John Watson and the Sociopath

I'll Try

I slam my door as hard as I can. Sherlock has such a damn need to be a twat all the time. I change my mind about ignoring him and head back into the kitchen where he's sat with his feet tucked up under him.

"I fucking HATED you, Sherlock. You left me. You fucking left me. You know how that feels? No, because you don't feel anything. I HATED YOU. FOR TWO DAMN YEARS, SHERLOCK." I scream at the top of my lungs. "I love you and you LEFT me." I say quieter. I roll up my sleeves. Self-harm scars cover my arms. After a good ten seconds, I lift up my shirt and show him the scars across my abdomen as well. "These are from you! I did this because of you!" I scream, almost happy about how shocked he looks. My happiness is soon replaced by guilt as his expression darkens. He looks at me with sad eyes, and stands up, beginning to invitation his shirt.

I avert my eyes. "Sherlock, what the- why..."

I end my sentence with a gasp. His shirt drops to the floor, and I suddenly understand why he never wanted me to see him without a shirt.

Scars litter his upper body, but not only self inflicted ones. Among self harm scars are scars from beatings. I know what they look like from my many years in army medicine taking care of men rescued from captivity. He has burn marks, markings that resemble ropes and whips, and other various markings. I'm so shocked I feel my ears pop.

I'm still gaping when I hear a few whispered words.

"I did this FOR you..."

-------------------------------

Sherlock runs out of the flat with his coat, leaving John still in the kitchen. He doesn't know where else to go, so he finds himself on Lestrade's doorstep. Lestrade himself answers the door, welcoming the Detective in. After a long chat about how stupid Lestrade is, the officer asks why Sherlock is there.

"John and I had a... quarrel." Sherlock says awkwardly. Lestrade blinks.

"About what?"

"John thinks he endured more with me gone then I did. I was tortured, and he self-harmed but he still thinks he had it worse."

Lestrade blinks again.

"Well, he did have some... emotional issues with you gone."

"Okay but really though, it wasn't that bad. Why didn't he just move on?"

Lestrade snaps.

"You weren't THERE Sherlock! You didn't get the drunk phone calls in the early hours of morning. You didn't rush to the cemetery to see him sitting on your grave with his gun in his mouth!"

Sherlock looks as if he had been slapped in the face.

"That.... That actually happened?" Sherlock asks.

"YES." Lestrade says. "Yes."

"Thank you, George."

"GREG!"

Sherlock once again grabs his coat and rushes onto the busy street, this time heading home.

Upon reaching his flat, Sherlock threw his coat down on the stairs and takes the steps three at a time. He opens the door so quickly it slams against the wall, no doubt waking Ms. Hudson. There was so sign of John in the sitting room, so Sherlock went to check his bedroom. John was nowhere to be found. Sherlock decided to go check local bars. Knowing John, that's where he would be. Sherlock dashed down the hall to grab his wallet, previously left on his dresser.

He opened the door to his bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

John removed the gun from between his teeth, eyes wide and glistening with tears. Sherlock felt so raw, like his throat was made of sandpaper.

"John." Sherlock said, voice cracking.

"Sher." John said.

Sherlock sprang onto the bed, knocked the gun onto the floor (clearly not the safest move but at the moment he didn't care) and held John so tightly.

"John, I'm sorry, I was so wrong. I was so, so wrong. Please forgive me?"

"I'll try."