Sherlock

Sherlock tried not to wince as the needle pierced his broken skin.

It's funny, isn't it? He can flay his flesh to the bone and not bat an eye, but the sting of antiseptic and the prick of a suture needle have him squirming.

"God, Sherlock, I wish you had come to me sooner." John says wistfully, gently tugging on the needle, pulling his flesh back together.

Sherlock exhaled irritably, irked at his boyfriend's comment. Didn't he know how hard it was for him to leave that bathroom, to put down the blade and wake him up, blood still dripping down his arm as he shamefully shook John awake?

"I'm glad you came when you did, don't get me wrong, but it still kills me to see you doing this." John says quietly.

"I'm trying my best, John. Please keep that in mind." Sherlock says, equally as quiet.

The cuts on his arm were mostly superficial, but there were three that required stitches and one that Sherlock had to beg John to not have him go to hospital. John had said the only reason why he didn't bundle Sherlock into the car and take him there was because the cut had narrowly missed the two major arteries and only nicked one tendon.

"It's kind of odd for me to say this, Sherl, but...this is almost scientific, the way you do this," John says, most likely to ease the tension out of the air, "I mean, you'd have to have surgeon hands to cut this deep but not cause permanent damage."

"Practice makes perfect, John, as you can see." Sherlock retorts, suddenly feeling defensive. Why should he have to justify his methods of destroying himself? Why can't John just stitch him up when needed and say no more about it?

"Because that's not how recovery works, mate." John says softly, patiently.

He didn't realize he had said this aloud, but he's almost glad he did. There was some small part of him that enjoyed this. It made him feel safe and loved, in a way. It let him know that someone cared, that someone would be there to love and pick up the pieces he shattered himself into. He would never say this, of course, but deep down, that's how he looked at this. Not as an invasion of privacy, not as a punishment, but as an act of love. It was a rather strange way of looking at it, but Sherlock chose to think this way. 

"Well, that's done," John says, tugging on the last stitch, making Sherlock wince. "Sorry mate."

"It's fine." Sherlock mumbles, yanking his sleeve down and making to move before John stopped him.

"Hey. No. Don't walk away just yet. Can you talk to me, a little? Please?" John asks, sadness clouding his eyes and tiredness lining his face.

"I don't really want to." Sherlock says, fulling aware of how much of a petulant child he appeared to be. "Not right now, at least. I'm tired."

John nods, emotion flashing briefly across his face, too quickly for Sherlock to name.

"Okay then. Come back to bed. We'll talk in the morning." John says, rising and gripping the detective's hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

Sherlock nods, purely grateful for this man, this gift he never knew he would recieve.

The two walk tiredly to the back bedroom.

***

John

As the doctor traces his hands over the detective, his mind spins with worry. 

Sherlock wasn't recovering. Not nearly fast enough. It was always one step forward three steps back for them. Sure, he was telling him when he was cutting, but not until several deep, concerning lacerations decorated his skin. He was gaining weight, but so incrementally that he was still a skeleton and John didn't know if his body could take the stress he was inflicting on himself. Yes, he was taking his medication, but he purged so often that John very much doubted it was being properly absorbed. Sherlock may think he's recovering, and John wants to think that too, but the truth is that Sherlock is not doing well at all.

But what to do about that? Send him away to a looney bin for a few more weeks? Pump him full of IV nutrients and drug him out of his mind? The most important thing about recovery is honesty and will to change, and John wasn't sure Sherlock had much of either. 

John wasn't a psychologist, he was an army doctor and he knows nothing about the inner workings of the mind; certainly not one as complex as Sherlock's. No one knew what goes on in that head of his. 

John did something he hadn't done in a long time.

He prayed.

Dear God...please, please help him. Help me help him. If you care at all for Your children...help him

John felt kind of silly praying--he had never been much of a churchgoing type, but he didn't know what to do now. 

He shifted, moving his arms to encircle Sherlock, who leaned into him and pressed his body against him. He had to protect this man. He had to save him, or find someone who could. 

John was gripped with a sense of urgency. He HAS to help him. John is going to read all he can, talk to anyone who could help, do anything to save this man. He would do his damndest to ensure Sherlock's happiness and safety, and God help whoever stood in his way.

A/N:

Sorry that it's so short guys, I'm trying to stamp out a last chapter for all my fics. I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you in a few months!

-Hannah