Soon one became ten. Then ten became twenty. The pull of the razor as it slowly split his skin sent shivers through his whole body. Leaving inch long slits all along his left forearm. Blood had already began to create red bumps along each angry cut. Slowly the bumps grew larger until finally spilling over and staining his pale skin as they raced down to drip tiny specks onto the tiles. Sighing deeply, the detectives hand went limp, dropping the slightly stained razor, barely aware of the tiny clink it made as it made contact with the bathroom floor. Sherlock tipped his head back a little as his mind was completely ripped away and all that remained in his head was the strong throbbing of his arm. He sat on the cool tiles, leaning against the wall, until he was on the verge of sleep, not from blood loss, but from how calm his mind and body had become. He was so drowsy, he never heard the front door of 221B open and slam shut in frustration.
A rather cross John came stomping up the stairs and flung open the door to the flat. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it onto the chair. Seconds later flinging himself onto the sofa and deflating into the soft cushions. He lay unmoving for a few minutes, his face pressed against the fabric of the sofa, arms hugging one of the throw pillows tightly to his chest. Evidently, his date didn't go as planned. Suddenly his mind was pulled from the unfortunate events of his evening to an unspoken question. Where was Sherlock?
Rising slowly, he sat up and glanced around the room for the first time since arriving home. The room was empty. He noticed Sherlocks violin resting on the chair Sherlock had claimed as his. Strange, Sherlock always took such great care of his instrument, he must have needed to leave in a hurry to have neglected it. John pulled out his phone and shot the detective a fast text.
Where are you? -JW
Before John could even stand, he heard a faint vibrating noise somewhere in the flat. It was Sherlocks phone. Johns brow furrowed at the thought. Sherlock would never leave the flat without his phone. The faint sound ended within seconds and Johns head twisted towards the detectives room. Sherlock couldn't possibly be sleeping, though John as he slid from his his position on the sofa and made his way through the kitchen. Sherlocks bedroom door was closed, as usual. John raised a fist and knocked softly.
"Sherlock? Are you in there?"
The army doctor received only silence as an answer. Slowly he turned the door knob and opened the creaky door an inch. "Sherlock?" When he was met yet again with silence, he opened the door all the way and turned his attention to the bed.
Only Sherlock wasn't in it. The detectives phone was laying on the side table by the bed. His eyes darted around the room but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. About to leave, Johns eye was caught by the light that came from the door that connected the bathroom to Sherlocks room. Through the tinted glass John couldn't see any movement. Fairly positive the younger man wasn't in a very personal position, he swung open the door and was awe struck at what he saw.
It felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs and he was left feeling utterly lost for a moment. The detective was seated on the floor, leaning against the wall and the side of the tub. His left arm facing up, showing the brilliant red marks that littered his flesh. The bleeding had stopped, but his arm was smudged in rusty smears of dried blood. They weren't very deep, but there was many. Mentally shaking himself, John was flung into doctor mode and kneeled beside the pale man, shaking his shoulders softly. The detective shifted a bit and opened his heavy eyes half an inch. John could see the confusion in his face as his mind made its way back into place. Very suddenly Sherlock realized what had happened, he had been caught.
"Shh, Sherlock, its alright, i'm going to take a look at your arm now, okay?" Sherlock only stared at him.
Taking that as an okay, John lifted the bloodied arm softly and inspected it. The cuts where shallow and none needed stitches. As he began dabbing off the dried mess, his mind was racing around like mad trying to comprehend the situation. Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes, was sitting in a heap on the floor of their bathroom with an arm riddled with angry gashes. And scars to, as John cleaned of more of the red blood, he noticed faint white lines covering the mans arm, others were pink from different stages of healing. The doctor didn't let his thoughts show in his actions as he cleaned and bandaged the arm in clean wrapping. When he was done an awkward silence hung in the air. Sherlock had came down from the pain high as his arm was being looked after. He stared, slightly wide-eyed at the corner of the room. Frantically trying to come up with an excuse as to why his best friend just found him bloody on the bathroom floor.
"I should go…" John said slowly, cutting him off again. Standing up from where he had been beside Sherlock, he slowly made his way out of the bathroom through the way he came in, leaving a very shocked detective still on the floor.
He sat in the bathroom for a few moments before he pushed himself off the ground with his right arm and peeked out of the bathroom door towards John, who was standing by the kettle, staring at it like he had forgotten how to use it. Sherlock decided if John wasn't going to talk about what happened then he was perfectly alright with that. Swiftly, he pulled the sleeve of his shirt over the bandages and walked over to the sofa, flopping himself down in his natural way. The high from the pain long gone, leaving only the sting of his wounds as they were pulled and stretches as he rolled over the face the back cushion.
He heard the kettle clip into action from the kitchen and within minutes it whistled away loudly. Tracking Johns movement, he listened as the doctor lifted two mugs from the shelf and set them on the counter. He sighed softly as he heard the shorter mans soft foots steps enter the living room and place a mug of green tea on the side table closest to Sherlock. Closing his eyes, he snuggled further into the warmth of the cushions and zone out as John absent-mindedly picked up the paper he'd already read that day. Clearly he had no idea what to say, so Sherlock made it easy for them both and swirled around strikingly fast and stood up as he grabbed the hot mug of tea, and made his was through the kitchen. He was almost to his room when John spoke up. His whole body tensed.
"We're talking about this tomorrow, Sherlock."