemed to him to be both devastating and calming at the same time, releasing his pent up energy, replacing it with guilt.

Guilt, that he hadn't had the strength to stop himself.

Guilt, that he had betrayed Sherlock's trust in him.