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John.
He saw them the first time they had sex. They’d been together for around a month at the time
Sherlock had initiated it, kissing him fiercely in the hallway as they stumbled up the stairs to 221b.
It had been an exciting case that ended in him and Sherlock chasing down the killer and after the killer was in cuffs Sherlock became perticurally handsy and he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.
They’d rushed back to the flat hardly taking their hands off the other.
When they’d made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom Sherlock hadn’t turned on the lights and nor did he but when he had tried to undress Sherlock a firm hand stopped him. Sherlock had continued to undress him but any attempt to undress him was stopped.
He’d just chalked it up to Sherlock being insecure or something but as Sherlock fucked him he saw multiple scars on Sherlock's lower waist and thighs even through the little light in the room.
So that was what Sherlock hadn’t wanted him to see.
It’s been a week since they’d made love (or fucked, but he liked to think of it as something more meaningful) and he was now sipping on his tea staring at Sherlock who was deep in his mind palace thinking about god knows what.
Had Sherlock given himself those scars? Or had it been past torture? He knew Sherlock’s body was littered with scars but how many and where were they from?
He had seen Sherlock shirtless once before, well kind of.
He had accidentally walked in on Sherlock and saw his back was covered in many different scars. Some looked like lashes others like burns and at least three he knew had been from times Sherlock had been stabbed.
He had never asked Sherlock about his scars, he didn’t know whether it was appropriate, scars can be very personal and he would never want to make Sherlock uncomfortable.
As he sat thinking he knew he had to ask at least why Sherlock kept his clothes on but he wanted to know why Sherlock thought he wouldn’t want to see them or why he felt he had to hide them.
He got up and walked to where Sherlock was lying on the couch and saw Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, so he hadn’t been in his mind palace, at least not the whole time.
Sherlock turned and looked up at him “Why have you been staring at me? Is it sex you want?” Sherlock asked bluntly.
“No, Sherlock it’s not sex I want,”
Sherlock looked him in the eyes for a moment “Ugh, you want to talk about something, don’t you? I haven’t been using or smoking so what is it?”
“I want to talk about something, it’s important,”
“You and I have very different opinions of important,” Sherlock drawled but sat up and gave him room to sit.
He sat down and looked at Sherlock. The stunning man waited impatiently for him to say what he was going to say. He knew Sherlock didn’t like talking about emotions or things like it but he wished Sherlock would at least try to tolerate it more.
“Why didn’t you want to take off your clothes when we had sex?” Asked.
Sherlock leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, a habit that he knew meant Sherlock didn’t want to speak about something.
“I…” Sherlock started to say then stopped. They sat there together in silence, John looking at Sherlock and Sherlock looking at the ceiling avoiding eye contact because he knew John was the only one that could see straight through him.
“I have to go,” Sherlock said getting up “I’m meeting Greg to discuss a case,”
“Sherlock-” He started.
“I’ll be back late, don’t wait up,” Sherlock said and was out of the door in seconds.
He sighed. He knew Greg had no cases for Sherlock. He’d called Greg that morning asking because he knew Sherlock was getting bored of the flat.
He got up and made another cup of tea. It wasn’t rare for Sherlock to completely blow him off if he didn’t want to tell him something but that was usually over smaller things like why there were no plates or why there was a body part on the table but never with something serious.
…
Sherlock.
Why did John have to always ask questions? He knew sleeping with him was a bad idea that it would lead to John seeing his… secrets, but he had let his body override his brain. He was incredibly attracted to John, obviously, that’s why they were partners now but he was trying to push off sleeping together because he knew John would have questions that he wouldn’t give an answer to, that he couldn’t.
He walked the streets of London, it wasn’t even four yet but he had said he wouldn’t be back until late and he definitely couldn’t go back now or else he’d have to “Face the music” as the saying goes.
He didn’t know what to do, on one hand, he could lie and say that it was because he was shy or something, lie and say he had no physical attraction to John and would like no more sex in the future (which could not be further from the truth), or he could break up with him and let that be the end of it.
He knew none of these are good ideas, especially because he had sworn to himself the day that they finally confessed their love that he would never lie to John unless it was something to save John from hurt.
He could also of course come clean but he knew that too would likely end badly. John would likely break up with him if he saw how unappealing he truly was under his expensive clothes.
He wanted to cut right then just because he was so mad at himself, his brain was one of the best in the world but here he was with zero good ideas. He didn’t want to lie to John but he also didn’t want to lose him either.
Oh well, he’ll just spend his time in the morgue to pass the time, Molly surely wouldn’t mind if he explained he couldn’t spend his time with John at the moment.
John.
He looked at his watch for the millionth time that day, it was almost two in the morning and Sherlock still wasn’t home.
He knew Sherlock wasn’t going to be home till late but he assumed that meant he might just come home at midnight maybe a little later but still he was waiting and about to give up.
He sighed and got up walking to his room, the one he hadn’t actually slept in for weeks.
He flopped on his bed and just lay there then he heard the front door slowly creak open.
“Took you long enough,” He muttered not getting up.
He heard Sherlock walk around the apartment and then open his door to the room they had been sharing. He didn’t know why he went to his room to sleep but he already missed Sherlock’s comfortable bed and warm body next to him.
He then heard the stairs creak letting him know Sherlock was coming to his room.
He pretended to be asleep but Sherlock knew him too well and saw straight through it.
“I know you’re not asleep, for one you still have your shoes on,” Sherlock said.
He sighed “Nope, I’m very asleep,”
“Why aren’t you in my room?” Sherlock asked.
“Because,”
“That’s not an answer, John. You know I’m bad at these kinds of things, just tell me,”
“I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. You don’t even sleep half the time anyway, why do you care?” He said finally sitting up to face Sherlock.
Sherlock furrowed his brows at him as if he was being the one hard to understand.
“I’m sleeping tonight, come down stairs,” Sherlock said and left, not waiting for an answer.
“Bossy prat,” he muttered but followed Sherlock down the stairs a moment later.
They didn’t speak the rest of the night they both just got in the bed and slept, Sherlock still had his clothes on, something he did sometimes because he couldn’t bother to change into his sleep cloths but now he wondered if there was another reason. That’s a matter for the marrow.
The next morning he woke up alone.
He dressed into his clothes for the day then went out looking for Sherlock who was no where to be seen.
He saw a note on the counter.
Went out, Greg called about a case that was at least an 8. Didn’t want to wake you.
-SH
Hmm, now that was odd. Sherlock has never had any quarrels with waking him before and yet here he was holding a note written in Sherlock’s neat cursive.
Another day alone in the flat then. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn’t be out the whole day, he was rather bored himself and didn’t have work until later that night.
Night shift wasn’t his usual shift but a coworker had called in sick and he had nothing else to do anyway.
By noon he was bored and missing his partner so he decided to give him a call.
The first two trys Sherlock didn’t answer but on his third try Sherlock answered with a huff.
“Yes, John?”
“Why’d you go on a case without me? I’m sick of being stuck in the flat,”
“Quit your whining, I let you sleep in, I thought that’s what boyfriends were supposed to do?”
He sighed, it was a sweet gesture, especially from someone who didn’t often understand the meaning of such things.
“Alright well it was very sweet but where are you? How’s the case going?”
“Oh wonderful, triple homicide, made to look like group suicide,” Sherlock said sounding much to excited.
“Yes, wonderful,” He said chuckling “Do you think you’re going to be home before I leave?”
“I’m not sure, I wouldn’t count on it,” Sherlock said after a small pause.
“Right, well I suppose I’ll talk to you later. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t approved of and good luck,”
“Ha, as if I need luck,” Sherlock said.
He hung up chuckling.
…
Sherlock.
There was no triple homicide, not even a case. He’d lied to have an excuse to avoid John.
He didn’t want to avoid him but he couldn’t take John’s questions and he knew John wasn’t going to stop asking them.
He hadn’t actually fallen asleep last night but laid in bed next to John listening to him breathe and occasionally mutter in his sleep.
He loved that man more than anything in the whole world (a feeling he was still getting used to) but he knew John would leave him if he saw how grotesque he looked.
Everyone collects scars throughout their life but Sherlock’s were more than that. He had lashes from torture on his back from the times before he had John to protect him from his own impulsiveness.
He had cigarette burns on his shoulders that he used to give himself when he was high just to feel something when he felt numb.
And then there were the actual scars, the ones he knew John wouldn’t want him for.
It was a bad habit he’d had since he was about twelve years old. He was a “knifer” as his mother used to say. She didn’t know about his “habit” but any time she saw cuts from normal playing she’d make knifer jokes.
The cutting has always been about the brain chemicals and cutting out emotions he couldn’t lock away in his mind palace. He knew since he was a dumb kid that he wouldn’t be able to stop such an addiction. It was always addiction with him, John had told him that once when he’d found his stash of cigarettes almost a year ago and he couldn’t have been more right.
From his wrists to his shoulders there were neat (and a few jagged) cuts. His thighs were also covered in cuts from over the years, the worst though was his torso. Every time he saw himself in the mirror he closed his eyes in disgust. It looked like he was always trying to tear himself apart, to spill his guts. There was no rhyme or reason to the cuts and scars there. If he was cutting his torso it was because he was trying to escape.
He still cuts his arms and thighs but he hasn’t cut his stomach since he had come back from his two-year leave. It was anguish leaving John once and he knew it would hurt so much more for John to leave him.
He wouldn’t consider himself suicidal or anything but he knew the day John leaves him will be his last.
Now as he sat in some random pub hiding away from John he willed his brain to come up with something, anything, that would keep John from leaving him.
John.
Clearly, he had struck a nerve when he had asked Sherlock why he kept his clothes on because the whole week Sherlock had been making excuses and avoiding him like the plague.
It was ridiculous, why couldn’t he just talk it out like a normal human being? Instead, the idiot-genius was acting like a child.
He missed his boyfriend. It made him feel like shit that Sherlock didn’t want to see him. He knew he sounded like a fussy girlfriend but it was true he just wanted to see him. They didn’t even have to speak to each other, he just missed his presence.
The next time Sherlock came home he decided to corner him.
It took about six cups of tea and repeatedly pinching his leg to stay awake but in the wee hours of the morning he caught Sherlock sneaking in.
“How was ‘the case’,” He asked sarcastically.
Sherlock didn’t jump but he did look surprised that he had obviously been waiting for him.
“Hello, John,”
He rolled his eyes, he didn’t have time for Sherlock’s games.
“What are you doing coming home at,” he checked his watch “four in the morning?”
“I can come home any time I like,”
“You can, but why? It feels like you’ve been avoiding me, so what is it? Are you mad at me or something? Just tell me, I can’t read your bloody mind,” He was frustrated, he hated when Sherlock did this, kept his thoughts to himself.
Sherlock let out a long sigh, he looked exhausted as if he hadn’t slept all week.
“I’m not mad at you, John I’m mad at myself, incredibly angry with myself,” Sherlock said not looking at him but walking into the kitchen.
He followed him and watched as Sherlock pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
He wanted to say something but he didn’t. If Sherlock was going to talk he had to do it on his own and he knew fussing over his smoking wasn’t going to help.
Sherlock lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips, hands shaking.
“We should break up,” Sherlock said sounding hollow.
“What,” He managed to choke out. It felt like someone was squeezing his chest and he couldn’t breathe.
“Why?” He asked, trying his hardest at a steady tone.
Sherlock was silent for a moment before looking him in the eyes “I’m just not attracted to you, John. I don’t love you, I can’t. High-functioning sociopath, remember?”
The words rang hollow in his ears. He looked pleadingly into Sherlock’s eyes.
“No,”
“Yes,”
“NO!” He yelled “Fucking bullshit Sherlock, no! You’re lying, I can tell,”
Sherlock let out a laugh, it didn’t even sound like him.
Sherlock.
John knew him too well. He had hoped John would just hit him and leave after he had said what he’d said. That he wouldn’t question but of course he was wrong.
“I’m not lying,” He said sliding onto the floor, back against the wall. He had to try, if John hated him it would be easier.
“Yes, you bloody are, Sherlock. You can’t lie to me we both know that so why are you doing this?”
God dammit John just hate me and leave, he thought. There was no point in lying anymore, if John wanted the truth he could have the ugly truth.
“To make it hurt less,”
“To make what hurt less?”
“If I leave you first then you can’t leave me first. It’s simple self-preservation, darling,” he knew John secretly loved being called pet names so he hoped it would distract him a little from what he was saying.
“What are you talking about Sherlock? I would never leave you, why would you think that?”
“That’s a nice thought,” and it was. Imagine being loved unconditionally, he couldn’t imagine it.
“Sherlock, what are you saying? I thought you knew I would never leave you. There is nothing in this world that could tear me from your side,”
“Nothing?” He challenged.
“Nothing,”
He took his knees away from his chest and took off his coat, and saw the horror on John’s face.
He was wearing his favorite purple shirt which didn’t disguise the bleeding coming from his chest, arms, and stomach.
“Oh my god,” John gasped and was down on his knees beside him in a second.
“Sherlock, what happened?” John asked looking scared and moving to try to stop the bleeding.
“I’m not done,” He said, “Help me up,” And John did as he was told.
It took all the strength in his body and leaning heavily on the wall but he managed to stand up.
He took a deep breath wishing the blurriness of his vision away “This is why you’ll leave me,” he said as he threw the cigarette in the sink and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall to the ground.
He couldn’t look at John as he did so, he didn’t want to see his disgust, he knew how he looked. Instead, he focussed on the blood he could feel dripping from his wrists, he knew that he didn’t have much longer. The cuts were deep and he’d lost a lot of blood already.
“Oh, Sherlock,” John said and when he finally looked at him he saw he was crying.
“Oh, Sherlock, no,” there it was. He swallowed the lump in his throat, he hadn’t cried in a long time, he just wasn’t a the kind of person to cry, and yet he felt the sting of tears in his own eyes too.
“Sherlock, love, how could you do this to yourself,”
“I’ve always done this to myself, it isn’t new. Sorry to ruin whatever image you had of me but I’ve always been this hideous,” He spat bitterly.
“Hideous? No, love anything but,” John said “You’re bleeding bad we have to get you to a hos-” But he didn’t hear the rest instead his strength failed him and he collapsed onto the floor, clumsily being caught by John.
His ears were ringing and he could feel his mind shutting down. His whole body hurt but that soon went away as everything faded to black.
John.
“Sherlock!” he shouted catching the man as best he could.
“Sherlock, wake up, stay with me,” he said lightly shaking him.
“You idiot, he was obviously bleeding out and you just stood there, you fucking idiot,” he swore at himself, tears coming in heavy flows.
He knew he had to calm down. He was a doctor for god's sake he needed to act like one.
Sherlock was still bleeding heavily from both his wrists and from the many cuts across his stomach so he picked up Sherlock’s previously discarded shirt and tore it.
He wrapped the sleeves of the shirt tightly around his wrists and used the rest of the shirt to try and stop the bleeding from his torso. He fished his phone out of his pocket still keeping his left hand on the wound even though the shirt was becoming worryingly wet.
He pulled up Mycroft’s emergency number and it was immediately answered by a half-asleep sounding Mycroft.
“What’s the emergency?”
“It’s Sherlock, he’s- he’s bleeding out. We’re at the flat, please,” He couldn’t help but let out a sob.
“Help will be there in under 5 minutes, try to keep him conscious,” Mycroft said sounding much more awake.
“He’s already passed out, hurry,” He said hanging up and returning both hands to keeping Sherlock alive.
“Please, Sherlock stay with me, please. I love you so much don’t leave me again don’t- don’t,” He couldn’t even say it.
He kept begging even when the paramedics arrived and took him away.
He rode with them to the hospital holding Sherlock’s colder-than-normal hand the whole time.
He didn’t sleep until the doctors and nurses assured him that Sherlock would live and even then he slept holding Sherlock’s hand next to his bed, refusing to leave his side.
Sherlock.
He woke up to someone talking to him.
He didn’t open his eyes, instead he just listened.
“Please Sherlock you got to wake up, I don’t know what I’d do without you,”
John.
His John.
He remembered what John had said. That he promised he would never leave him.
And yet he had been stupid, made decisions below his IQ and tried to leave John before he could leave him. He could only hope John would forgive him.
He opened his eyes and tried to sit up wincing. His whole body hurt like hell.
“Sherlock, you’re awake,”
“I know,” he quipped through the pain.
“Don’t you dare get sarcastic with me,” John huffed in disbelief.
All he could do was nod.
He let go of John’s hand which was still holding his and sat up as best he could and tried to breathe slow and controlled. He was really starting to regret cutting his ribs right about now. Every breath he took was painful and he suspected he had gotten stitched from the way his cuts pulled as he moved.
He looked at his wrists and arms and saw they were covered in bandages and thick gauze.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” John said breaking the silence.
“I know,” He said looking down at the bed ashamed.
“If I ask you questions are you going to answer honestly?”
“Yes, I’ll try,”
“Trying’s not good enough, I need you to tell me the whole truth,”
“I swear,”
“Good,” John said and took a deep breath “Why did you try to kill yourself?”
Straight to the point then “Because I can’t live without you,”
“But I didn’t go anywhere and I definitely wasn’t planning on it, and I’m still not planning on it. Why did you think I would?” John said sounding lost.
“Because of my scars. You might be able to deal with my oddities but I know the scars are ugly. I know I’m a handsome man but underneath my nice clothes, I’m nauseatingly ugly. I thought if you saw them they’d send you running to the hills and I- I guess I just couldn’t deal with that, I’m too scared of losing you. I wouldn’t blame you if you want to leave me, I understand,” he admitted. He hated emotions and especially hated how many emotions John made him feel but he had promised John his honesty and he was a man of his word.
John was silent and he watched as he wiped his hand over his face looking tired “You’re an idiot Sherlock. One massive bloody idiot if you think I give a flying fuck about how you look. I love every bit of you, I love you for you. I think you’re the most beautiful being, scars or not, and that will never change. Tell me what it would take to make you realize this because it’s true. I’ll love you till the end of time and all I want is to grow old at your side, but I can’t do that if you go off killing yourself because you can’t talk about how you feel,” John had tears in his eyes and it rotted his soul to think he was to blame for them being there.
“I’m so sorry John, I promise I’ll do better I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry,” he relized tears were spilling from his own eyes now, twice in the past 24 hours he was crying.
John silenced him with a kiss, gentle and sweet. He wished it could last forever but John pulled away, first wiping away his tears then his own.
“I’m going to need you to promise me something,” John said.
“Anything,”
“Never, ever try to kill yourself again, no matter the circumstances you have to promise me,”
“But,”
“No buts, I don’t care if it would save my life, or the whole god damn world, don’t ever do this again. I know it’s a selfish thing to ask, but please,”
“I- I promise,”
“Thank you,” John said standing up and kissing his forehead “I’m going to speak to your doctors, I’ll be back in a few minutes,”
He didn’t answer, only watched as John left the room.
John.
It had been a week since Sherlock’s incident and after convinceing the doctors that Sherlock that he was no longer a suicide risk they had finally discharged him.
Sherlock was healing fast but that didn’t mean he let his boyfriend do anything that he couldn’t do for him. The first day back Sherlock had accidentally tore some stitches trying to make tea and since then he made sure Sherlock didn’t leave their bed, or if Sherlock was particularly sick of staying in the same place, the couch.
Sherlock was sleeping on the couch at the moment in a t-shirt and boxers. Although Sherlock fought tooth and nail that he didn’t want John to see his scars (still not fully convinced that John wouldn’t change his mind) but it was necessary for easy access to his healing wounds.
He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was staring, Sherlock wasn’t going to know anyway.
Sherlock still hated when he looked at his scars, more self conscious than he had ever seen him so he only looked when he knew Sherlock wouldn’t notice.
He was in no way disgusted by Sherlock’s scars but almost fascinated. He didn’t completely understand why Sherlock did what he did but he knew people didn’t just cut for fun. Sherlock didn’t seem depressed but he could be wrong. He just hoped he could help take away whatever pain made him do what he did.
Either way he would always love him.