Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 3

JOHN'S POV

John was finishing up in the shower when Sherlock finally came home three hours later. He managed to jump out of the way just as Sherlock barged past him into the bathroom.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked. "It's been three hours. What were you doing?"

"I'm fine, John. Leave me alone," Sherlock replied. His voice was hoarse and gravelly.

"Okay, but meet me in the lounge room when you're done in there."

SHERLOCK'S POV

The cold of the bright tile floor seeped through his pants and into his shaking body. His hands were trembling, and his breathing rapid. He held the brand new, razor sharp blade in his right hand. He brought it down over his left wrist, prepared to slice his way through every fucking vein in his body, starting there.

But at the last second, he paused.

What would this do to John? How would he cope if this worked?

He shook his head, clearing his mind. He had to do this. Nothing else mattered. His whole life had been a series of downfalls, preparing for this. Exact. Moment.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the tip of the blade into the most visible vein until a bright puddle of blood grew. But he was only just getting started.

He counted to ten, and pulled the blade up his arm. Hard. He could feel it slice through vein, muscle and tendon. He dug his teeth into his shoulder, trying as hard as was humanly possible not to make any noise.

This attempt would work. He was sure of it.

After the shot of morphine he had given himself began to kick in, he transferred the now slick with blood razor to his left hand.

For what would be the last time, he counted to ten, and cut.

JOHN'S POV

After another half hour of waiting, Sherlock emerged in his dark purple shirt and his boxers. John grew even more scared, he was never seen as less than impeccable. Sherlock had deep black rings under his bloodshot eyes and he was stumbling around like a drunk. He fell onto the lounge and faced away from John, tucking his arms underneath his body.

"Sherlock, I know you don't want to talk about this, but we have to. This has been going on for how long? Ten years? That's a long time to have been addicted to selfharm, don't you think?" John recieved no reply.

"You have no idea how much this affects me, do you? Do you have even the slightest inclination as to how I fared while I thought you were dead? I was suicidal. I attempted suicide six times, Sherlock, and I don't want to see you go the same way." He sighed. "Are you even listening to me?"

He got up and looked over at Sherlock. His chest was hardly moving and his face had gone deathly pale. Johns heart raced as he gently pulled out his arms from underneath him and his fingers shook as he unbuttoned Sherlock's sleeves. Blood was flowing fast from deep slits on both wrists, about four inches long each. Only then did John realize that it was his dark purple shirt that helped hide the blood.

John quickly pulled off his own shirt and tore it in half, wrapping it tightly around both his wrists. He took Sherlock's pulse, a weak thud, thud, thud, against his blood stained fingertips.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherl?" He pulled out his mobile after receiving no response, and quickly dialed 999. The operator picked up on the first ring.

"999, what is your emergency?" answered a perky female voice.

"Hi, um yes, I need an ambulance. And quickly." He was unable to keep his voice from wobbling.

"What is the nature of your emergency?"

"My best friend has tried to kill himself. Please, you have to come quickly, I can't lose him. I just can't," he couldn't stop the tears now. The sight of his best friend half dead would be forever in his memory.

"Address?" the operator replied.

"221B Baker Street." John ended the call and placed his head on Sherlock's chest. The quiet beating of his heart calmed him enough to stop crying. "You can't die, you can't die, you can't die..." was the last thing John said before he fell asleep.
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John awoke suddenly as he felt a pair of hands helping him off Sherlock's body.

"Sir, are you okay?" It was a young male ambulance officer.

"Yes, yes, I'm f-fine, please help my friend. Please." The tears returned as he watched an oxygen mask being put over Sherlock's pale face.

John jumped up to follow the ambulance officers down the stairs with Sherlock on a stretcher, but stopped when he saw the bathroom door still open. He attempted suicide then cleaned up the bloody mess, John realized.

"Are you coming, sir?" yelled one of the officers from the bottom of the staircase.

"Yes, sorry." John quickly stuttered. He wiped away a stray tear and ran down the stairs two at a time.