Lines and Numbers (Johnlock)

Chapter 15

Listen I know it's been 2 years but I totally have a good reason. I was... Uh...

Ok onto the story

(Tws: SH, somewhat graphic description of wound)

It was two in the morning when I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. It was the first night Sherlock was back. I squinted through the darkness and my eyes adjusted after a moment. Sherlock was in front of me, and the hall light was on, just slightly illuminating the left side of him so I could see some of his face.

"Hmm?" I grunted, turing onto my back and bringing my hands up to rub my eyes.

"John. I'm sorry to wake you. I need your help, I- can you just take a look at my arm? I didn't mean to-"

I felt my heart drop for a moment, expecting the worst. A jolt of energy flew through me, and I sat up in an instant. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and was about to stand up when Sherlock placed his hands on my shoulders, holding me down.

"John! John. Calm down. Sit. It's fine."

I looked up at him, knowing the panic I was feeling was showing on my face.

Sherlock, however, looked nervous.

I stopped trying to stand. My heart was beating fast, but I tried to stay calm for him. He was nervous about telling me- I shouldn't panic him further.

"What is it?" I asked, my voice coming out quicker and rougher than I meant it to. He seemed to shrink back, away from me.

"No- I- what is it, Sherlock?" I asked again, keeping my voice steady and soft. His eyes dropped to the floor for just a moment, and then back to me.

"I didn't mean to, but- I- while I was sleeping I think I was scratching at my arm?" He looked at the ground as he spoke, and he spoke quickly.  "And it started bleeding, so I went to the bathroom to get a better look to make sure it was okay, but one of the stitches broke, so I pulled it out, and then decided I should take out the others, too. But it hadn't closed, and it started bleeding again, so-"

I held out my hand.

He fell silent, his eyes flicking to my eyes. Slowly, he placed his left hand into my hand. Gently, I pushed up his sleeve, which was spotted with blood. My hands were steady, but there was still a pit of anxiety in my chest as I did it.

It was a long, deep cut going across his arm. The sides were starting to heal closed, but it was wide open in the middle. I could see the fat layer, though there was a thin layer of drainage above it. It was healing well. Still- seeing it so close scared me. I'd seen worse wounds, but the fact that he did this to himself was terrifying. He did this. To himself.

"John?"

I let go of his hand. I'd been squeezing it so tightly I could see white marks where my fingers had been for just a second.

"Sorry," I breathed. "It's- healing well. Let's cover it with a bandage, it'll heal better. It's fine."

He nodded. "All right. Thank you."

We walked together to grab the first aid kit. I sat him down at the table and had him lay his arm out. I covered the wound with a large adhesive bandage. He flinched when I pressed my hand on it to make sure it stuck, and I pressed my lips together, guilt passing over me for a moment.

I finished and put the box back into its cabinet. He stood and began heading back to my room, which was practically our room at this point.

The words left my mouth before I even felt my lips move.

"Why do you do it?"

Sherlock stopped. He didn't turn to me. I didn't turn to him. The question hung in the air, and the silence that followed it was full of awkwardness. I wish I hadn't said anything at all.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said. He was stalling.

"Why do you... Hurt yourself like that? How?" My voice was quiet, but I knew he heard me. I looked at him, silhouetted in the light from the hallway. His back was to me, but I could tell from the way his head was tilted forward that he was looking at the floor.

"My pain tolerance adjusted after a while, I suppose," he responded.

"That doesn't answer all of the question."

"Well, what am I supposed to say, John?" He yelled. He turned to me. His expression wasn't angry. Or panicked. Just- genuinely, he didn't know how to answer.

"What the hell do I say to that? There's no answer that will make sense to you! I do it because I'm some sort of freak, who wants to see his own blood because it calms him. Because the pain takes away my anxieties and the thoughts in my head telling me I'm awful. It shuts them up. It helps. There. That's why."

"I-"

"Thank you, John. I'm going back to bed," he said firmly, turning on his heel and heading to his room. Not mine.

It wasn't easy to fall back asleep. In fact, I stayed up until almost 3:45. The hall lights never turned back on, and Sherlock never came back to my room. I'd finally gotten to sleep earlier with him beside me again, and now, the bed was empty once more.