Time Makes it Harder (JohnLock)

I Want To Quit

Sherlock lays in bed next to John, his eyes wide open staring at the roof, listening to the rhythmic sounds of John's sleepy breathing next to him. It's  well into the morning and sun streams through the window, streaming the room in golden rays of light, yet somehow, Sherlock isn't satisfied or happy as the sun suggested. He feels empty, alone, despite the warm body lying next to him.

John took a couple weeks off of work. To look after ME! I'm not a child.

Sherlock throws the covers off him and pads to the kitchen, determined to make breakfast for him and John.

Searching all the cupboards he finally finds a frying pan and places it on the stove. Going in the fridge he finds eggs and tries to crack them, but instead manages to smush them against the edge of the stove, and the fluids leak into the element, burning immediately, letting off a rancid smell and thick black smoke.

Removing the pan, he throws the cold water that was left in the kettle onto the stove, which results in a frightening sizzle and Sherlock jumps back, hitting his head on the cupboard handle and sinking to the floor in pain. On the way down, the bandage on his wrist catches the open drawers and rips it off his arm, resulting in a splatter of blood on the floor from a now open wound.

John comes running in, surveying the situation. Black smoke curling from the stove, the constant sizzling sound of burning fluids, the shrill sound of the smoke detector mixed with the pained cries of Sherlock on the ground, clutching his head but also trying to control the bleeding.

Turning the stove off, the smoke doesn't stop, but it billows from the window John opened. Turning off the smoke detector, he runs over the Sherlock and puts a towel over his wrist, pressing to stop the blood.

"John." Sherlock whimpers, burying his head in John's shoulder.

"Sherlock," John starts but Sherlock cuts him off.

"John, please. You don't have to do this all for me. You don't have to quit your job to look after me, or live here with me. I'm a mess of a man, and I don't deserve anything."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John begins, but Sherlock hold up his hand to stop him.

"John, please." A tear falls from his eye. "I'm not me. If I try to go to my mind palace, this happens!" He motions to his bleeding wrist. "If I try to take care of myself this happens!" He point to the smoking stove. "I'm broken. My mind has never been the same since the war. It never will be. I just want to quit. I want to quit." Sherlock says, and no more tears fall. In fact, it seems as if he can't feel anything at all.

"Quit what?" John says in a soothing tone, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Life." Sherlock whispers.