Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 19

Sherlock's POV

The door creaked open, stirring Sherlock. He slowly opened his eyes, half fearing Moriarty had made another return - forever frightening him, though he would never admit it. Sherlock's pounding heart skipped a beat when he realised it was John.

John noticed the rapid beeping of the heart monitor and his brow creased with confusion.

"Are you okay, Sherlock? Do you need me to get someone?"

Looking away, embarrassed, Sherlock mumbled a 'no'. He just hoped John didn't guess why his heart was beating so fast.

"OK," John cleared his throat before he continued. "Um, well. I've spoken to your primary doctor, Dr. Holt, and he says that you could probably be discharged today. If - if that's what you want, of course."

Every fibre of Sherlock's broken being screamed with yearning to go home. He longed to be surrounded by familiarity. More than that, though, he longed to have easy access to blades, pills, drugs, alcohol; anything remotely self destructive.

Trying to hold in the word 'yes', he looked up at John. His eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed. Shit. He'd been crying, and for a while, by the looks of it. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his forehead was creased. His usually neat hair was mussed, sticking up in every which way like he'd run his hands through it more times than could be counted.

He looked like hell, and there was no one to blame but himself.

"What do you think I should do?" Sherlock had put John through hell; the least he could do was try to make things easier on him.

John sighed in reply; a deep, sad sigh. "If it were up to me, Sherl, I would keep you in here for as long as it takes for you to realise you can't live like this anymore. Fuck... ," his last word coming out as a pained whisper. "I'm sorry. I just wish - Never mind. You're an adult, Sherlock. I can't keep you in here against your will. It's your decision to make."

Sherlock's heart ached at the pain in his words. What had John done to deserve such a pathetic friend? The right thing to do would be to admit himself to a psych ward, if only to spare John the pain of having to deal with him. Even so, the thought of being trapped in a place where sobs were the soundtrack to the night and the rooms were filled with tortured souls very nearly drove him insane. He just couldn't subject himself to that - no matter how high his level of self hatred was - and that probably made him the most selfish person alive, he thought.

Sherlock took a deep breath, bracing himself. "John, right now, I just really want to go home. I think being around familiar things would help more than being stuck in a ward would. I wish more than anything that I could please you and do what you want, but I just can't. I'm sorry," his voice broke and he looked away, but not so soon that he missed the look of disappointment on Johns face.

He nodded, like he had been expecting that answer from the beginning. "Fine."

John turned around and left the room, leaving a stunned Sherlock in silence, having not expected him to agree so easily.

A sad smile crept onto his face. Sherlock was going home.