sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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Well, at least he’s talking. Keep going. John leant forward. “Ok, but, see, you’re not generally speaking nice to Anderson. In fact you’re noted for not being nice to him, which I rather enjoy because Anderson is, after all, a git. And much as I enjoy your company, I’ve come to not expect you to be sociable, at least not reliably. So why even worry about those plates, why not let them fall?”

“Because generally speaking I’m not trying to be sociable, or appease Anderson. So it doesn’t matter. But when I lose the balance, and one plate goes, they all go. Like dominoes, if you’ll permit a change of imagery.”

Ok. He doesn’t mind when you don’t understand, as long as you’re trying. “So. Let me check I’ve got this. Usually, it’s fine to be rude to Anderson, because he’s a git.”

“Yes.”

“But today things were getting out of control, so it was important that you could make small talk with me about the best local Indian takeaway to prove that you weren’t about to stop being able to solve crimes.”

“Yes.”

“And when that didn’t work and you started getting arsey, you decided to cut to – what, think about something else? And get that control back.”

“I take issue with ‘decided’, it’s more like ‘needed’. But yes.”

“Right. Ok. That makes…no sense, but I can see where you’re coming from.” Butbutbutbut- “But here’s what I want to know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you?”

“Tonight, before I left. Why didn’t you tell me you needed to cut?”

For the first time in the conversation, Sherlock looked confused by the question. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Why? Because I could have helped, Sherlock, that’s why. I could’ve…I don’t know, exactly, but Christ, Sherlock, you let me walk out the sodding door when you had every intention of slicing your wrist with a razorblade.”

“Yes. I am unutterably glad you went out tonight.”

John’s heart clenched. Oh God it is all my fault. “Because I was making it worse.”

“Because – what? No. At least, not – you, being you, was not making it worse.”

“But?”

“Your being here was. You were one more plate to spin.”

I’m a burden. I shouldn’t be a burden. “You should have told me. You should have asked me for help.”

“No. Did you hear me say I needed it? When your patients need antibiotics, you don’t send them to a psychotherapist. Your intervention was not what I needed tonight. I didn’t need company for this.”

Why did that sound familiar? ‘Don’t leave Sherlock alone tonight. He needs company.’ Jesus. He even warned me. “Mycroft disagrees.”

“Mycroft never understood.”

“At least he – I didn’t even notice.” How could I not notice?

“Well thank God for that. That’s the most fundamental plate, John, you’re not meant to notice.”

I’m not meant to notice. And he thinks he needs it and he doesn’t want help. I have nowhere else to go. He aimed for his command voice, his Captain’s voice, but it emerged like a small child begging. “I want you to stop.”

John watched Sherlock consider this, and then withdraw into himself, as if he wanted to hear as little as possible of what he was about to say. “Mycroft took my penknife, once, when we were younger. He could tell I’d been cutting, he could always tell, and that’s all I had to do it with. He hid it somewhere I couldn’t deduce.”

“And?”

“I’m already pretty on edge when I get to that point. When I need it. So when I opened that drawer and it wasn’t there – it was, as you say, not good.”

“What happened?”

“Mycroft found me fifteen minutes later, gnawing on my arm and pulling it apart with my fingernails, and having a panic attack because it wasn’t helping. There was – rather a lot of blood. Trust me when I say it would have been safer to use the knife.”

“Sherlock.” And that was not a tone he ever wanted Sherlock to hear. Sad and helpless and, God, that was pity, wasn’t it? He’ll hate me, I know he will, but I have to try.

“So taking away your blades won’t help.”

“No.”

“Nor would talking to me.”

“No.”

“And I suppose seeing a –“

“Please go away John.”

There must be something. There must betheremustbetheremustbe- John stared absently at the table. “Your tea’ll be cold.”

“Yes, John. You can make me some tea.”

I don't usually read cutting fics since they generally don't reflect my experiences, but this is an exception. Sherlock still seems like himself. Good work!

Very good depiction of both sides of the situation. Any chance of a follow up with how this changes their relationship?

This is great. I love it. What I especially like, like the other anon said, that you did this and managed to keep it so Sherlock still liked himself. I'm so curious if John is going to find a viable substitute.

A!A here: I hadn’t planned to write a sequel, but then you got me thinking – what would John do? And this is the conclusion I reached. If anyone’s still checking the thread, thank you for the comments, and I hope they both still sound in character.

To repeat: trigger warning for self-harm, probably more so than the original fill.

---------

Somehow, the evening passed. John made the tea, then brushed his teeth, then went to bed. It would have been just like any other evening if he hadn’t been thinking theremustbetheremustbetheremustbe ceaselessly. Exhausted, he finally fell asleep at 3am.

……….

Somehow, days passed. John stayed on high-alert, hyper-aware of Sherlock’s mood and terrified of leaving him alone. He rushed home from the surgery, cancelled plans to see Mike. Felt his ears prick up like a dog’s every time Sherlock moved into a different room. Spent seemingly endless hours sat in his armchair, desperate to be there but not knowing what to say.

Three days in, Sherlock finally broke the silence. “It makes it harder. That you know.”

Voice rusty, John had to clear his throat before answering. “Why?”

“I told you. It’s the most fundamental plate.”

“Well, I’m sorry. You know I can’t just – delete things, the way you can.”

“So you’ve said. But obsessing over it doesn’t seem to be doing either of us any good, does it?”

……….

And somehow, weeks passed. John caught up with Mike, went for a pint with Lestrade, forced himself to take the picturesque route home. At first he took every opportunity he could to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s arms, thinking if he could just work out when he did it… But it took Sherlock all of thirteen hours to catch on, and he delivered such a death-glare that John hastily switched to studious avoidance instead.

Gradually the air in 221b became a little less fraught, and life carried on. They shared takeaways, dashed out to crime scenes, bickered over exploding Tupperware in the cupboards. He never entirely forgot, but sometimes John went for days without the desire to take every sharp thing from the flat and pitch it into the Thames.

……….

A couple of months later, and after a six-day case hiatus that had Sherlock climbing the walls, he finally got a call from Lestrade at 4am on a Sunday. He yelled John out of bed, and they were hailing a cab within seven minutes.

Please let this be something puzzle distraction something not tired stuck blank so tired what oh “Newcomen Street” so aimless lost untethered just need focus focus cut sting slash pain just need stop John remember John and stop clenching he’ll see just focus come on Borough bus routes river entry points recent arrest trends market access times-

They were ducking under the police tape outside a pub in Southwark fifteen long minutes later.

Once through the door Sherlock made a beeline for the corpse, a young man sprawled face-down across the bar, dangling so he looked grotesquely like an abandoned puppet except for the pool of blood spreading between the beer pumps. He crouched by the victim’s hands and got to work.

Killed on-site four six seven possible scenarios no defensive injuries five possible yellow grainy residue iris orchid lily shirt tight night out not designer four hair blond bleached tastes like-

In the background he dimly noticed John say, “Thanks for the call. What’ve you got?”, and tried to pay attention to the answer as he moved to the other side of the bar. Killed on-site but positioned three-

“Adam Mortimer, sixteen years old. Son of the landlord, found by his mother at two thirty this morning. Estimated time of death about an hour earlier, looks like he bled out thanks to a-”

-wallet tenner phone keys Oyster two possible gym leaflet wet folded dried one possible really Lestrade why not admit defeat and retire and spend your time growing potatoes and coaching your nephew’s rugby team don’t waste our time pretending you’re actually a competent stop it stop it you can’t let go not when there’s nothing to-

“-stab wound to the gut. Goes to the local comp, no gang affiliation we know about yet. Pretty ordinary kid as far as it goes. No sign of a break in, and the gate to the loading bay’s-”

-and yes rain marks from six eight hours ago one possible just one no distraction today.

“-unlocked. Nothing to go on.”

As the DI drew to a close, Sherlock pulled away from the victim’s shoes and sat back on his heels with a sigh. “It was the brother of the new delivery girl at the nearest florist.” He stood up and turned back towards the door to leave.

“And the fairies told you that, did they?” sneered Anderson, lurking in a corner.

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic so yes Anderson I might as well have been told by fairies for all the hope you have of comprehending the observational and deductive processes that led me to the conclusion and yet perhaps if you attempted to join me a little further along the spectrum so I wasn’t being called on hopes raised dashed with such frequency you’d have got that promotion you went for last month quite finished ok now turn and answer and HOLD YOUR TONGUE.

Sherlock turned back, and in as even a tone as he could manage, replied. “No. I suggest you consider the pollen under his fingernails, the source and condition of the flyer in his pocket, his brand of hair gel and the watermarks on the bottom three inches of his jeans. If you want an image of your killer, you could do worse than check the CCTV recordings from all bus stops within a two-mile radius between eight and eleven o’clock last night.”

There see self-control now back out in a cab before it dissolves entirely just get home at least there there’s just John sometimes Mrs Anderson usually just John and he barely counts as company you can manage with just John as long as you don’t think don’t imagine don’t itch for cut dig slash bleed fuck no stop no stop-

Just remembering in time to give a civil nod to Lestrade, he turned up the collar of his Belstaff and ducked back outside to hail a taxi.

……….

The drive back to Baker Street was a quiet one. John made one attempt to chat: “Not having a go at Lestrade for dragging you out on such a straightforward case?”

“I imagine he inferred my view on that point all by himself.” Sherlock kept watching the quiet streets as they sped along the empty-for-once roads, and John decided to leave him to it.

Dawn was just beginning to break when they got back to the flat. Deciding it was too late to go back to bed, John made a stack of toast and settled down to catch up on emails to his old army mates still on tour in Afghanistan. Sherlock curled up on the sofa and continued to stare at nothing in particular. In fact, John nearly forgot he was there until he realised, about twenty minutes later, that he could hear Sherlock breathing.

Well that’s unusual. Usually he’s quieter than a ninja. The breaths were steady and regular, just heavier and, when timed, a little faster than John was comfortable with. Regulated breathing. Instinctive technique to control panic. Shit. Not wanting to spook Sherlock, he was careful to remain outwardly calm and keep apparently emailing, though in fact he was typing nonsense lines from nursery rhymes and focussing entirely on Sherlock, who might hyperventilate at any moment.

The exhalations started to get slightly ragged, and John was just bracing himself to say something when Sherlock launched himself off the sofa and towards the bathroom. Sod this thought John, pushing his laptop aside and following behind.

He got to the bathroom to find Sherlock rifling through the back of the cabinet, which was obscured by the myriad of first-aid treatments John had discovered were necessary when living with Sherlock Holmes. “They’d better be here John. If they’re not, if you’ve taken-”

How could he think that? “I wouldn’t, Sherlock. I wouldn’t. Not after you said – anyway, you’d know, it’s been months-”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently and knocked over a couple of bottles in his haste to find the blades. “No. I haven’t, not since then.”

What? “Not once?”

“You didn’t like it. I tried to not need it.”

John tried to take that on board as he watched Sherlock finally find the tiny plastic case and take a deep, shaky breath in relief. He slid down the wall to the floor, back to the ceramic tile, and started peeling the paper off one of the blades with trembling fingers. “Leave now.”

God no. Hearing those words, John suddenly worked out why he’d been feeling so helpless, and knew there was only one thing to do. The words came out without him even thinking. “I want to stay.”

Sherlock didn’t even look up. “Stay? Piss off, right now. You’re not staying.”

Well I’m bloody well not sitting out there reading the football scores while you’re locked in here cutting yourself to shreds. “You said you needed it, Sherlock, you said it was like antibiotics. Well, fine. But when I give my patients treatments I think are dangerous or painful or might not work, I stay with them. I hold them for observation, I stay by the bed, I don’t leave them alone in a bleeding, shaking heap on the bathroom floor. And Sherlock, when my friends are having a bad time, I stay. Whether it’s under fire with their foot just blown off, or on the sofabed ‘cause their girlfriend’s just walked out, or right here, right now, because your damn brain won’t give you a break for two consecutive seconds. I stay.”

Sherlock stared down at the paper in his left hand and the blade in his right. He looks so lost. God, this is terrifying. “Your friend had his foot blown off?”

John nodded, though Sherlock wasn’t looking, and tried his very best not to remember. “Kept telling me he’d had worse.”

“Did it help, your staying?”

John sighed, and crouched down so he was on a level with Sherlock. “Well, I stopped him bleeding to death. And kept him calm. He still had his mind when we got him home. Yes, I think it helped.”

With a quick twist of his neck Sherlock looked straight at John, and said sharply, “Did it help you?”

There you are, thought John, I haven’t lost you yet. “I- yes. It did, and so would this. But Sherlock, that’s not why I’m asking. This isn’t about you keeping me spinning, I want you to know I’m here, always. That you’ve got more than just cutting to fall back on.”

Sherlock’s lips twisted bitterly. “Nothing else helps.”

I really hope this isn’t as insane as it’s starting to feel. “Will you let me try? I might not be an expert at spinning plates, but I am very good at calm. And I think you might find calm helpful. Will you let me be here, and keep you calm?”

Sherlock’s eyes went from sharp and insightful to a panicked and a little bit desperate, and John knew he was staying put. A moment later Sherlock nodded once, quickly, and John breathed a mental sigh of relief. Ok. Next problem. “Look, you can’t do it in this state.” He looked down at Sherlock’s hands and shuddered at the thought of a surgeon using a scalpel while shaking that badly. “God knows what you’ll hit.”

“Usually I do it sooner, before I get into-”

“I know, but it’s fine, we can get you back. You were doing it before, remember, the breathing. Look at me, Sherlock.” He put one hand on each of Sherlock’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Deep breaths, with me. In, and out. In, and out. That’s it. In, and out. Keep going.” He looked back down at Sherlock’s hands. Steady. “There you go. Much better.”

“I don’t want you to watch.”

I don’t even know if I could. “That’s fine. I’ll stay right here behind you.” John wedged himself between Sherlock and the bath, and slid one hand under Sherlock’s left forearm to hold it steady. “There. I can’t see a thing.” He leant into Sherlock’s back and, taking a deep breath, felt Sherlock relax incrementally against him. “Ok?”

John saw the back of Sherlock’s head nod. Then heard almost a whisper, “I still need it, John.”

John’s throat spasmed, and he bit back a sob. “I know.” Stay calm. He needs you to be calm. Blinking furiously, wrapped his right arm across Sherlock’s chest, cradling him. “Go ahead. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

……….

This is amazing. I don't think I've ever read a fic that involved self-harm that managed to have Sherlock and John in character, but this is lovely. I hope you'll continue this story and maybe even more in this series? I'd love to read whatever you'll write!

Take grip rest blade on skin fingers blade arm John’s hand steady check hand steady deep breath in John’s arm chest now press dig pull gogogohardergogo lift and gogohardergogogo lift faster gogogo and again, and again, John’s hand now lift, and watch the blood bead, slower there, see, where you eased off, go again and press harderouchharderouchharder that’s it, one more and feel it feel it feel it, blood then cut then arm then John’s hand, focus, John’s hand and pulse and arm and chest and breath. His breath on my neck. In, and out. In, and out. Focus. He’s here. I’m back, the balance is back, and he’s here. We’re both still here.

How extraordinary.

God, I loved this, and that I stayed around is a huge compliment from me because I have a blood squick, so reading it was very hard for me. Thank you for providing some insight into cutting.

This was excellent, thank you.

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