I Am Offering This Scarf

Chapter 11- John...

//I have a gift for you guys!! Sherlock's POV!!//

//Sherlock's POV//

John's head falls against the wall and a soft snoring sound starts to vibrate out of his chest. His sleeve is still up, the needle from the medicine to put him out still in his arm. I carefully extract it and brush my thumb along each of the scars on his forearm. Not from self harm, but from war.

I pull on his sleeve, loosening it up and pulling it over his arm. I can't continue to deal with that. The thought of him hurt at all carves at my insides. "Oh, John. How much of this is my own fault?" The words tumble out of my mouth in a whisper. All of it... Maybe I should leave. He seems– no. That's exactly the problem. He needs me here or things like this'll happen, just worse.

Like I've said, we're dangerous. Together we cause a chemical reaction. I do like chemistry, but, nine times out of ten, the experiment fails. John says he's not gay. Maybe he's not. Maybe I'm not. We're going to be used against each other. That's a no-brainer. One of us is going to die, and this time I don't know if the Lazarus code will work. I'm not thinking it will. It's almost certainly going to be John. He can't leave. I need him here.

What if he had jumped while I was 'dead'?

Mycroft wouldn't have told me. Wouldn't have told me why, anyway. He would say he...got in an accident or...moved away.

If John died I couldn't deal with it.

It would be a modern Romeo and Juliet story.

I need to call Mycroft. I'm becoming too full of emotion. My legs feel numb as I back away from an unconscious John. The phone is smooth in my fingers, the scratches on the back barely registering. I sit down on the couch never taking my eyes off of John. The ringing continues until his voicemail eventually picks up.

"If you're anyone to do with the British government, go ahead and leave a message. If you're Sherlock, don't call again. You know I rarely use this phone." It beeps and the message ends. I've never gotten his voicemail before. It is late...

I clear my throat. "Call back at once." I pause with a sigh. "Please?" I add as an afterthought. Short and brief. I set the phone on the couch next to me. A weird thought invades my mind- I wonder why I never get texts from Irene anymore... Oh yes, she's supposed to be 'dead.' John told me she was in America. A pure lie. He didn't want me to know she was dead. Watching out for me even when we weren't together...

Of course, I'm the only one who knows she's not.

She doesn't exactly like John. We've talked about it before. He doesn't really like her either. No idea why.

The phone begins to vibrate and I snatch it up off the couch, answering it before it gets the chance to start vibrating again. "Hello, brother."

His voice is a tired panic. "Sherlock, what is wrong? Don't tell me you need another favor."

I laugh sadly. "Why must something be wrong Mycroft? Why do you always think I need a favor? Can't I just call you as your brother? Your blood?" My voice cracks on the word brother, and I sniffle after finishing my questions.

He sighs. "Sherlock, you sound like you're in pain. I can send a car if you need it. Where are you?"

I bring my legs up to my chest in the fetal position from instinct. "I'm at home Mycroft. I have a problem, though." My words are nearly a whisper as I complain to him.

The sounds of sheets shifting can be heard across the phone, and after, the small thud of something on wood. He's leaning against his headboard. When he speaks, it's incredibly annoyed. "And? If it's something with your relationship, you know I'm not the person to-"