Lines and Numbers (Johnlock)

Chapter 8

BIG TRIGGER WARNING: self harm. Please stay safe, I love all of you. This is a super sad part of the story, and was pretty hard to write.

It was a good rest of the day. Admittedly, we both blushed and looked away any time we saw the other, which was often since we stayed in the flat all day. He came and had lunch with me at noon, which was good, even if he only had one serving. I managed to get it to be a regular-sized serving, however, so that was good. I had a nice dinner, but he just had some apple slices, claiming he wasn't hungry. I could see how hard it was for him to try to eat normally. I had tried to argue, but he wouldn't budge.

That night, he came into my room again. We sat side by side for a while until he turned off the lights, we lay almost in each other's arms, and we both went to sleep.

Darkness. Colors swirled around, and I'm not sure how I didn't realize I was dreaming.

I stood where I was for a while. Maybe half an hour. I suddenly realized I was wearing my army uniform and was holding a gun. The scene around me melted into a battlefield. It was the heat of the fight. I felt stinging little cuts around my body, but ignored them.

Then the pain. Such a terrible, terrible pain, I screamed. The scene melted away and I was on the road, looking up as Sherlock threw his phone to the side. The pain was gone, but I felt a heavy weight on my shoulders. "SHERLOCK!" A scream ripped itself from my throat. No, no, no... He took a step forward, and the scene faded.

"Let's get back to the flat. I don't feel so well..." Sherlock's voice drifted away, and he fell. Images flashed before my eyes as I ran to him. Cuts on his arm, scars, his bones too prominent, him yelling at me, him falling...

I opened my eyes, laying there silently. I reached out, trying to feel if he was with me, if it was a dream or not, if he was safe.

He wasn't there.

My hands groped the empty bedsheets, and I sat up. My head hurt, and a glance at the clock told me the time: 2:38 A.M. Very early in the morning. I quietly got out of bed, wondering where in the world Sherlock could be. The door opened quietly, and I stepped out into the hall silently. I heard a noise from the kitchen. It was probably Sherlock, because the bathroom light was off. I headed there, and stopped. One little lamp was on in the living room, and it just barely illuminated Sherlock in the kitchen by the sink. I took a step forward, and froze.

Sherlock stood by the sink, a roll of bandages and a towel next to him on the counter. I could see him shaking, and I almost couldn't comprehend what was happening. I was frozen with shock, powerless to what he was about to do. He reached his left arm in front of him, and his right arm too, gripping something, although I couldn't tell what at first. I wanted to rush forward, to grab his hand and stop him, to kiss him and tell him I love him, he's loved.

Instead, I watched as he parted his skin and just let the blood flow.

I found my voice and stumbled forward, tears in my eyes. "Sherlock," I said, voice wavering. He spun around, panic in his movements.

"Shit, shit, shit... No... John, go back to bed, now..." He said, concern in his voice. He held his arm over the sink as several drops of blood flowed down. His other cuts had still been healing, and now he... I gripped the edge of the dining room table as he set down the blade and grabbed the towels, cursing under his breath as he cleaned his arm. He sighed and turned to me as he held a paper towel on his arm. "John," he said firmly, "go back to your room."

I blinked several times, tears falling onto the table. I saw his regret run across his face, but he said again, firmly still, "Go to bed, John." "Sherlock... That cut wasn't just superficial... Please, Sherlock, stop..." I whispered, choking on the lump in my throat accompanying the tears. The look on his face was a mixture of anger, annoyance, sadness, and regret. "Please, John," He replied, "I can take care of it by myself."

I pulled a seat out from the table and sat down slowly, eyes on him. He made a frustrated noise and turned his back on me.

 "I'm not leaving, Sherlock."

I ran a hand through my hair tiredly. "Sherlock. You need medical attention for that cut. And you need to not do that to yourself again. You're staying with me so you're safe. If you felt that bad, you could've woken me up. Please. Let me fix it." Sherlock looked back at me. "You don't care," he said quietly. "Nobody does. I'm the freak. You don't love me. You don't really care..." His voice got so quiet until it just disappeared and he crumpled onto the floor, holding the blade in one of his hands now. I got up and walked over to him, the tears in my eyes streaming over my cheeks freely.

"Sherlock." I crouched down next to him and put my hands on his shoulders. They were shaking, and I saw something I never would want to see: tears running down his cheeks. My heart broke hearing this man, this amazingly smart, talented, handsome, wonderful man, crying because his brain was telling him he was so unloved he should do this to himself. He always claimed he couldn't feel emotion, but...
I pulled him into a hug, pressing my lips against his forehead. The sounds ceased, but he still shook with silent tears. I held the paper towels against his arm as he let me hug him. "Sherlock." I said strongly, looking into his face, the opposite of how I felt. "I love you, Sherlock. And I have since I met you. You're the smartest, most handsome, most meaningful person in my life. I could never live without you. Hurting yourself hurts me so much. Please, let me help. Please." He looked to me, his face streaked with tears.

"Okay, John," He murmured. I slowly took the blade from his hand. He walked with me, my arm around his shoulder keeping him next to me, and we went together to get the first aid kit.