A case surrounding calling cards in the form of human entrails hardly seemed exciting after Moriarty's bombing epidemic. Even so John spared no time, only what was needed to encourage Sherlock to do the same. That's why they were sat in the living room at one am on a Tuesday morning. They were in full swing of it, case files piled and John's scribbled notes messily spread upon the coffee table. However the conversation had wavered from the goal at hand.
"I'm buying Chinese food and you are going to eat." John warned.
"I don't eat on a case." Sherlock answered.
"You don't eat at all!"
"I don't need to. Biscuits are as good as any meal."
"You can't survive on biscuits and the occasional packet of Wotsits."
"I have been doing it for years."
John growled, "Noticeable! You're completely emancipated, Sherlock."
"Sticks and stones, John."
The doctor jumped from his seat and stormed into the hallway. He began to shimmy into an overcoat and wrap a scarf around his neck, when the detective appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in only his usual bedroom attire so it was unlikely that he was going to join him for the walk.
"Noodles then." John stated.
"No, thank you." Sherlock answered somewhat wearily.
"You will destroy yourself, you know that? And I won't be here to help you stand up. I am not your lap dog." the doctor snapped, " Noodles it is then."
He turned heel and disappeared down the stairs. Sherlock returned to the living room.His mind was whirling, his thoughts moving much too fast, it was too full of useless data, the previous argument included. He migrated all of the information to the kitchen table, now clear of any microbial experiments, and prepared himself for the inevitable.From his room Sherlock took a small cigarette case filled with keen-edged razor blades. He brought up a promising looking article about the current murders, layed his right arm out flat alongside the laptop and began to read. For each time he felt his concentration slipping, Sherlock sliced a line in his skin. With each cut, he went deeper. The pain registered for no longer than a moment, and the fizzled out until he cut again.
It was meant to clear his mind and aid his concentration and it always had. But now he felt dizzy, his ears began to ring and his vision blurred. It occurred to him not moments before he passed out that perhaps, just maybe, that those last few cut were too deep.
**
John wandered into the flat some time later, still seething from Sherlock's protests and the extremely rude cashier in the take way. He called the detective's name as he bounded up the stairs.
Silence.
John cursed aloud. Sherlock was playing that game, the game in which he would rather hide than eat or talk or be generally sociable. He walked through into the kitchen and there was Sherlock, seemingly asleep beside his laptop. Except for the fact that he was bleeding. The medic in John's mind screamed at him to do something. He dropped the food to the floor, fetched the first aid kit (second drawer on the left of the stove) and calmly knelt by the man's blooded arm. He examined the damage before beginning to stitch up the deepest of the wounds. The appearance on the razor blade in Sherlock's other hand made John's stomach jump.
The doctor had suspected for some weeks now that Sherlock may of indulged in other self - injury rather than just starving and the occasional drug induced high. He had considered the idea of the detective perhaps taking a blade to his flesh but had pushed it away, Sherlock just wasn't a cutter; obviously his deduction was wrong.
His hands were caked in blood once the stitching was finished. John checked Sherlock's pulse and, finding it to be reasonably fine, fetched a tall glass of water and set about bringing the detective round.
As he sat upon his knees by his flatmate John allowed himself to think. Sherlock may just be 'the-man-he-shared- rent-with', perhaps even a friend, but the thought of him doing this made John's stomach feel sick. He had treated a patient or two at the clinic who did the same, but they were just patients, once they left you could forget about it. But Sherlock was here, in this flat and living with him. He couldn't bare to think of seeing him like this again. It was scary. His skin was paler than usual, the flesh beneath his eyes was black and yellow and every shade of exhaustion you can think of.
John continued to gently rouse the man as he stretched a cloth bandage around his scarred forearm. A weak groan caught his attention and he looked up just in time to witness the detectives eyes fluttering open.
"John?" Came the small whisper.
John placed his hand on Sherlock's.
"W-what? W-where's the Chinese?"
"Like it matters Sherlock." It came out harsher than John meant it to, "You need to move to the sofa."
"S'okay." Sherlock answered, his eyes closing once again.
"No. No I mean it! Come on." John gently hoisted him up and slung an arm around his back. He supported him to the leather couch and sat him up right, "You need fluids."
"Tea will be fine."
"No, water is better."
The detective nodded, eyes still closed. However when the water was presented he remained limp and lifeless until John forcefully made him drink.
"Ew." Sherlock commented.
"Your mouth will taste weird for a while. It's a passing out thing."
Sherlock seemed to shake himself. His eyes flew open and his mouth made the shape of an 'O'. Finally, the coin had dropped.
"Oh my - I - I mustn't have been paying attention," with the other hand he gently beat at his skull, " Stupid, stupid."
"What is this Sherlock?"
"What is what?"
"These!" He gestured to Sherlock's arm," Cuts? You aren't a cutter."
"No, I'm not."
"But your arms."
"They are scratches. Experiment a while ago to help with concentration. It turned out well."
"What?!"
"What-? Not this again. You aren't making any sense John!"
John growled and buried his head in his hands.
"This isn't right. You can't do this. Sherlock I'm telling you as your doctor and your friend; you need help."
"Noted."
"No! Don't give me that defensive bullshit! This," He gestured to the detective's arm," is not just for the sake of concentration! The starving is not just because 'everything is a vessel.' There is some underlying circumstance here. You know it and I know it. Stop fooling yourself, please!"
"I am of perfectly sound mind!" Sherlock snapped.
"You really don't realize what you are doing is hurting not just you but me as well."
Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest, winching slightly as the stitches pulled.
"Stop with your pity. I am perfectly well and I don't need you or anyone else to tell me otherwise. So, please doctor, do what you're good for and make me some tea."
John stared at him, opened mouthed and at a loss for words.
"Kill yourself if you want to," He jumped to his feet and made for the door, " You can slit your wrists or hang yourself from the ceiling for all I could care, Sherlock. I am done trying to fix you."
"You and everyone else; So get in fucking line!"
"I'm buying Chinese food and you are going to eat." John warned.
"I don't eat on a case." Sherlock answered.
"You don't eat at all!"
"I don't need to. Biscuits are as good as any meal."
"You can't survive on biscuits and the occasional packet of Wotsits."
"I have been doing it for years."
John growled, "Noticeable! You're completely emancipated, Sherlock."
"Sticks and stones, John."
The doctor jumped from his seat and stormed into the hallway. He began to shimmy into an overcoat and wrap a scarf around his neck, when the detective appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in only his usual bedroom attire so it was unlikely that he was going to join him for the walk.
"Noodles then." John stated.
"No, thank you." Sherlock answered somewhat wearily.
"You will destroy yourself, you know that? And I won't be here to help you stand up. I am not your lap dog." the doctor snapped, " Noodles it is then."
He turned heel and disappeared down the stairs. Sherlock returned to the living room.His mind was whirling, his thoughts moving much too fast, it was too full of useless data, the previous argument included. He migrated all of the information to the kitchen table, now clear of any microbial experiments, and prepared himself for the inevitable.From his room Sherlock took a small cigarette case filled with keen-edged razor blades. He brought up a promising looking article about the current murders, layed his right arm out flat alongside the laptop and began to read. For each time he felt his concentration slipping, Sherlock sliced a line in his skin. With each cut, he went deeper. The pain registered for no longer than a moment, and the fizzled out until he cut again.
It was meant to clear his mind and aid his concentration and it always had. But now he felt dizzy, his ears began to ring and his vision blurred. It occurred to him not moments before he passed out that perhaps, just maybe, that those last few cut were too deep.
**
John wandered into the flat some time later, still seething from Sherlock's protests and the extremely rude cashier in the take way. He called the detective's name as he bounded up the stairs.
Silence.
John cursed aloud. Sherlock was playing that game, the game in which he would rather hide than eat or talk or be generally sociable. He walked through into the kitchen and there was Sherlock, seemingly asleep beside his laptop. Except for the fact that he was bleeding. The medic in John's mind screamed at him to do something. He dropped the food to the floor, fetched the first aid kit (second drawer on the left of the stove) and calmly knelt by the man's blooded arm. He examined the damage before beginning to stitch up the deepest of the wounds. The appearance on the razor blade in Sherlock's other hand made John's stomach jump.
The doctor had suspected for some weeks now that Sherlock may of indulged in other self - injury rather than just starving and the occasional drug induced high. He had considered the idea of the detective perhaps taking a blade to his flesh but had pushed it away, Sherlock just wasn't a cutter; obviously his deduction was wrong.
His hands were caked in blood once the stitching was finished. John checked Sherlock's pulse and, finding it to be reasonably fine, fetched a tall glass of water and set about bringing the detective round.
As he sat upon his knees by his flatmate John allowed himself to think. Sherlock may just be 'the-man-he-shared- rent-with', perhaps even a friend, but the thought of him doing this made John's stomach feel sick. He had treated a patient or two at the clinic who did the same, but they were just patients, once they left you could forget about it. But Sherlock was here, in this flat and living with him. He couldn't bare to think of seeing him like this again. It was scary. His skin was paler than usual, the flesh beneath his eyes was black and yellow and every shade of exhaustion you can think of.
John continued to gently rouse the man as he stretched a cloth bandage around his scarred forearm. A weak groan caught his attention and he looked up just in time to witness the detectives eyes fluttering open.
"John?" Came the small whisper.
John placed his hand on Sherlock's.
"W-what? W-where's the Chinese?"
"Like it matters Sherlock." It came out harsher than John meant it to, "You need to move to the sofa."
"S'okay." Sherlock answered, his eyes closing once again.
"No. No I mean it! Come on." John gently hoisted him up and slung an arm around his back. He supported him to the leather couch and sat him up right, "You need fluids."
"Tea will be fine."
"No, water is better."
The detective nodded, eyes still closed. However when the water was presented he remained limp and lifeless until John forcefully made him drink.
"Ew." Sherlock commented.
"Your mouth will taste weird for a while. It's a passing out thing."
Sherlock seemed to shake himself. His eyes flew open and his mouth made the shape of an 'O'. Finally, the coin had dropped.
"Oh my - I - I mustn't have been paying attention," with the other hand he gently beat at his skull, " Stupid, stupid."
"What is this Sherlock?"
"What is what?"
"These!" He gestured to Sherlock's arm," Cuts? You aren't a cutter."
"No, I'm not."
"But your arms."
"They are scratches. Experiment a while ago to help with concentration. It turned out well."
"What?!"
"What-? Not this again. You aren't making any sense John!"
John growled and buried his head in his hands.
"This isn't right. You can't do this. Sherlock I'm telling you as your doctor and your friend; you need help."
"Noted."
"No! Don't give me that defensive bullshit! This," He gestured to the detective's arm," is not just for the sake of concentration! The starving is not just because 'everything is a vessel.' There is some underlying circumstance here. You know it and I know it. Stop fooling yourself, please!"
"I am of perfectly sound mind!" Sherlock snapped.
"You really don't realize what you are doing is hurting not just you but me as well."
Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest, winching slightly as the stitches pulled.
"Stop with your pity. I am perfectly well and I don't need you or anyone else to tell me otherwise. So, please doctor, do what you're good for and make me some tea."
John stared at him, opened mouthed and at a loss for words.
"Kill yourself if you want to," He jumped to his feet and made for the door, " You can slit your wrists or hang yourself from the ceiling for all I could care, Sherlock. I am done trying to fix you."
"You and everyone else; So get in fucking line!"
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