Sherlock Holmes, 26 years old, was sitting on his living room floor and somehow his arms were covered in blood. If he was asked how it all got to this point, he would blame the drugs. He had never meant to cut so deep, but his vision was blurry because of the drugs. Or was it tears? He hadn't started tonight, intending to hurt himself at all. He just wanted to feel something and usually drugs did that for him. And, oh, had he felt. He had felt so much at once and maybe it really wasn't the drugs, maybe it was the alcohol or perhaps the combination of the two, but he had felt, like he was feeling for the first time in his entire life and suddenly there had been a knife in his hand and then blood. He looked down at his wrists, and God there was blood everywhere. There was blood on the rug, on his pants and on the floor and it just kept coming. His hands shook. It wasn't stopping. Usually it stopped after a while, but now blood kept coming out and this didn't feel right. Sherlock felt dizzy and when he looked at the mess he'd made, he wanted to throw up. He should stop the bleeding, but with what? Or should he really? Maybe he should just lay down and let the blood flow. The rug was ruined anyway so he didn't have to worry about that. He was sleepy. He felt like he really should just sleep now. He felt a stab of pain in his heart, like he was sad. But he didn't feel sad, no, it was something else, something different, something more. Fear. It was fear that he felt. He was scared, because now, he would really bleed dry on his living room floor and it would happen slowly and nobody would find him. He was scared to die because now he was aware that it was happening. He was aware of the life seeping out of his body, in the form of blood, onto his white rug. He felt himself starting to panic and looked around for something, anything to stop the bleeding. His eyes fell on a roll of paper towels on his table and he reached to grab it, hastily taking a few pieces of paper and pressing them onto his wrist. The blood seeped through the thin paper in seconds and he realized it wasn't enough.

He possibly needed stitches or at least bandages and he tried to stand, but was overcome with a wave of dizziness caused by the loss of blood, alcohol and drugs. He couldn't go anywhere and he would die. He would die and now he hadn't technically even tried. He had been doing alright too, nearly had a job with the police even and now he would die and he was so scared. Then he spotted his phone on the very same table where the paper towels had been just moments ago. Had he been listening to music? Whatever. He took the phone and winced. Calling the emergency number was too embarrassing. They would judge him, maybe throw him into jail. He couldn't call Mycroft, no, he would be angry. Or Molly from the hospital he'd been to last time, she would probably be angry too. A name flashed across his mind. Who? Who wouldn't be mad? Who would get there in time?

He went into his contacts, shakily pressing the dial button on the name he wanted to call. The phone beeped. Once. Twice. Thrice. He wouldn't answer. Of course, he wouldn't, he was busy with work. He probably had a night shift too, he wouldn't pick up and Sherlock would die, he would d--Suddenly there was a voice in the other end of the line and Sherlock sighed in relief: "Lestrade."

"Sherlock? Why are you calling me at this hour?" The other man asked and Sherlock laughed weakly: "I'm in a really bad position now. I'm high, I'm drunk, I'm calling a police officer to talk about it and oh, I'm bleeding out."

"Hey, hey, slow down. What do you mean you're bleeding out, Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned, worry clear in his voice. Of course he didn't care about the drugs or the alcohol. He was worried. Sherlock smiled to himself. Somebody worried about him. Then he remembered the situation he was in and said: "I cut---I think I cut a vein and there's blood everywhere. I can't stand. The blood won't stop and I think I'm dying."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, call the ambulance and do it now!" Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock heard that he was out of breath, running. Why was he running? Sherlock shook his head though the other man couldn't see him and replied: "Too embarrassing. They'll judge me."

"Then I'm calling you an ambulance. What is your address again?" Lestrade asked him and he still sounded so very worried that Sherlock told him. The reply he got was: "I'm calling the ambulance and I'll be there in five minutes. Try to stay awake and press something on the cuts so you don't bleed dry." And then silence. The call had ended. Sherlock wondered if Lestrade would call Mycroft too and tell him. He wondered if the officer would even make it in time. Maybe he would see Molly at the hospital and maybe she would be angry at him. Or did she work at the morgue now? Sherlock recalled that she had said something like that the last time he'd been at the hospital because of drugs. So, maybe if he died, he'd see her at the hospital. Funny thought. At least then she couldn't be mad at him. Being angry at a corpse probably wasn't very effective.

What had Lestrade said again? Oh yes, try to stop the bleeding. But it didn't stop. Sherlock took off his hoodie and pressed his wrists against the fabric. The hoodie was black, so he couldn't see if the blood was coming through it or not and maybe that was better. He leaned against his couch and blinked. The room was very foggy. Since when did it get so foggy? Or had it always been so foggy? Maybe the blood loss was behind this. Sherlock's eyes slipped closed and he really, really wanted to sleep now. But Lestrade had told him to stay awake. He was really tired though. He briefly wondered how Lestrade would get in because Sherlock couldn't open the door for him, but a wave of dizziness and the want to throw up cleared his head of all thoughts.

He distantly heard the wailing of sirens somewhere quite far and wondered if they would get here in time. The sleepiness was overbearing and he just wanted to let himself fall and give in. Maybe he should after all. Maybe it wouldn't be as scary as he had thought at first. Then there was a loud banging on his door. Who was that? Was that Lestrade? He couldn't get up, couldn't call out. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, groaning quietly. God, his head hurt and the fact that the banging was getting louder didn't really help with the pain. Then there was a different kind of bang. The kind of noise his door made when he slammed it open when he came home after a shitty day. He opened his eyes and looked into the foggy entrance hall. And truly, there was Lestrade, hurrying over to him. He kneeled down next to Sherlock and grabbed both of his wrists, pressing the fabric of the hoodie against his wrists even harder and ouch, that hurt.

"Help is almost here," Lestrade said and though he tried to sound calm his breath was coming out in short puffs and he had trouble speaking as he was so out of breath. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and spoke, only now realizing how much his speech was slurring. or had it just now started to slur? No time to think about that now. Sherlock asked him: "Did you run here? And did you break down my door?"

"Yes," Lestrade replied shortly and let out a relieved sigh when more people started pouring in and moved out of the way of the paramedics. Sherlock looked at him and secretly hoped that he wasn't angry. They had been doing some work together during the past year, just some case solving as Sherlock easily noticed things other people didn't and Sherlock didn't want that to end because this was the closest thing to a friendship he'd ever had in his entire life.

Sherlock was helped onto a stretcher and he wasn't sure if he was still in his apartment, the hallway or outside. Everything was melting together into a mush of colors and voices and he let himself close his eyes finally. His life was in their hands now and there was nothing he could do. He hoped for the first time ever that he would stay alive. Not for himself, no, he wasn't even that scared anymore and slipping into a comfortable space of nothingness was actually quite calming, but for Lestrade, who had saved him before and to whom owed his life. He didn't want Lestrade to lose another friend- Was he Lestrade's friend?-The same way he had lost his best friend in 1998. It wouldn't be fair. And maybe, just a little, tiny bit, Sherlock wished he would stay alive, just for himself. Maybe a tiny bit of him wished that he would live because there was a future for him now. And that was his last thought before everything went black and silent. Was he dead?
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"Agh, this waiting is agonizing!"

"He'll wake up soon, you heard what the nurse said. And when he does wake up, he's going to be confused and scared. Don't yell at him."

"He's my brother and I will do what I see fit."

"Yes, but he's also my friend and may I remind you that he could be dead if I hadn't got there in time. And trust me, I want to be angry too, but when has that ever solved anything?"

"Ah--I'm sorry...This is just all too familiar for me. Each time I think that he has started to get his life together, we end up back in this bloody hospital."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But he will be up on his feet again and I will try my best to keep him out of the hospital. I should've seen this coming."

"Don't blame yourself by any means. I should keep him under a better watch."

"Oh, but you've done so much for him already. You saved him twice, I heard. Besides, the life of a politic must be tiring on it's own, with nobody to take care of you so it's understandable that you can't be keeping an eye on your brother at all times."

"I can handle myself quite well, Inspector, thank you."

Sherlock woke up to the buzz of conversation by his bedside. He recognized the two voices as his brother and Lestrade and slowly blinked his eyelids open. They felt heavy and the light in the room was way too bright. He groaned loudly and closed his eyes again. He had a hammering headache as well. He fought against the urge to kick Mycroft when he spoke: "Well, little brother, look who's awake. Headache?"

"Piss off," He groaned and blinked his eyes open again to see the two men standing next to his bed. Lestrade tried to look serious, but turned his head away to hide the fact that Sherlock's comment had made him snort. Mycroft fixed him with a glare, before turning back to his brother, eyebrow raised: "You have a lot of explaining to do."

"Let him rest, Mycroft," Lestrade said calmly and looked at Sherlock for a moment. He didn't smile, but Sherlock could see that he was relieved. Sherlock thanked him quietly and Lestrade shook his head, looking the other way: "Don't think that you're automatically forgiven now. You still have to answer to both of us." Mycroft smiled slightly, trying to make it look like he was being smug, but really, it was plain as day that he was smiling at Lestrade. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Lestrade, then back to Mycroft again. His brother was smiling at somebody? And unless, Sherlock had missed the punchline, Lestrade hadn't said anything extremely amusing.

"Oh Lord, that's disgusting," Sherlock said, making a face. Both of the men looked at him, matching looks of confusion on their faces. Mycroft was the first to speak and ask what on Earth Sherlock was talking about. Sherlock laughed weakly, his throat hurt, and replied, his tone smug: "You like him, don't you?"

"Wha--What? Where would you get an idea like that. What nonsense! Are you still high?" Mycroft stammered, even as a dark blush rose to his normally pale cheeks. Sherlock smirked at him and it only got wider when he saw Lestrade hiding a smile of his own. Mycroft gaze went from Sherlock to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock and he cleared his throath, before saying: "Talking about high. Sherlock, did you make a list?"

"Forgot." Sherlock said and shrugged dismissively. Mycroft looked ready to choke him to death for being so careless and idiotic, but instead he excused himself and said that he needed some fresh air. So basically, he went out to have a cigarette, maybe two to calm his nerves. Lestrade looked after him, then back at Sherlock and said: "There's nothing going on between us."

"There could be," Sherlock replied and Lestrade cleared his throat. Sherlock looked up at him and added: "I don't judge. The only thing I found disgusting was my brother's heart eyes at you. He's not one to really smile at people, or really, uh, be with people. But I'm really in no position to judge anybody's preferences, especially another man's preference towards men as I have never been interested in women myself. And yes, before you correct me, I know you're not gay. Heteroflexible or you just don't care, it's all the same. Just thought I'd make it clear to you that my brother seems to be interested in you and you're possibly the first person he has ever been interested in. He would never tell you that himself, so I figured."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment and shook his head. He was still angry at Sherlock for the stunt he had pulled, but he couldn't help a small fond smile from forming on his lips as he said: "You should probably rest. You have to explain many things to many people tomorrow."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, sighing tiredly. He understood that Lestrade didn't want to talk about it. Now that he thought about it, he realized that this was the first time he had ever admitted his own lack of interest towards women to anyone that really mattered. So if somebody, he knew what it felt like to not want to discuss these things. He was just glad that Lestrade didn't seem to hate him now and that was enough. The officer turned and got ready to leave, when Sherlock remembered something and asked: "I guess I'm losing my job now, if it could be called that."

"Go to rehab, sober up and the place is still open," Lestrade said as he walked over to the door and opened it. Before stepping out though he looked back at Sherlock: "Promise me you won't do this again? And really, go to rehab. The World is losing a brilliant man in you."

"I don't make promises," Sherlock replied and averted his eyes. He wanted to promise, but making promises he couldn't possibly keep was a waste of time. Lestrade sighed, nodded and replied: "I'll wait then. One day, I hope you will." And then he was out the door. One day, maybe he would really. But not today, not tomorrow. He looked up at the white ceiling and muttered under his breath, the words he had heard and read so often: "Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it."

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