Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 10

SHERLOCK'S POV

A tentative, slow shaking of his shoulder woke him up. Sherlock sluggishly opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. Mycroft and John were standing next to his bed with one of their infamous guilty-nervous faces on. They wanted to talk.

Sighing heavily, he tried to sit up, regretting it straight away. The pressure put on his wrists by trying to help himself up was too much, and the pain caused tears to well up in his eyes. He lied back down, a deep embarrassment settling in his stomach.

"I assume you have something you want to talk to me about, so just get it over with," Sherlock grumbled, breaking the awkward silence.

John awkwardly lowered himself into the chair beside his bed. His gaze not-so-subtly flicked to Sherlock's wrists, and flushed when he was caught looking.

"Sorry," he mumbled. John locked eyes with Mycroft, and he nodded in encouragement to keep going. "Look, Sherl, we need to talk about what we're going to do now. Er, what would you ultimately like to happen?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew the response wouldn't be good.

"What would I like to happen? Well, first of all, I'd like you both to stop looking at me like some drenched puppy who needs help. Secondly, I want you to forget this whole thing ever happened, and seeing as you'll be listening to my requests, you won't lock me up in some looney bin when there is absolutely nothing wrong with me," he replied, tacking on a very smug, very fake smile for effect.

John looked up at Mycroft, his eyes pleading for help. Sighing, Mycroft picked up were John left off. "Sherlock, this is obviously a big problem for you right now, and we think you need help."

"We?" he practically spat, his gaze flicking between his brother and his friend. "Of course. This is both of you? Wow. I knew Mycroft would betray me, but not you, John." The instant he said it, Sherlock wanted to swallow the words back up. The hurt in John's eyes was too much.

"Can you give us a minute?" John's request was not a request at all, but a demand. Mycroft sighed, and left the room, although he was almost certainly listening from the other side of the door.

"Okay, Sherlock? I don't know any other way to do this right now, so I'm going to just tell you everything I think, okay? No interrupting."

All he got in reply was a grumpy nod.

"Okay. Firstly, I want you to know no one is buying your tough charade. Mycroft might think you're okay, but I certainly do not. I know you too well to think you're alright. It's your eyes that give you away. They're so...haunted. And before you interrupt telling me that I'm seeing things, I just know. When I was a - a soldier, nearly every man I knew held that look. You've seen things, experienced things, no one should have to, and it's made you the person you are today." He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's perfectly okay to admit you're damaged."

Sherlock knew he shouldn't, but couldn't stop the sarcastic reply. "So what about you, John? Were those words more for me or for you? You think I don't know about what you did while I was dead?"

John's face was ashen, all blood having been drained from it. "You - you know?"

"Of course I know, John. The alcohol, the cutting, the suicide attempts. Why do you think you never died, hmm? Who do you think called the ambulance?"

"You're a bastard, you know that? You're a fucking bastard. Why didn't you let me die?" John was yelling. "I LOVED you, I loved you and you watched me try to kill myself over and over and you couldn't just let me go, could you? No, instead of letting me finally feel peace, you watched me suffer. For two years." John's voice finally broke, and he folded in on himself, his body wracked with sobs.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself. "You ... you loved me?" His voice was laced with disbelief.

"God, Sherlock, just drop it. Don't pretend you care." Scoffing, he stood up and left.