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The mattress depressed next to him, and the soft scent of the lovely vanilla Miss Hudson used to wash John’s clothes followed. He presumed that he was wearing that horrible oatmeal jumper of his, he seemed to have it on more often than not in recent times. A calloused hand sifted through Sherlock’s curls, twisting and smoothing. The hand moved down to his cheek and moved his face to look at him. His thumb moved down to caress the end of his frowning lips, and then tapped.
“Were you planning on coming for breakfast any time soon?” John’s voice soothed, hand moving away and into his lap. He remained silent, and his darling sighed, “Sherlock, the case is over, you have to eat!” he stiffened, he didn’t want to leave bed, didn’t want to leave the comfort of his soft sheets and their warming embrace, nor did he want to bother himself with consuming the sickly slop that would no doubt be forced down his throat if he dared to sit down at the kitchen table. He liked the feeling of the soft pillow supporting his head, and he liked to sleep as much as he could before he had to leave the safety of his room and facing living.
It was becoming harder and harder by the day, a heavy weight of unreasonable melancholy settling deep within his chest. It was so, so heavy, forcing him down and down until he was certain he could no longer climb back up. His arms itched. His thighs itched. Everywhere itched, itched with the desperate urge to slice. He knew he was falling into a depressive episode; he had known for a while. He had just tried to ignore it, involving himself in cases when he felt his eyes drift to the loose brick in the fireplace or the loose tile in the bathroom floor. Each which held his drugs and blades, respectively. It appeared that it wasn’t the best idea, he had kept himself busy with cases for two weeks before growing so exhausted he collapsed onto his bed and slept for what felt like days, and had become so hungry he couldn’t get up when he had finally awoken. After which, he had been barred from taking any cases by John.
That had been around a month ago, and he had had a few cases here and there, twos or threes, a robbery or two and some affairs. His phone had been pinging desperately for days, the yard was becoming frantic with his absence, and yet he had found he had no more motivation to pull himself up from filthy bedsheets and answer any of them. Lestrade must be worried, but at least not worried enough to come and visit, perhaps John had talked to him. There was a sigh from above. John gave him a peck on his forehead, then both of his eyelids, before drifting down to give him one, big, lovely kiss on his lips.
“You’ve been in bed for about two days, love, I’m beginning to become worried. I’m glad that you’re finally sleeping and all, but isn’t it becoming a bit much?” His voice was concerned, and Sherlock’s chest tightened. He was never supposed to make John worried again, he had pledged so after he had shoved him to the ground and attempted to strangle him at that fancy restaurant when Mary had still been alive and John’s life had been much, much better.
Sherlock’s head felt foggy, and he was growing eager for him to go, to leave, so he could rush to one of his stashes- the one in the bathroom was much closer than the one in the living room, there was a door connecting his room to it. A hand shook his shoulder.
“Sherlock, you are scaring me,” John’s eyebrows were now pulled together, lips creased with worry, “Come on, let me make you something” He grasped him by the hand, and, unconsciously, he felt himself begin to move with him. His legs were wobbly as he was dragged into the living room, and he found himself stumbling before falling onto the settee. He felt so disconnected from his body; unable to focus on anything. His head moved without his permission to look up at john. vision wouldn’t stop blurring. Lover’s mouth moving. The voice which came out was muffled and confusing. Sleeve of his cream jumper creased. Had been wearing it for a while. Face was more wrinkled than before, what they had decided to deem, the fall.
His haze had been snapped out of by a cold hand pressing against his forehead, John now crouched in front of him with his other hand pressing against his naked knee. His scars were exposed like this. He didn’t like it, it made him feel vulnerable, and that was one thing that Sherlock Holmes wasn’t. His thighs were staring at him, the red blemishes opening wide and enveloping him whole, one big iris looking into his soul. Sherlock shuddered in its gaze as it looked him up and down. Dissecting. Tearing his body into small, fragile pieces and exposing him for what he was. Broken. He felt a sob escape him and hopelessness bloomed within his chest. Sherlock felt like absolute shit; it hurt so bad he doubted it would ever go away. He just wanted it to go away. Nothing would work. The only thing he wanted was to feel the gash in his skin open and see the ivory beneath before the beautiful red blossomed, and he couldn’t do that with John worrying over him. Suddenly, he hated him with the entire force of his own being. How dare he? How dare he be so concerned, so agitated, so upset by Sherlock’s decisions on what he did with his body. Why did it matter? It was not like Sherlock was dragging a blade across his skin, it was not like Sherlock was shoving handfuls and handfuls of pills down his throat or piercing his flesh with the hypodermic needle.
He felt rage burst within him. Anguish at John’s coddling from in front of him. Despair from what he was holding him back from. Fury from how much he seemed to care for someone as utterly useless as he was. Wrath from how much John made him feel like a burden with his soft words and soft expression and stupid, soft touch. He wanted out, and he wanted it now. Sherlock threw himself up from the settee and shoved John out of the way, ignoring the thud! Of a body hitting the Persian rug which decorated their hard, wooden floors. On his way out, he snatched his belstaff from the coat rack and wrapped it around himself. The voice of a frantic John fuzzes behind him as he rushes out the door, naked feet against the rocky pavement, a burst of cold air, chill seeping into his bones.
-
He doesn’t remember what happens next, amidst the worrying look of the occasional passers by as he runs through London’s streets, the apprehensive look of a shopkeeper as he places the pack of blades and cigarettes on the counter, and the desperate attempt the find a solitary alleyway to rest, everything blurs together in one big mix of confusion and frenzy. In a quick half hour, he finds himself sitting on a cobbled floor. He is naked apart from his boxers and coat, and he is so, so cold. His face feels frozen as his tears cool. Growing ever icier, he slips off his only article of clothing which keeps him warm in the winter’s breeze and slips open the packet of blades, placing his one of choice next to him before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with the lighter he keeps in his coat pocket. He wasn’t thinking when he grasped it, but he was glad he did.
Fag in-between his trembling lips, he picks up the discarded razor and presses it against rubbery skin. He hasn’t much time. John is likely frantic with worry. The chances are, his brother has ten agents searching every corner of London for his ‘dearest’ little brother. Within seconds there are three deep gashes embellishing his wrist, blood sparkling against the crisply frosting floor. Within minutes, that number has jumped to six and warm arms are wrapped around his waist. Mousy blond hair bristling against his nose and fingers clutching a gouged arm. His blade rests on the floor, speckled with gore. Sherlock can feel John’s tears on his shoulder. He doesn’t find that he minds them that much, they warm his skin and drip down to his heart and warm that too. If he notices the worried face of his brother as he stalks away, umbrella patting at the floor, he doesn’t day anything, and he doubts Mycroft will too. At least until he has another one of his interventions, and he doesn’t think it will be soon. John’s here.
Careful hands pull his coat over his body and his arms, blood still dripping down from his fingers. A new pair of fluffy black socks are drawn up his ankles and a lovely new pair of even blacker leather boots are tied up on his feet. His brother’s doing no doubt.
He feels nice and fluffy as John takes him home, arm wrapped around his shoulder and a warm body pressed against his own bitter one. John’s love is like a drug, and he thinks he’s forgotten that. He never really needed the cocaine or morphine in the fireplace, and he probably didn’t need the blades he had bought, if only he had realised how pleasant he would feel if he had allowed his darling’s body to curl up around him and fill his body with the oxytocin it needed. Gentle, loving fingers wrap his arm thickly with gauze and bandages, long since numbed and stitched. He no longer feels angry at them. Only pleasantly pleased.
It's not long before john helps him into a wonderful pair of soft pyjamas, taking away his soft socks and replacing them with even softer socks- also new. Sherlock is manhandled into bed as John removes his own clothes and flops onto the bed, rearranging himself as he pulls sherlock close, fingers rubbing against the back of his nape before moving to massage deeply into his dark curls. He feels absolutely wonderful, and a little bit silly for storming out and slicing at himself. His worries are quickly whittled away by his dearest’s soothing words and he finds himself drifting away. Instead of dreaming of waterfalls, or Serbia, or the deep, gnawing pain he would usually feel in his chest when he would awaken, he dreamt of days sitting in front of a toasty fire in his armchair with John in front of him, typing away at his laptop as Sherlock sat and read a lovely book about lovely murders. And later that day, Miss Hudson would wrap her arms around him and give him a kiss on his hair before placing down a plate of delicious pastries and it would be utterly divine. Sherlock couldn’t wait.