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“Watson…?” Sherlock breathed into the dark air of the flat. It was just past midnight, and John had already dragged himself blearily into the kitchen for a glass of water. Sherlock sat on the sofa in the shadowed living room, looking through the kitchen doorway. He’d been lost in thought until the silhouette of his friend had come into view.
“Oh, hi mate,” John said, his voice low and rough with exhaustion. He turned on the faucet with a fatigued hand and filled one of the smaller glasses ¾ with water. He was in his pajamas and appeared exhausted, although no sweat marks or signs of distress were visible. Insomnia, most likely. “You need something?” John asked, seeming to notice Sherlock’s gaze fixed on him.
“You can go back to bed,” Sherlock said, examining his knees as he adjusted his position to spare his neck, “But could I ask you something, first?”
“Usually you would just ask,” John observed, taking a drink and putting down the glass on the counter, looking a bit more awake. This was hopefully his way of granting Sherlock permission.
“Are you…” Sherlock began, pausing as if he hadn’t practiced this question over a thousand times in his mind over the last hour, “Do you still wish to move out?”
“Oh.” John said, “Right. Right, uh.” He swallowed.
“Because if you are, I understand!” Sherlock said quickly, although he truly didn’t. When had John become so hostile? When had he first considered that he no longer wished them to be flatmates? He’d been reflecting on the weeks leading up to the case, and he still hadn’t found a reason for John to be upset.
Of course, he had good reason to be angry after the Baskerville case. After all, he’d been scared out of his mind out on the moor, and Sherlock had allowed him to wander about for days, believing he was losing his mind. But after the case, he’d been…more affectionate? More trusting? When had that trust been shattered?
“Sherlock, do you remember the other time I tried to move out?” John asked, slowly coming into the room and flicking on a lamp so they could see one another’s faces. Sherlock would have preferred his own to stay in the dark so that he did not need to monitor his open expressions, but at least he could see John’s better.
“You’d hardly even moved in at that point,” Sherlock said, “And it was because I had kept you awake with the violin.”
“And?” John asked, dropping into the armchair as if his limbs were made of spaghetti.
“...Ah,” Sherlock said, heart sinking as he made the embarrassingly obvious connection.
“Mhm,” John said, “Shooting the wall. Not a fan of that, mate. You wanna know what my first thought was the other day? When I heard gunshots in our living room?”
“That you were…back there? In Ukraine?” Sherlock asked, the heat of guilt and shame rising to his face.
“No, that was my second thought.” John said, “My first thought was whether I was about to find you dead in the fucking living room.”
“Oh.” Sherlock said, “Well, that would save you the time of murdering me–”
“No, oh my God,” John said, “I’m saying…I was angry, sure. But that was because I was scared for your life, and two seconds later found out that you were the one causing the thing that triggered me to begin with.”
“Right. I apologize, John. I should have been more considerate of your PTSD.” Sherlock said slowly, “Was I incorrect in assuming that your symptoms had improved? You hadn’t mentioned anything since last March, and we’ve been in more than a few situations with guns since then, and I did not observe you having any flashbacks.”
“No, because I’ve been working on it,” John sighed, “And it was getting better…at least on cases when adrenaline is high to begin with, and you expect that sort of thing. But to be in my own home, where I am meant to feel safe, that was bloody terrifying, mate.”
“I assumed since you were angry rather than frightened…” Sherlock countered, knowing he was losing the argument.
“I was bloody frightened!” John exclaimed, hitting his palms against his knees, “I suddenly felt incredibly unsafe in my own home, and the only thought running through my mind was that I needed to get out. I mean, should’ve seen my heart rate, it wasn’t pretty.”
“Of course…I shouldn’t have fought back…I should have asked if you were alright.” Sherlock admitted.
“No, actually.” John said, “You shouldn’t have shot the wall in the first place.”
“I um,” Sherlock said, “I am sorry…for what I did. Would it…help if I explained?”
“Explained why you took a gun to our walls, yes, actually,” John said, “I would love you to explain.”
He was upset. Worked up. He was running his hands along his knees as he often did when particularly stressed as a form of stimming. Although John likely didn’t recognise it as such.
“I was feeling…dissociated. And not right.” He said, blinking to try and concentrate on the memory of his detached mental state. What had started the feeling? Greif? Anxiety? He’d woken up in a panic that morning after John’s idea of a birthday surprise…that felt relevant, but also rude to bring up.
“Is that it? You were dissociated?” John asked, skeptically, “I mean, I kinda knew that, mate–”
“No. John. You don’t know,” Sherlock said, expecting John to lash out again. But he stayed calmly in his seat, nodding for Sherlock to continue. “I do destructive things like that…when I need a physical expression. When my anger, inner disgust, and… self-hatred reach a level I cannot bear.”
“Self-hatred? Because you lost someone?” John asked, “You cannot possibly think anything is your fault here. So, why?”
“Because I could not respond appropriately to the loss.” Sherlock clarified, “My emotions were all dampened, as if they barely existed at all. I need to let them out and see them in front of me. I needed it to…to hurt…” He trailed off as he said the last word. A part of him hoped John would not piece together what he was trying to say. But as the podcaster took in a short inhale of air and let it out with a low, long huff, he knew that John had understood.
“As in…in the way most people use–well, not most people, but I mean–” John stumbled around the words.
“You can say it, John.” Sherlock said, “The suggestion isn’t going to give me ideas. Trust me, I’ve thought them all through more times than you can imagine.”
“Self-harm.” John said, “It reminds me of self-harm, is what I’m saying.”
“It is an alternative method,” Sherlock said, “Although perhaps there exists a method that harms neither my flatmate nor me, I have not found it yet.”
“I’m sorry,” John said, “You know, when you’re struggling, you can talk to me.”
“Sometimes.” Sherlock sighed.
“What do you mean by that?” John asked.
“Sometimes I can talk to you. When the words come easily.” Sherlock said, “And I can talk to you when it’s just the two of us, in the flat or at the park. I can tell you when I’m tired, burnt out, or overwhelmed. But there are times I can’t…when the mood is already heavy, I fear adding to the burden. And it’s even worse when the mood is too light because…I fear being mocked.”
“I wouldn’t–”
“But you wouldn’t raise any eyebrow if an old school bully of mine tried to walk right back into my life–”
“Hey!” John cut in, “That’s not fair, he just seemed like a nice guy– I’m not saying all that shit didn’t happen, I was just trying to be…I don’t know, objective?”
“And you trust a five-second impression of him more than you trust my years of trauma at his hands? Because I don’t care what happened in the case, John. He hurt me, and nothing can change the way his words echo in my ears when I feel as though my world is folding in around me. I hate myself in all the ways he once hated me, and you know what? Sometimes I think he was right. About everything. My failings, and inadequacies, and how no matter how clever I seem, it’s not enough to overcome the way I am!”
“Sherlock, stop,” John said, standing up and tapping his hand a couple of times with his index finger. “I want you to do what we both should’ve done before we ever had this argument. Take a second, and breathe.”
The room fell silent as John averted his gaze. Their breathing was far from synchronized, but Sherlock did feel the weight of his chest lifting ever so slightly as he focused on the air in his lungs. When he was ready, he spoke again.
“I’m not going to apologize for being upset about it. I spent years believing that everything he said was true.” Sherlock said. John had retreated into his chair, and his leg was bouncing with such intensity Sherlock could feel the vibrations through the carpet.
“Well, it wasn’t,” John said, “You’re wonderful, Sherlock. I already believe that. And if you were really struggling…and you came to me. I would want to help you, okay? Even if we were fighting, or if I was pissed at you. Well, maybe not immediately after you shot a hole in our wall, maybe give me a minute–but…but I want you to be okay and…” He trailed off.
John blinked a few times, and for a second, Sherlock thought he saw a slight gloss in his friend’s eyes. John was chewing on his lip, and as Sherlock leaned in, he could hear the way John was holding in his breath.
“And?” Sherlock asked in a whisper.
“Okay, I’m gonna be honest, I’m a doctor, okay? And I just really need to ask, okay?” John said.
“Okay?” Sherlock said, already fearing the question.
“Do you ever hurt yourself?” John asked. It wasn’t a question about the past. It wasn’t a question of whether he thought about it. John wanted to know if Sherlock Holmes had a habit of taking a razor, or a cigarette, or a stove burner, or whatever else he could think of, and using it to hurt his own body.
Had anyone ever asked him that before?
“In…nondirect ways..” Sherlock answered, “I used to do it…a lot more directly.”
“When?” John asked, “Wait, shit, sorry. Is that too much? You don’t need to answer–”
“When you first moved in…” Sherlock said, watching as John’s face fell, “I was doing it…a few times a week. At least.”
“Oh, Sherls,” John whispered.
“It got better, I mean, that’s why I wanted a flatmate.” Sherlock clarified. This conversation was heading into dangerous territory. Manipulative territory. Because if John knew that he was basically the thing holding Sherlock’s entire life together, he would feel as though he couldn’t leave. The only thing worse than John leaving him was John being forced to stay with him, and resenting him for it every moment of every day.
“You said you wanted a flatmate to help you keep a better routine,” John said.
“That is part of the truth,” Sherlock said, “But the primary reason…that I would not share on the podcast, for the record…was that my family insisted after I…I overdosed.”
John’s face froze in something between panic and sadness.
“Was it…?” John did not need to finish the question for Sherlock to understand. He wanted to know if Sherlock had attempted suicide.
Slowly, blinking quickly to keep himself from shedding the tears that had begun welling in his eyes, Sherlock nodded.
“Oh. Oh shit.” John said, “I wish I’d known.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Sherlock said, not entirely sure if he was relieved John knew now, or afraid of how it might change their relationship moving forward.
“I wouldn’t have judged you,” John said.
“But you would have been frightened of being the reason I tried again,” Sherlock said.
“But you didn’t,” John said. Sherlock must have given something away in his expression (he really did wish the light was off), because John suddenly looked stricken, “You didn’t…did you?”
“Not…I…I almost did.” Sherlock answered, “After Mary I couldn’t live with the guilt of everything that happened. Everything I put you through. Another shot and I could’ve drifted away and never woken up again. But Wiggins found me, and made me go home. I left the needle there, and I never told him that he saved my life that night. I regretted the fact I’d even thought about it by the next morning, when I saw you in the kitchen, making tea for the first time in weeks.”
John launched himself off the armchair and into Sherlock’s arms.
“Sorry, sorry,” He said, quickly pulling away, “I should have asked.”
“Yes, you should have,” Sherlock agreed, “But it’s alright, I appreciate the hug. It’s grounding.”
“I’m sorry you went through that,” John said, “And I’m sorry I was mad.”
“Don’t be.” Sherlock said, “I deserved it. I’m working on organizing my room a bit to accommodate my collection of papers. They’re important enough I can stand to keep them in my room.”
“I’m glad,” John said, “And I don’t know the solution to your problem…with the wall…but could you try…anything else? Anything just…don’t shoot the wall again…please.”
“Right, won’t do that again.” Sherlock said, “I promise.”
“Thank you,” John said, looking down, “Means a lot.”
“Don’t suppose you have any suggestions?” Sherlock asked, “On something better to do?”
“Boxing?” John asked, “You could give it a try. It’d suit you, I think.”
“Perhaps it would.” Sherlock agreed.
“And for the record, mate,” John said, “I think I knew by the time we were actually visiting flats that I didn’t really want to move. I just wanted you to believe there was a chance I could. I thought maybe you’d shape up.”
“That would have been useful information,” Sherlock said, feeling slightly hurt.
“I suppose it would have.” John sighed, “But I needed to get through to you.” he stifled a yawn at the end of the sentence, covering his mouth with one hand.
“Sorry to keep you up,” Sherlock said, glancing at the clock anxiously.
“I was already awake,” John said. “Are you okay right now?”
“I think so, yes.” Sherlock said, “And you?”
“Good. I’m glad we talked.” John said, slowly bringing himself to his feet, “I’m going back to bed.”
“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said, “I’m glad you’re still here.”
“I’m glad you’re still here, too, Sherlock.”