beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 14

When Sherlock entered the room, Noel dropped his book. Sherlock glanced around - there were books and clothes everywhere. The desk was cluttered with a pile of assignments. The general mess reminded him of their living room, with all its toys and baby clothes.

Noel grinned, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. "Sherlock Holmes in my room - wow. I've always thought of a thousand things I'd ask you if we ever met, but honestly, right now, I can only think of one. So you don't actually wear the hat?"

"No, of course not."

"Oh. Well, um...do you need some help with the case?"

"Pull up your sleeve."

"No. Why?"

"You just confirmed my hypothesis. You self-harm."

"No, I don't."

"Then pull up your sleeve."

Noel stubbornly bit his lip.

"Noel - is that your name? - you must listen to me carefully. There's nothing wrong with you and absolutely no reason to be ashamed. People are wired differently, and who you really are - it matters, and it's fine. It's all fine."

His eyes followed the way Noel was hugging his pillow. "Look there!" he said suddenly, pointing out of the window, and Noel looked. In a trice Sherlock had the pillow and had plunged his hand into the stuffing. He pulled out a small tin box and opened it to find, as expected, the small blades. Noel stiffened.

"Your body works day and night to keep you alive, Noel. All that blood and bone and muscle. Don't hurt it. Don't disregard it. Situations change, but these scars - they're a permanent reminder of what went wrong."

Noel swallowed shakily. "Look, I - I appreciate this, but you don't know me. With all due respect, you really don't know what it's like in here, in my head."

Sherlock's fingers closed over the marks on his own forearm, and then he was thinking about the loneliness, and those dark days in Europe while he'd hunted down Moriarty's men. He'd never thought he could be lonely....but before John, he'd never known he could have friends. He swallowed and brought himself back to the present, back to this small, scared boy in front of him, and left the room, taking the blades with him.

***

Sherlock paced his room that night, his frustration increasing. Chasing down the person who was orchestrating this drama was turning out to be a lot more difficult than he'd thought. Irene, Mrs Hudson, the help at the Evans' - none of them had led back to anything. Even the Golem had chosen to die rather than reveal his employer's name. The only person who had ever inspired such fear was...well, Moriarty.

He wanted to pick up his violin and play something to help him think clearer, but he also didn't want to disturb John or Rosie. The poor man really needed a good night's sleep. When he wasn't tending to Rosie or his patients, he was looking after Sherlock, forcing him to eat or sleep enough. Sherlock didn't mind. He'd noticed that his body did tend to shut down after a few days of fasting.

Sherlock had to admit that deep down, he was starting to feel a little hopeful about his situation with John. Of course, he didn't have much practical experience, and he couldn't decide where to draw the line between platonic and romantic. But ever since John had moved back into Baker Street, there was something...different. Like glances and casual touches that lingered for seconds longer than necessary. Or the fact that it was no longer uncommon for them to wake up in the same bed - either John would crawl in because Sherlock had nightmares, or Sherlock would wake him up and bring him in when he thrashed about on the sofa. Sherlock put it all down to a craving for human intimacy due to his lingering grief.