Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 22

John's POV

John lay in his bed, thoughts bouncing off the walls of his skull. He wished he could stop thinking for two bloody seconds...

He sighed, and tried to think about one thing only, the only thing that ever cleared his mind - Sherlock.

There was no use in denying his feelings for Sherlock any longer. He had always known he was attracted to Sherlock, but that was before The Fall. As soon as John felt Sherlock's absence, he knew straight away that he loved him. Always had, always will.

He cursed aloud, remembering what he has said at the hospital. He had admitted his feelings for him. John knew beyond a doubt that Sherlock did not reciprocate the sentiment, and it felt like a knife was being driven through his heart.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, John slumped with his head in his hands. His gaze travelled, as it so often did, to the scars that lined his arms. He hadn't cut since he found out Sherlock was still alive, but he still daily felt the familiar pang of addiction, his mind screaming at him to be self destructive.

John stood up, walking in autopilot to the place he kept his stash of razors. He knew he shouldn't give in. He wouldn't.

Do it.

Cut.

John closed his eyes against the voices. It always happened this way. He knew it was inevitable; he would give in.

Suddenly unable to wait any longer, he opened the small box and paused, examining every instrument before he chose his favourite, much like one would inspect a box of chocolates.

Gently pulling it out, careful not to cut his fingers and possibly give away his actions, he caught his reflection in the shiny surface. Johns eyes were hungry; he looked at the blade like he was a starving man and it were the last meal on Earth.

Rolling up his sleeve, he chose a spot and rested the trembling blade on his skin. He smiled to himself, and dragged it across. Small beads of blood sprouted, turning into a steady dribble. Ignoring the pain, he cut in the same spot. Again and again he did it, until the yellow bubbles of fat underneath his skin were clearly evident.

Satisfied, he stopped the bleeding and cleaned up. As he was putting away the razor, the corner of it caught his palm and he dropped it to the floor.

"Fuck," he cursed, praying Sherlock failed to hear the sound of the razor falling to the floor.

Sherlock's POV

Sherlock was engrossed in staring at the ceiling when he heard the clink of steel hitting the floor. Shortly after, he heard a muffled fuck.

His heart immediately beating ten times faster, he silently crept to the door of Johns bedroom. When he strained, Sherlock could hear the sound of tissues being crumpled.

He knew what was happening. Shit shit shit shit SHIT.

He had thought John had stopped. It was all his fault. He knew how addicting self destruction was and it was his own fucking fault for causing him to start in the first place.

Sherlock was standing there, head down with silent tears falling when the door swung open with a whoosh.

"John."