A/N:

I'm back bitches! 

I have several brief opportunities to write and post, so you bet your ass I will! I can't guarantee any regularity, since I'm technically not supposed to be online at all. Anyway, enjoy!

-Hannah

***

Sherlock

He sits on the edge of the bed, trembling. 

He was gripped by a nightmare, one of the worst reccuring nightmares he gets.    The other terrors, the sensation of falling; the walls of hospitals, tallies scratched into every surface; those he could handle.

But this one....

I am standing outside John's window. It's a year after the Fall, and he is staring at the drawer with his gun in it. Blood soaks his shirt, the source of the bleeding unclear but nonetheless terrifying. I'm screaming, because I know what's going to happen. He's going to pick the gun up and kill himself. 

He can't hear me, he can't see me, I'm not even there to him. He picks up the weapon, puts it to his head. He exhales once, twice, and I feel my vocal cords tearing becuase JOHN JOHN JOHN DON'T I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T DO THIS WITHOUT YOU PLEASE STOP JOHN STOP JOHN WATSON I LOVE Y—

The gunshot wakes me up, and my skin is on fire.

Sherlock always looks over to the form sleeping beside him, resisting the urge to feel his neck for a pulse, to bring an ear to his mouth, listening for deep, even breaths. His fingers itch for something sharp, something to take the mental pain away and morph it into physical pain. He needs to cut. 

But do you?

Sherlock stiffens, all to used to voices in his head. But he relaxes after a moment. This was a voice he recognized. This was John's voice.

Answer me, Sherlock. Do you really need to?

"Yes." Sherlock breathes, careful not to wake the real John next to him.

Really? The voice chuckles a bit, ignoring Sherlock's irritated scoff.

You've got something better right next to you. Look.

He turns, puzzled. What did that mean? Drugs? John had taken those up.

No, gimp boy, John. He's right there. He can take the pain away, and not leave a mark on your body. Well, depending on how hard he kisses you.

Sherlock's face flushes at this, despite the fact that no one actually said that. He turns over, his hand wavering hesitantly over his boyfriend's smooth cheek, right over the worry lines that had recently creased his beautiful face.

Go on. John's voice whispers into his right ear, making the detective shiver. What's he gonna do? Be angry at you for trusting him?

Sherlock brings his hand down to John's muscular shoulders and touches him lightly, his fingertips gracing the bare skin.

"J--John?" Sherlock says in a throaty whisper. 

John stirs slightly, mumbling "It's okay, it's okay, s'okay..."

Sherlock smiles a bit. John wasn't even awake, but he was caring for him even in his sleep. Sherlock grips his shoulder more firmly, shaking slightly. 

John's eyes fly open, his body tensing as he goes from 0 to 100 in a split second. "What...whassamatter? Sherlock...." his words slur with tiredness.

Sherlock shrinks back, wishing he had just left John to sleep so he can finally cut. "It's just me...are you awake?" Stupid question.

John turns over onto his side so he faces his boyfriend. Even in the dark, Sherlock is dazzled by the beauty of his soldier.

"Am now. What's the matter, love?" John says gently, his eyes soft and kind. He reaches out to Sherlock and grabs his hand, squeezing it reassuringly, grounding the detective.

"Just...nothing." Sherlock says, suddenly afraid to say anything that might worry John.

"Don't lie to me, Sherl. You woke me up, so something must be up. What is it? Another nightmare?"

Sherlock nods, his dark hair making a swishing sound against the pillow.

"Do you need to cut?"

Ah. The million dollar question. Sherlock briefly notes that John used the word "need" instead of "want", showing that it was more of an addiction instead of a pastime. Sherlock nods again, and John can feel his hand shaking within his own.

John brings Sherlock closer, pulling his by his elbow and waist, careful not to hurt his still-healing wrists. He wraps an arm over his waist and rests his hand on the detective's right shoulder blade, pressing his palm flat. He bring up his other arm to cup Sherlock's face, their entire bodies pressed up against each other. Sherlock melted into him, savoring the feeling of John's muscular stomach and the warmth soaking into his own stomach. Sherlock rested his head under John's chin, his breaths hot against his neck.

"Is this okay?" John asks quietly, stroking his boyfriend's dark curls, doing his best to still the terrors running rampant in that beautiful head of his.

Sherlock nods once more, not fully trusting his voice. This was better than okay. Slowly, slowly, the need to tear his skin open faded, replaced with the buzzing warmth emanating from John's body. His limbs and eyelids felt heavy with sleepiness, and all he had to do was listen to John's slow, reassuring breaths.

Right before John's breaths slowed into a sleeping rythm, Sherlock speaks up, his voice cracking.

"John?"

John's starts a bit before answering, "Yeah? What's up?"

"How did you..." Sherlock's voice wavers. He wasn't sure how to word his question. "How did you stop?"

"Stop what, love?"

"You know what." He says irritably, but softens his voice, "Stop...cutting. How did you do that?"

John inhales deeply, opening his eyes and shifts so that the hand cupping Sherlock's face is propping him up on the pillow. Sherlock's cheek feels suddenly cold with the warmth of his hand gone.

"I was wondering when you'd ask that question," John comments, "and I suppose I don't really know."

Sherlock's cheek twitches in annoyance. How the hell could he not know? 

"How? How'd you stop? You can't tell me you just up and quit." Sherlock says, his eyes desperate and searching John's face for some tell, an answer to the pain plaguing his life.

"I didn't up and quit. It took me a while. I first wanted to stop after you came back. I didn't feel right doing it when I had my world given back to me. And I knew you'd find out. As selfish as that sounds, I didn't want you to deduce me. So I stopped."

"Just like that?" Sherlock asks.

"No, not just like that. I stopped for a while, then relapsed, then clean for a while, then I relapsed again. I've been clean for about two year and a half years. I managed to stop soon after you came back. It wasn't easy, mind you, but I focused my efforts elsewhere. Taking care of you has kept me busy, and so has the cases. It is dangerous to be alone. Luckily, I'm not alone anymore." John says, his eyes crinkling at the corners and gazing lovingly down at Sherlock, making the detective feel warm inside his chest.

Sherlock nods again, turning this over in his mind. The way John said it, like it was so easy, like switching off a light. He's been at this for 30 years....surely it couldn't be that simple. 

But what if it was? What if the answer was right in front of him, soft blonde eyelashes and worried skin? What if he didn't need to live like this anymore, what if he could be....happy? What then?

Sherlock supposed he knew what Nirvana meant by "I miss the comfort of being sad". He had been so sad for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to not be sad, to not want to tear his skin open and and shoot up with drugs. When he wasn't sad, he was...empty.

"What are you thinking about?" John says, eyes still closed and breathing still deep.

"A lot of things," Sherlock whispers into the darkness.

"Good things or bad things?" John asks, his voice like liquid amber caressing the detective's mind, calming his racing thoughts.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt, earning a soft, sleepy smile from his boyfriend.

"Go to sleep. Stop thinking, just for now. Listen," John says, pulling him closer, pressing his hand into the back of his head, pulling Sherlock's head close to his chest. Sherlock marvelled at how perfectly their bodies fit together, the curves and strength of John filling the edges and emptiness in Sherlock. He could hear his heart beating smoothly in his chest.

"You hear that?" John's voice was a deep rumble in his chest. 

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"Good. Go to sleep."

And he did.