Sherlock

"What do you think we should do today?" John asks for the fourth time, lazily tracing hearts on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock grunts noncommittaly before mumbling, "This is fine. I like doing this."

John had to agree. The two were cuddling in bed, watching the morning sun filter through the dust, turning the air alive with flecks of gold. Sherlock's head rests on the crook of John's neck, tickling his flatmate with his breaths. Sherlock 's hand sits on John's chest under his T-shirt, relishing the feeling of his heartbeat on his palm. He moves his hand to John's stomach, caressing his thumb over his boyfriend's skin.

"You sure you don't want a case or anything?" John asks, shifting uncomfortably as the detective's thumb ghosts over a patch of skin that was textured differently than the rest of him.

Sherlock is momentarily confused at his boyfriend's sudden discomfort until he feels his stomach again, making out raised lines crisscrossing his midsection.

"Sherlock--" John says, his voice slightly strained, sucking in his stomach and moving a few inches away so that the other man's hand doesn't touch him.

"John." Sherlock says, raising his head and looking he other man in the eye. John's gaze dropped as he pushed Sherlock's hand away from his stomach.

"Leave it be," John says, almost pleadingly.

"No," Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing. "What are those?"

John's face turns red with shame, refusing to answer.

Sherlock pulls the blankets down, his boyfriend protesting as he tried to keep the sheets up, but finally relenting as Sherlock yanked the blankets away and pushed up his shirt.

John inhales and covers his face with his hands as the detective stared at his stomach.

Thick white scars crisscrosses his stomach, some barely as thick as a pencil line and some that looked dangerously deep. They looked to be several months old, some as old as five years ago. Others looked as recent as a year ago. Sadness fills Sherlock, threatening to crush his ribcage, but is soon replaced by anger.

"When?" 

John says nothing.

"When, John?" Sherlock says louder.

"When do you bloody think, Sherlock? What could possibly move me to do this?" John says, sitting up and pulling his shirt down, balling the fabric up in his fists.

"I don't know, that's why I ask--" Sherlock replies angrily before freezing in shock.

The Reichenbach Fall.

"John..." Sherlock says sorrowfully, momentarily consumed with guilt and self-hatred. "I didn't know..."

John scoffs, "You didn't know what? That your death would kill me too? That I didn't want to live, let alone take care of myself and keep myself well? You were too busy playing the hero and saving the world to realize what this did to me."

"That's not fair, John, I never thought--"

"You never thought that I cared about you? You never thought that I would resort to cutting myself to escape from the pain of losing you? Compared to what the Fall did to me, these scars are nothing, nothing compared to losing you."

Sherlock is silent, emotions bubbling and broiling, too hot to sort out which was guilt and which was anger and which was sorrow.

"I'm sorry. You know I am."

John scoffs again, "I know you are. But I know you'd do it again, and sorry doesn't cut it."

"I don't know what you want me to say, John. It hurt me too, okay? How do you think it felt to watch you fall apart? How do you think it felt that there was nothing I could do to help you?"

"Christ, Sherlock, don't do this. Don't you dare try to pin this on me. Don't you dare try and tell me that my hurting myself was unjustified. You've been doing it for years because of how hurt you feel, and same goes for me. I stopped doing it, okay? I stopped cutting soon after you came back. I promise you I did." John says, his voice dropping in volume until that last part of what he said was whispered.

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and ran his hands through his ebony curls. "Fine. I'll let it go. I'm sorry, again. You know why I had to do it, and I know it wasn't fair for either of us. I'm glad you stopped. I'm glad you had more strength than I do."

"You're plenty strong, mate, you're just focusing your efforts on the wrong things." John says with a hint of a smile.

"How so?" Sherlock asks, confused.

"Well, I don't know, how else would you manage to hurt yourself for so many years when everyone was fighting to keep you from doing it? How else could you manage to do the things you do to yourself and still stay sane?" 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully, chewing on the statement. He supposed John was right; he certainly hadn't thought of it that way until now. 

"Now, I think we actually need to do something today, but afterwards we can do whatever you want." John says, changing the subject and smiling.

"Anything I want?" Sherlock says suggestively, sniggering when John's eyes flew wide.

"Yeah sure whatever mate." John laughs, looking down and shaking his head as his face filled with warmth. 

Sherlock leans over and hesitantly kisses John's forehead, relishing the way his boyfriend shyly smiled as if it were the first time all over again.

And in a way, it was.