A/N:

Hello lovelies! I am writing again! There's literally no reason not to, I have my own laptop and internet access, so I'm good to go. So happy to be back! 

 A brief summary, since I know it's been awhile and you're reading other fics:

-This is a sequel to I Am Sher-Locked Up. (synopsis: John finds out Sherlock self harms, has an eating disorder, and is suicidal and depressed, and after a stay in a mental hospital they try to help Sherlock recover, as well as navigate the waters of their new relationship)

-John has been trying to help Sherlock after he was discharged from the hospital

-Sherlock has been resistant to therapy and they have had several rows about him tampering with scales, cutting secretly, and the likes

-It was revealed that John had self-harmed too, after the Reichenbach Fall

-John got over it by focusing his efforts elsewhere, and has encouraged Sherlock to do the same 

And that's about it! Thank you for your continued support. I love all of you.

-Hannah

PS could y'all give me some suggestions for what you want to see next? I have a set plot i'm going to follow but I would LOVE it if you gave me some feedback so I can make this fic everything you want it to be :)

***

Sherlock

"Welcome back, Sherlock! How was your week?" Frank asked as Sherlock walked into his office. 

"Fine." Standard go-to answer through a tight-lipped smile.

A brief flicker of annoyance across his therapists face, but he covers it with a strained smile. He guestures to the armchair next to the shuttered windows, and Sherlock delicately sits down.

The office was a friendly, warm place. Low lighting from several lamps, pictures of Frank's kids and dogs, comfortable armchairs and a couch, all designed to be non-threatening and welcoming.

Sherlock has never been more on-edge.

He has three different kinds of hairs on his tweed jacket that needs dry cleaning, so he has three different kinds of cat; he's balding but he's using apple cider vinegar to try to stimulate hair growth and his wife thinks it's a stupid idea--

"So last time you were here, you mentioned John...how is he?" Frank asks, startling the detective out of his rapid-fire deductions.

Sherlock stiffens at his name, annoyed at himself for bringing John into something he shouldn't have to deal with. "He's fine."

His therapist sighs, leaning forward on his elbows and massaging his temples and then lifting his face to look at him.

"Sherlock...I get it if you don't want to talk. I'm some random person with a PhD that wants to make you open up and tell them all your secrets and cry, and then send you on your merry way after pocketing some cash," he says, staring hard into the detective's eyes, making Sherlock squirm a bit. "But whether you like it or not, I am your therapist and if you want to get better you have to trust me and talk to me."

Sherlock nods, saying nothing, too irritated at the fact that Frank was right to formulate a rebuttal. The therapist leans back into the armchair again, crossing one ankle onto his other knee, a non-threatening and open gesture he probably studied in college.

"So, is there anything you would like to talk about?" He asks.

The detective chews on this statement a while. As much as it pained him to admit it, he did want to talk some things over. Sometimes it was hard to talk to John around the whole boyfriend dynamic. A neutral party was probably the best bet for conversation.

"I don't want  talk about anything," he says, ever the pedant, "but I have to, so I will."

Frank nods, gesturing to continue.

"John has been a bit...stifling." Sherlock admits. Frank nods again.

"Every time I talk to him I feel like he's trying to dissect me," Sherlock says, already finding himself irritable about the topic. "Like I'm some patient he needs to diagnose and patch up."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"Are you a patient that needs to be diagnosed and patched up?"

Sherlock's face twists into a grimace, looking down at the armrest he was picking at. "No. I'm not."

"Then maybe you should stop acting like one."

Sherlock snaps his head up, instantly angry. "What the hell do you mean by that?!"

"I mean what I said," the therapist says simply, "if you continue to act in a way that makes you seem like a patient or victim of his care, then that's what will happen. If you don't give him reason to worry, he won't. If you stop purging, he'll let you go to the bathroom by yourself. If you stop cutting, you can have your shaving razor back,"

"It's not that easy." Sherlock snaps, hostility glowing in his chest. "You don't know anything about it."

"I never said anything about easy. And I wouldn't go that far either. It's going to be the most difficult thing you've ever done in your life, but I know how it feels. Would you believe I spent years on the receiving end of a therapy session, even in my adult years?" Frank says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Sherlock is silent. It almost didn't occur to him that other adults have faced this too. Every time he was in a hospital, it was always with teenagers and the occasional twenty something. Even in the adult ward, most of the residents were either drug addicts, abuse victims, or had anger issues. He was generally the only one who actively self-harmed and had an ongoing eating disorder. It was often treated by the other patients, even the staff, as if it were something teenage girls with daddy issues did for attention, not something that has held him hostage for most of his life.

"Look: you never have to speak about things that you aren't ready to talk about. But sitting there silent and petulant isn't going to help you, and honestly, Sherlock, I don't really see you having any kind of quality of life if you don't try. I don't really see you having much more life ahead of you if you don't  try and fight what has been a part of you for your entire life." Frank looks at his watch, allowing Sherlock a moment to compose himself again. Before he can say anything, the therapist speaks again.

"Well, that's the end of our hour. Please, just think about it, okay? You need to decide if you want to heal and be with John enough to make some major changes. Have a nice night, Sherlock, I'll see you next week."

Sherlock got up, almost robotically, and walked into the evening air to hail a cab. He had a lot of thinking to do, and it wasn't going to be easy.

***

John

John waits anxiously for Sherlock to return to the flat. He has just started going to therapy on his own, and John didn't really know if it was the best thing to do, but he had to allow Sherlock a chance to prove his trust. He didn't realize how many dangers there were on the short ride from the hospital to the flat that Sherlock could fall victim to. Stores where he could buy razors, cigarettes (John found out the rather disturbing fact that the reason why Sherlock smoked is because the nicotine numbed his hunger), alleys where he could purge his lunch into, all kinds of pitfalls that John never considered existing in London.

The door creaks open, startling John out of his catastrophic thinking spiral. He stands immediately, but resists the urge to rush over and meet Sherlock at the door. He noticed that it irritated his boyfriend to be constantly fussed over when he returned home from therapy.

"How did it go?" John asks, trying to sound nonchalant and hide the tone of worry from his voice.

"It went fine." 

Standard answer.

"Oh. That's great...would you care for a cuppa?"

Standard reply.

"Yes, actually."

Not so standard reply. Maybe things were changing. John isn't sure what the change in desire to drink tea signified, but he was ready to accept any kind of change at this point. As John is making the tea, he casually remarks,

"Oh, I, uh, I have a...surprise, for you, of sorts."

Sherlock looks up from the back of the tea box he was studying--looking at the nutrition facts, no doubt, but John doesn't really care to get into a row over that at the moment--and narrows his eyes suspiciously. "What kind of surprise?"

John clears his throat. "The good kind, I hope. I was downtown last week, while you were gone to therapy, and I found this." He disappears into the bedroom they shared and returns with a box. Sherlock sits up straighter, his interest obviously piqued. John settles onto the couch across from him and carefully sets the box down, and delicately removes the lid.

A pair of pointed ears are visible, followed by a small, black head with almost comically large emerald eyes and whiskers much too long for a creature of its size.

"A cat?" Sherlock says flatly, eyeing the tiny kitten with confusion and slight disgust. 

John nodded. "Yeah, a kitten. Found her stuck in a back alley trash bin. Took her to the vet and got her shots and everything, and I thought you might like a...friend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I already told you: I don't have friends. Just one."

"Yeah, I know. To be honest, I thought it might help you take care of yourself if you had another living thing to take care of. Something that needed you alive to survive itself. So...I brought her home." John finishes, rocking slightly on his heels in anticipation.

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but he picks the kitten up and holds her an arms length away, studying it. His gaze is one of scrutiny, but John can't tell if he likes the cat or if he thinks it's too silly to entertain the thought of having a pet.

"I suppose," His boyfriend says doubtfully. "I'm not very fond of pets. Doesn't make sense to voluntarily bring an animal into your own home." He sets the kitten back down into the box, then gets up and wanders into the back bedroom. Music is heard from within in a few moments.

John lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It didn't go well, but it didn't go badly either. He picks up the cat and sets her onto the floor, and watches her as she stumbles around, not quite grasping the skill of walking yet. Hopefully Sherlock would warm up to her in time. John really did think a pet would be good for his boyfriend. Maybe the responsibility of being in charge of the life of another living creature would motivate him to recover. On the other hand, if the detective couldn't take care of himself, how could he take care of a cat?

John shakes his head and returns to the kitchen. He recently has been trying to learn to cook. Fish and chips and other fast food was on the list of Sherlock's "fear foods"--foods that he absolutely refused to eat for fear of weight gain. John couldn't very well force him to eat junk food, but hopefully he would be more receptive to healthy, home cooked meals. He wasn't very good at it yet, but so far he has not set the flat on fire, so John is calling that a win.

Tonight's meal is chicken and pasta, so John begins to defrost the chicken, humming absentmindedly a bit. It's one of the few times he feels at peace, when he's working on something to help his boyfriend. Just doing something to feel in control of the situation helped a lot. John's mind turns to concentration on the recipe, and he banishes all worry from his mind.

***

Sherlock

Sherlock doesn't know how to feel. The whole "allowing emotions to present themselves and acknowledge them" thing he's been trying to do as been largely confusing and frustrating. What's the point of feeling things if you can't even fucking figure out what the hell you're feeling that way about? He puts down his violin, sits on his bed with his head in his hands, and tries to do some introspection.

First emotion he feels is anger. Why am I angry?

Because John is trying too hard. Why does that bother me?

Because he can take care of his own damn self. He doesn't need a third parent. He's in control and a master of his mind and body.

That's....less true, now that I think about it.

So, if he can't take care of himself, why is he angry that John is trying to do it for him, or at least assisting him in that?

I don't know.

"Come on, Sherlock, think!" He angrily mutters, smacking the side of his head and tugging on his hair a bit in frustration. Why the ever-loving fuck was this so hard? He, Sherlock Holmes, the famous, world renowned consulting detective, who can figure out the impossible in a matter of days, can't even identify his own thoughts and feelings. What is he even good for, then?

His intense inner battle is interrupted by a ridiculously tiny mew. He jerks his head up, making eye contact with the little black kitten that had appeared in the doorway.

"What do you want?" Sherlock says irritably. Great. I talk to cats now. I'm losing it. The kitten stumbles into the room in the vague direction of the detective, who lifts his feet up onto the bed on instinct. A little silly, he realizes.

John pokes his head around the doorframe. 

"Ah, wondered where she got to. You good with her in here?" he asks.

Sherlock pauses. "I suppose," he reluctantly says, his feet still tucked underneath him.

John chuckles softly in a knowing way, which further pisses off the detective, but he lets it go.

"What do you want to call her?" he questions.

"Does it matter? They never come when called." Sherlock says petulantly, still eyeing the cat as if it were a creature of the deep.

"Neither do you, but you still have a name."

Sherlock sighs. "All right. We'll call her...Cluedo." Because I doesn't have a clue as to why she's still here.

"Good name. I suppose that means you want to keep her?" John asks hopefully.

"Well, you're the doctor here, so I must follow the doctor's orders, correct?" Sherlock sneers, catching himself off guard with the amount of venom in his voice. Yep, he's still angry.

John looks briefly hurt, but shakes it off. Lately Sherlock has been feeling guilty when that happens. He used to not care who he hurt by being brutally honest, but there was something about the look of betrayal and sadness in John's face that made him hate himself for not being as loving as John is. Especially, he felt, because he didn't deserve the kindness John so freely gave.

"Well, if you feel that way, I guess--"

"I'm sorry."

The words are out of Sherlock's mouth before he can register what he said. He immediately feels defensive and embarrassed, but he's not quite sure why.

"For what?" John asks kindly.

"For...for always being such an arsehole." Sherlock says quietly. "I'm sorry that I'm so...difficult...to deal with."

"Nonsense, Sherl, I'm--" John starts, but is cut off by Sherlock.

"No, let me say this. I've been...angry at you. And I don't have a right to be, because you're just trying to take care of me since I can't do it on my own. And so I keep making jabs and accusations because of that," Sherlock explains, becoming more confident with every word he spoke. "I'm trying to understand what I'm feeling, because I don't like hurting you. Myself, no problem, but you? I could never."

John smiles warmly, and walks over to sit next to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and resting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock feels himself melting into his boyfriend's touch.

"I'm so proud of you, love," John says softly, pressing a kiss to the other man's neck. "You are so much better than you were 6 months ago. Seeing you heal and grow does wonders for me. You're trying, and it shows. I couldn't ever be happier about anything else."

Sherlock feels his eyes well with tears suddenly and intensely, his throat tightening almost to the point of suffocation.

"No one...no one has ever...said that to me...before...ever" Sherlock gasps, forcing words out between voice cracks and sharp inhales. "I've never...I've never made anyone...never made anyone proud before."

"Oh, Sherlock," John mumbles into his shoulder. "You've always made me proud. I could never be disappointed in you."

With that, the detective bursts into tears, dissolving in sobs as he clutches his boyfriend's arm as ragged cries are ripped from his throat. He hasn't allowed himself to cry since he first confessed his past to John six months ago, and all of a sudden the dam in Sherlock's mind breaks and he can't do anything except cry and cry into John's arms.

"It's okay, love, let it out. I'm here. I'm here." John whispers, holding him tighter and pressing Sherlock's head into his chest. "Listen to my heart. As long as it's beating, you'll be okay. You're okay."

It was a long time before Sherlock could breathe normally, a long time before his tears dried, but what was longest of all, were the years he spent believing that no one could love him, that no one could touch him, and that no one could see him cry.

God, how wonderful it felt to be wrong.