TRIGGER WARNING: depictions of self harm and disordered eating

Sherlock

Things were so different now.

They were drastically different, but somehow all the same. Every day he and John interview potential clients, almost every day they are running the streets of London, hand in hand, chasing taxis and criminals and running from the boredom that threatened to overtake the detective.

But when they got home, when no one could see, things changed. Instead of sitting in their respective chairs, they would cuddle up on the couch--Sherlock usually in some wildly uncomfortable position and insisting he was fine--and John would drink tea and absentmindedly fiddle with his boyfriend's curly dark locks. They would chat, Sherlock mumbling incoherently as he slipped into sleep, his neck aching in the morning as he realized John had stayed by his side the entire night. A good morning kiss was to be expected, and then the normal started once more. It was an exhausting whiplash effect that Sherlock thrived on.

But some things never change, no matter the circumstance.

Sherlock had just finished having breakfast with John, their hands interlocking on top of the table as Sherlock nibbled on his toast that he never finished. 

And now he was in the bathroom, blood running down his arms in a sticky crimson river.

He doesn't even know why he's still doing it. He's not particularly anguished at the moment, and his heart was still buzzing in his chest as a result of the slow kiss they had shared after breakfast, the taste of John's black coffee still on his tastebuds.

So why is he here, once again, breaking promises with every slash of the blade?

"Habit, I suppose," Sherlock murmurs as he washes the blood down the sink in an orangey stream. He bandages his arms and walks out of the bathroom.

John is standing right outside the bathroom door, stumbling back when Sherlock opens the door in his face.

The detective narrows his eyes, "What were you doing?"

John gives Sherlock a look. "You know what. I'm supposed to wait by the bathroom every time you go within an hour of eating."

The taller man inhales through his nose, annoyed. "I hardly ate anything, how am I--"

"Rules are rules, mate." John states definitively, giving Sherlock an irritating fake smile.

"If I kiss you, will you stop making that horrific face?" Sherlock says with a smile, trying to distract John.

John rolls his eyes, "This is my face. I'm not making any faces, Sherl."

Sherlock pretends to consider, making a fake frown. "Oh really? I guess it's no use trying then--"

"Come here, you stupid git," John laughs, stretching up and pulling Sherlock down to his level, kissing the man gently.

Sherlock kisses back, of course, but he can't stop the little arrow of guilt niggling at him. 

The detective cups the side of his flatmate's face, one hand resting on the back of his neck. John grasps Sherlock's left wrist--dangerously close to discovering the new cuts made moments before--and Sherlock exhales slightly in pain, but  hopes John doesn't notice.

"Okay, I think I have to get to work..." John murmurs into his boyfriend's lips, but makes no move to leave.

Sherlock casually snakes his arm back to his side, clutching his sleeve cuffs. "Yeah, you'd better...wouldn't want to get you fired..."

John sighs, drawing back. "One day I'd like to come into some money and stop working. Buy a nice house, not an apartment. It could be ours. Just yours and mine together. It would be really nice." 

Sherlock chuckles softly, "I think I speak for both of us when I say London is my home."

John laughs, shaking his head, "Yeah, I think you're right. I don't think I could ever leave Baker Street even if I wanted to."

John's face turns serious and Sherlock's heart stalls.

"Hey, just in case you've forgotten, I'm checking today. Your wrists. Legs. Wherever you usually...do..it." John says, trailing off as he looks at Sherlock's slightly puffier left sleeve. Sherlock thanks the gods that John wasn't observant enough to figure most things out.

Sherlock stiffens as the realization hits him. Fuck! How could he have forgotten today was check day?! He might have been able to disguise the cuts with makeup or something if they were several days old, but he knew there was no way to cover up the fresh, deep ones that itched on his forearm as he panicked.

He nods, trying his hardest not to let his expression betray him.

John looks at him skeptically, biting his cheek and cocking his head in a way that made Sherlock's insides feel funny.

"You do know there's an alternative to this, right?" He says slowly, as if he was presenting an obvious option that Sherlock had elected to ignore.

The detective's heart jackrabbits in relief, "Really? What is it?"

"You come forward and tell me without me having to harangue you."

Sherlock snorted, trying to make light of the situation, "Well that's not going to happen."

John's face takes on a pained expression, his eyebrows creasing adorably. 

"Sherlock..."

"I'm joking, John. Try not to choke on the stick shoved up your arse." Sherlock says, a little more coldly than he meant to.

"Sherlock, is there something you're not telling me? You're being more of an arse than usual." John says, failing to conceal the hurt in his eyes.

Sherlock takes a breath, teetering on the edge of indecision. John was going to find out tonight anyway, but there was the matter of pride that Sherlock had too much of.

"Never mind. I'm just going to check now, okay? Roll up your sleeves, mate." John says certainly, as if he knew Sherlock would obey.

"No." Sherlock answers definitivley. "I'll let you tonight. That wasn't the deal."

John frowns, and then unexpectedly shoots his arm out and grabs Sherlock's forearm and squeezes hard, earning a grunt of pain from the detective.

"Just what I thought. Sherlock, what are we going to do?" John says plaintively.

"That was a dirty trick, John. Don't ever do that again." Sherlock mutters, glaring at his boyfriend.

John scoffs and looks off the the side, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sherlock, if you hadn't cut yourself in the first place then I wouldn't have to do this. Don't act like it's my fault you do a shitty job of concealing how hurt you are. We need trust, Sherl. That's the number one thing of any relationship, and we've been scrimping along without it, but we can't go on like this. How long ago did you cut?"

Sherlock looks down, his ears burning. "Approximately seven minutes ago."

John's mouth parts in disbelief, his eyes shining, sending another arrow of guilt through the detective. 

"Christ, Sherlock..." he whispers, staring at the ground in defeat.

Sherlock's face burns with shame, but is determined to keep up his cocky, arrogant façade. "Oh, do get over it John, I'm not dead so I think you should be grateful."

John jerks his head up, his eyes turned to ice, "I should be grateful? Grateful you're not fucking dead?!"

Sherlock realizes his mistake and tries to backpedal, but John balls up his fist and looks as if he is about to swing, so Sherlock falls silent, readying himself for a blow.

"God, Sherl, if I didn't love you so much I'd have a go at you right now." John says through clenched teeth, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

"Sherlock, I am forever grateful you're not dead. Ever since the Fall, I've said a prayer of gratefulness every day that you're not dead, and ever since you tried to kill yourself I've been praying you won't be taken from me ever again. But I'm never going to settle for just 'not dead'. I need you. I need you to be okay. Please promise me. Promise me you'll at least attempt to talk to me before you mark your beautiful self up." John says shakily, his breathing uneven and his eyes watering with tears unshed.

Sherlock nods, unsure of himself. No one had even come close to caring to him like John did, and the lack of experience in the department left Sherlock more confused than he felt he had any right to be.

"I promise I will try." Sherlock amends, his voice tight and his breathing shallow.

John sighs with relief, running a hand through his greying hair. "Okay. That's good enough for now. Christ, I really am running late," he mumbles, glancing at his watch. "I'll be checking the severity of the wounds later, Sherl, I have to go now. I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson to keep an eye on you--don't argue with me, Sherlock, not after what you've just done," he says sternly when Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, "--so just...be good, okay?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches and he rolls his eyes, "Yes, Daddy." He says mockingly, then his face freezes when he realizes the implications.

John's mouth parts, but he ignores it for Sherlock's sake.

"Okay, well...I love you, okay?" John says, stretching up on tiptoe to kiss the taller man gently.

"I love you too, John."