Chapter Text
It was late when John got home, maybe about 7:30 or so. He had picked up a shift at the hospital since one of the regular doctors was out of town. Every other day of the past week and a half, since John had walked in on Sherlock, the two of them would have already been halfway through their evening of watching the telly together.
It was funny, the two men hadn’t addressed what had transpired between them, and yet there was nothing uncomfortable about that silence. In fact, they had been acting more comfortable with each other. The air was cleared, and that had been good enough for now. Every evening they had settled down in the living room together, sometimes in their own chairs with the fire going, and sometimes on the same couch with their thighs touching. One night, they had ended up under the same blanket. There was a happy, comfortable progression taking place, if very slowly.
John had been taking a nightly walk alone after telly time, which helped to clear his head and also meant he was able to fall asleep sooner. And if it meant that when he came back home Sherlock was already in his own bedroom with the door closed, that was just a rather happy accident. There had been no opportunities for awkward moments of parting for the night, where one or both might have expressed interest in the night not ending yet. It was safer that way, for now.
As John climbed out of the taxi and made his way to the flat, he felt the first stirrings of apprehension that he had left Sherlock for so long today, disrupting their routine. He had felt comfortable with the idea this morning, as over a week had passed without any troubling signs from Sherlock. Now John wasn’t so sure. It was probably nothing, honestly, just nerves. John was also very tired, the kind of tired that meant he had endured a long day of helping others. It was a good sort of tired.
That brought a slight smile to John’s face as he made his way up the stairs. The muffled sound of the telly drifted down the stairs, reassuring John that Sherlock had stuck to the routine even without him, and that maybe Sherlock had been able to soothe himself with the familiar pattern of the day. As John rounded the corner into the living room, however, his face dropped just a bit as he realized that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
“Sherlock?” John called out once, hesitantly. There was no response. Before he could panic, John rushed to calm himself. Honestly, Sherlock had always left the flat at all kinds of hours, for all kinds of reasons. If John got bothered by it every time Sherlock was suddenly gone, he’d never have a moment’s peace. Sherlock was probably chasing down some clue, most likely in a way that presented at least a bit of danger to his person. That started a low anger bubbling in John’s gut, and he made a mental note to talk to Sherlock in the future about keeping himself safer from here on out. Actively seeking danger was not too far from explicitly hurting oneself, making it unacceptable in John’s mind.
John headed toward the bathroom, the door to which was hanging open and letting the light from the hallway illuminate the inside. There was a figure hunched over, sitting on the closed toilet seat. John’s heart raced as his body assumed a more crouched position, lowering his center of balance to better fight or run. He stared at the figure for a few heartbeats before being able to discern a mop of curly, dark hair, and pale limbs.
“Sherlock?” John called again, softer this time, edging into the bathroom. He left the light off, his eyes having adjusted to the low light. Sherlock still didn’t respond. He was shirtless, vertebrae uncomfortably prominent from being slouched foreword over his own lap. One long, pale arm was braced at the elbow against his thigh to support his bowed head, and the other hung like dead weight away from his body. The hall light glinted off the razor blade in that hand. John’s stomach dropped, but he didn’t feel the same sick shock as last time.
He slowly walked into the bathroom and crouched to the side of the toilet. From this angle, he could see that Sherlock’s pants were tugged down to reveal his hipbones. At that moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened his posture just a bit, although his head stayed hung low.
“I didn’t do it.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, but John knew him well enough to detect a hint of pride behind the controlled fear. For a moment John didn’t understand what he meant, but as realization dawned on him, hope sprung up before he could caution it.
“You, ah, you didn’t hurt yourself?” John took a closer look at Sherlock’s hip and was relieved to see no new marks on the pale skin. “Sherlock,” he continued, “You’re ah, you’re holding it in your hand, still.” Sherlock stiffened a bit, and John couldn’t help but notice that his extended hand began to tremble a bit. “Sherlock, would you hand that to me?”
Sherlock’s hand remained where it was as he responded in a small voice, “I don’t want to, John. I mean, I do, but…I’m so torn.” His voice wavered a bit as he added, “I need you to help me, please.”
Moving slowly, John gently took the razor blade from Sherlock’s hand. There was just the barest hint of resistance on Sherlock’s part, for the most part remaining passive and still. “It’s ok, Sherlock, I understand. It’s ok to have conflicting feelings about this, alright?” John kept his voice gentle and even, not wanting to express any kind of reprimand. He stood up and placed the blade in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Even if he removed this one from Sherlock’s possession, John knew that he would easily be able to replace it at any store, and he wouldn’t insult Sherlock by pretending otherwise. Any progress made would be within Sherlock, not their surroundings.
“Sherlock, I am so, so proud of you,” John murmured softly as he crouched in front of him. “I really am. You had plenty of opportunity to give in, and you didn’t. You did so well.” Taking Sherlock’s head gently between his hands, he turned the other man’s face up toward his own, resting his thumbs right under those prominent cheekbones and holding him in place. Once Sherlock’s eyes met his, John smiled softly for a moment, then hardened his expression just a bit into a mask of concerned command.
“This is what’s going to happen, Sherlock. You’re going to pick one of the emotions that overwhelmed you today, and you’re going to walk me through what happened when you felt it.” Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll be here, just listening. I want you to know that you can say anything to me, ok? Anything. I won’t run.”
Sherlock dropped his eyes to the side, breaking their eye contact. He still didn’t say anything, but he was clearly uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in. John’s next words, however, caused Sherlock’s eyes to snap back up and fixate on the man crouched in front of him.
“And when you’ve done that, I will hurt you.”