Trigger warnings for self-harm... Ish? And be advised that this coming plot-twist seems far more severe than is the truth, so do not be alarmed. It will be alright, I promise! If anyone wonders, this entire story is set between "A JohnLock Christmas" and the epilogue to "Portrait of a Genius". All recognisable content still belongs to its respective owners.
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Everything seemed normal, as John entered the flat, even hearing Sherlock in the kitchen didn't faze him as while it had become far more unusual for the detective to be in there since they had moved his lab upstairs, it still was far from unheard of. He was Sherlock, after all. The unexpected was, as a matter of fact, to be expected. Contraintuitive as that was. The doctor had long ago learnt that whatever he imagined was about to happen at any given time, was the least likely to actually occur. Unless he thought Sherlock was about to get cuddly, sarcastic or talk about bees. That had been known to happen even if he thought that it might.
It was only when John entered the kitchen properly and saw his fiance that he stopped dead for a moment, only to grab a towel and move with urgency in the next. Sherlock was stood by the sink, very deliberately holding a knife against his forearm, and a small streak of blood started to bloom as John hurriedly stepped up next to him.
The doctor felt cold panic at seeing how the cut was made alongside the arm, not the scarring but somewhat more harmless type made across instead, as he tried to keep the adrenaline rush - for once not welcome - in check and just pressed on the long cut with the fabric. After a moment, he took it away to asses the wound. The cut was not actually deep, but seeing Sherlock cut himself this way was really terrible, more so than it ought to be after everything John had seen during his life in regards to injury and ailments. Or perhaps, that merely made it even worse. The images promptly put in his head were only all the more vivid for it.
Sherlock seemed willing enough to let him take the knife away and press the towel to his arm again, leaning into John's body as he had taken to doing lately, but that only felt bizarre under the circumstances, and it did not calm the mad beating of John's heart one bit.
Swallowing to get rid of the lump in his throat, John directed a surprisingly cooperative consulting detective into a kitchen chair and very firmly ordered him to stay put. Even so, he was somewhat surprised to reenter the kitchen a minute or so later and see that his partner had, indeed, obeyed him. John, of course, was not to know that there was a certain something in his voice when he gave the order which had Sherlock puzzled and a little bit alarmed.
Sherlock remained still and unmoving as John applied a general anesthetic and then carefully cleaned the wound and even made a few stitches. As an experienced field surgeon, he knew of course, that there was no need for stitches in making this heal up, the wound being only a very shallow cut, and he felt bad for inflicting even a minimal amount of pain, but he could just not help himself.
Even after finishing to care for the cut - still without a single word of protest from his partner - John stood for almost a minute with a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, mind still reeling. What had he missed? Why had Sherlock done this to himself? Why would he cause himself harm? John hated that he had to ask himself such questions, but not nearly as much as he hated how he did not have any answers. None at all.
Evil cliffhanger is totally evil.
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