Charm and Strange: I've cranked another one out! Thanks goes to Mirith Griffin for inspiring this little beauty in one of our conversations. There will be chapters, updated every two weeks or sooner upon pain of death.

Scene One: Sherlock's Diary

17 March, 7:34pm.

Thoughtful silence. Then: [backspace].

The Records of One Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street

God no. If Mycroft had a journal, I'm sure this is how it would start—"The Records of Mycroft Holmes, Esq., of Her Majesty's Kingdom, London, England..."

Dear Diary.

What am I, a prepubescent twelve year old girl weeping over her first shallow broken heart?

Later. I'm doing this later. I need tea. Possibly something stronger. Like gaseous dihydrogen sulphide served in a floral-patterned tea cup.

Entry One, 7:43pm. There's no milk. Or sugar. How does one make tea without milk and sugar? John must have taken it to his hotel.

And there we go. I knew I couldn't avoid it—the reason why I'm taking a leaf out of John's therapist's book, even if I don't think she deserves any sort of degree. State funded doctors, all substandard, every single one of them.

Well, diary, John's gone.

For good this time. I'm certain.

Entry Two, Unspecified Time, Approximately Two Days After Entry One

What does one write in these? All the case notes I need are stored safely in my mind, and there's nothing else worth noting or remembering. John obviously didn't have a better idea. He only wrote about our cases. My cases.

He just tagged along. It's not as if I needed him. He was just company. I'm not going to miss having to slow down to explain things to him, that's certain. And he's so unreasonable, filled with odd ideas about humanity. Where else is one supposed to keep meat, other than in the refrigerator? And what is a human head, if not meat? Why should I care about the victims if the emotional involvement is only going to get in my way later?

Ugh. I detest overly emotional displays like the above. This is clearly why I've limited my website to work-related aspects only. The violin calls.

Entry Three, Approximately Ten Days After Entry Two

That title is ridiculous. I will change it as soon as I think of a suitable replacement.

Lestrade had a case. Quite interesting. It involved ex-IRA rebels and a Miss America pageant. I can assure you, I would not have attended if I could have helped it. Cleveland is a deplorable town not worthy of human habitation. As for the ex-IRA members...well, let's just say I've successfully solidified several contacts in Ireland I didn't have before. Big Brother is always watching.

But I won't list out the case here as it's already written up on my web page. I do hate to repeat information.

There is one thing I was wrong about, however. I do miss

Autosaved on 30 March, 3:24am

Scene Two: The Valley Between Intent and Dreams

John, come back at once. SH

No, too controlled. John wouldn't leave his first anniversary dinner for that.

John, danger! SH

Something better would be helpful, not something worse.

John, please come home. I need you SH

Sherlock sat back, staring at his phone and admiring his handiwork. Perfect. No better way to get John away from Susan than to subtly remind him that Baker Street was still home and that he was indeed still wanted and needed there. The missing period would just be the icing on the cake, leading John to believe Sherlock was seriously in distress. Sherlock was never ungrammatical if he could help it.

It would still take at least an hour for him to get back, what with that woman poisoning his mind and John's own loyalty to Sherlock warring with his affection for her. But maybe that was a good thing—it would give Sherlock plenty of time to think up a reason for his summons. He bit his lip and sent the text, leaning back in the kitchen chair to contemplate excuses.

It would work, simply because Sherlock could not afford it to fail.

He was still at the kitchen table, but this time he was facing a veritable forest of Erlenmeyer flasks and beakers, all filled with various colored liquids and in various stages of precipitation. What better excuse for John than an experiment gone wrong? The test tube in question was held carefully in his dominant hand, fingers clenched white around the glass; this brand shattered rather spectacularly when hit at the right angle, Sherlock knew well. He furrowed his brows at the thin white liquid held inside; the acid was relatively mild, but burned and stung when in contact with skin.

Simply put, it was recipe for disaster, especially if one was distracted by something—say, oh, one's phone vibrating while in his pants pocket.

The pre-timed alarm on his mobile went off in his trousers, just as the kettle started whistling on the stove. Sherlock swallowed hard at the beaker in his hand. This would hurt.

Quickly, in one swift move, he knocked the glass tube in his hand hard against the microscope. Glass flew everywhere, coated with the white liquid. Beakers reacted with the new chemical and fizzed, frothed, smoked, changed colors, changed the color of his shirt. Blood drops landed on the beakers, the microscope, the table, the wall. His newly discolored shirtsleeve was now dark with his blood, and oh, did it burn! Corrosive pain lanced up his hand and forearm as the chemical seeped into his bloodstream.

He didn't notice the chair fall over, or when his haste to get up had knocked several other beakers to the floor. They pooled in one mess, the chemicals not mixing, but causing the spill to swirl together in a kaleidoscope of rusty reds, yellows, silvers, and whites. The water from the tap hit his wrist and he sighed, the pain dulling as the chemicals on his skin were slowly diluted. He turned slightly, taking in the effect of his planning: the chaotic chemical spill, the crime scene-worthy blood spatter on the wall and table, the blood and sweat and water soaking his own torso.

It all looked rather worse than it was. The razor sharp glass certainly was theatrical, but there was only one truly deep cut, and none of the chemicals he'd used would have lasting effects on him or Mrs. Hudson's furniture. If he had enacted his plan when he'd sent the text to John, the bleeding would have slowed to a mere trickle before he arrived back at Baker Street; he'd had to do it all a mere twenty minutes before John would return. At the most, all he'd need would be a few stitches.

He shut the water off, wincing slightly when he jarred his cut wrist against the tap. He carefully unbuttoned his shirt one handed and pulled it off, throwing it haphazardly against a chair as if he'd taken it off to stop the burns from continuing. The sleeve was, after all, completely soaked. A rag John used to dry off the dishes now became Sherlock's bandage, and he pressed it hard against the wound, biting off a curse; it wouldn't do for the bleeding to be too intense, or John would certainly know the injury had been less than an hour old. He walked shirtless to the living room and settled into his favorite armchair, cradling his injured wrist to him and draping his dressing gown across his shoulders. Now to await the aftermath.

"Goddammit, Sherlock, you'd better have a bloody good reason for interrupting this!" John thundered from the hallway, anger making his steps quick and heavy; purposeful. He heard Susan shut the door quietly behind him, not caring enough to make pleasantries about taking her coat and such things. He opened the door to their flat, or, more accurately, turned the knob and shoved the rest of the wood out of his way. "The one night I ask off in weeks! You'd better be bleeding out on the floor, you..."

The words died on his lips as he took in the sight of the living room. The room was dark, despite the light filtering through from the kitchen; Sherlock had pulled the doors mostly shut, and the curtains in the living room were drawn to block out light from the streetlamps below. Despite this, John could tell...something was off. Wrong. "Stay out there," John told Susan, not bothering to turn around or keep his voice down. If someone was in the flat, they'd have heard both of them by now. "Keep the door closed. Don't come in unless I call you."

She nodded, eyes wide and afraid, and shut the door in front of her. Keeping to his military training, John expanded his senses as much as he could with anger and frustration pounding in his brain and the tinny whistle of the kettle blocking out all other noise. Piles of papers and files had been knocked over. The coffee table had been wrenched to one side and one cushion from the couch had been pulled off. Books had been scattered across the floor, some open and spines cracking. It looked like an all out brawl had taken place in their small sitting room...or that someone in great pain had stumbled around, desperately searching for help.

John's stomach lurched. There was no sign of Sherlock.

As he neared the kitchen, the acrid smell of chemicals almost overwhelmed him. One of Sherlock's experiments, to be sure. John cursed and sighed in annoyance and walked through open the doors, expecting to see Sherlock sitting there, angry at the interruption, having completely forgotten about the text.

What he didn't expect was a crime scene. John looked around in horror, backing up into the living room in shock. Blood adorned the walls and cabinets in a nearly-arterial spray; beakers and flasks had reacted and fallen over, evaporating and discoloring Mrs. Hudson's linoleum. There was still water and blood in the sink; Sherlock's blood soaked shirt was thrown carelessly over a chair. And over it all, the tiny shards of a broken vial that must have contained the acid that had bleached Mrs. Hudson's table a pale, unfinished maple.

He switched off the kettle automatically, jaw clenching. Sherlock couldn't have lost that much blood and been alright, not for an hour. At the very least he'd have passed out. John needed to find him. Immediately. He turned around, throwing the kitchen doors wide to let out the light and heading back into the living room.

That's when he saw it. There was a scattered trail of red drops leading haphazardly to Sherlock's favorite chair, which was...Oh dear Lord.

John sprinted to the chair, heart not beating, face pale from shock. "Susan! Call 999! Sherlock's bleeding out!"

Sherlock's armchair was soaked with blood. It had pooled on the seat, trickled down the legs. Sherlock must have slipped off the seat when he passed out. John threw himself to the blood-slicked floor, reaching for his flatmate with hands that should have been trembling but were actually perfectly steady. He was pale, much to pale, obviously anemic, covered in his own blood. It had dried in brown streaks on his naked chest, ran in red rivulets down his chest and into his hair, soaked his pants half-way down the thigh.

Tied to his wrist as a makeshift tourniquet was the drying rag. "Susan!" John roared, fingers scrabbling to pull the wet, knotted rag off and pressing deep into the wound, trying to stop the trickling blood. His slippery fingers found the artery and veins and he pressed down, fingers white and muscles shaking with effort.

This accomplished, he shoved one hand to Sherlock's neck and quickly took his pulse, cursing when it was much too low and his skin much too cold. John looked around, fear and emotion making him nearly panic. Where was that woman? "Susan! I need a blanket! Get Sherlock's coat first, then the one from my bed, up the stairs! HURRY!"

And then he was pulling the heavy coat onto Sherlock's cold, nearly lifeless body one-handed, tucking his thick quilt into the contours of his best friend's body, still holding his arteries closed with a hand numb from the effort. He shucked off his own coat and jumper hurriedly, adding it to the pile, and laid one hand across Sherlock's forehead to monitor his temperature and breathing. "Keep breathing, Sherlock, come on," John murmured, biting his lip and looking to the windows. That bloody ambulance had better get here soon; John couldn't afford to let go of Sherlock's wrist long enough to stitch the wound up himself.

A low moan sounded from below him and Sherlock winced, eyes opening blurrily. "John? What..."

John looked down into Sherlock's face in shock and couldn't help but smile, panting in relief. "Shh, don't you worry, alright? It'll be fine. I'll take care of you."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus on something over John's shoulder and John didn't even know how it was possible for his already pale face to blanch even more.

"John, Susan, no, I don't—" Sherlock coughed weakly, his thin frame wracked and contorted even at the small force. "I don't want her here, John..."

"Don't pay attention to her, Sherlock. Just concentrate on me, alright? I want you to stay awake. Tell me what you were doing over there, okay?"

The simple request seemed to throw Sherlock off, and he kept glancing from John's face to Susan in the kitchen. He opened his mouth, breath quickening, but said nothing.

"Careful in there, Susan. He's got chemical burns."

"John," Susan's voice called softly from the direction of the kitchen, giving no indication she'd heard him. "John, you need to see this..."

He cursed, jaw clenching and fingers tightening around Sherlock's body. "I did, Susan," he snapped. "It doesn't matter right now! Let me concentrate on not letting him die, alright!"

Just then, a wail sounded from up the street and pounding started at the downstairs door. "Open the door, Susan," John commanded, turning from Sherlock momentarily. Susan didn't move from examining some beaker on the kitchen table. "Listen, I don't care if you found the stolen crown jewels in there! Let the damned paramedics in!"

And then she was stumbling, running down the stairs, throwing open the door, and there were men there, asking what happened and John was telling them about the arterial spray and the makeshift tourniquet and they were bundling Sherlock up into the ambulance asking if he wanted to go in the back with them and of course he did, were they blind, and he'd forgotten all about Susan.

One burly paramedic was trying to force a breathing tube down Sherlock's throat, despite Sherlock weakly trying to bat his hand out of the way. "John," he croaked, and John moved closer, clutching his uninjured hand in the closeness of the screaming ambulance. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean...miscalculation..."

And his lead lolled to the side as he passed out.

Scene Three: Doubt Truth to be a Liar

He was going to be okay. God. Thank God. He could have died. Was dying, with each breath that had puffed its life against John's fingers. There could have been brain death, if too little blood had been getting to his brain. Heart trouble, as his heart had beat faster and faster trying to pump too little blood through his body. Nerve damage, if the glass had cut too deep. He could have died. Would have, if John had arrived ten minutes later. And Sherlock would be dead.

What if he hadn't have come at all, had just ignored the text and proposed to Susan in the park like he'd planned?

Dead. Oh God.

John didn't know how many hours it had been since they'd gotten to the hospital. Sherlock had been whisked away at once, hidden from view by the hordes of nurses and A&E doctors surrounding him, calling out his blood pressure, pulse rate, yelling for pints and pints and pints of O negative blood and IV drips and oxygen masks. What are those chemical burns; he's going to crash; no, he's not; thank God the bloke who found him was a doctor.

But no. Sherlock was stable now, would be alright. No lasting damage. Still a bit anemic, slight iron deficiency, didn't eat much, did he, that guy? Do you want to see him?

It seemed like hours, but John had been sitting there next to Sherlock's bed for just a few minutes. Sherlock had never woken up after he'd passed out in the ambulance, but John wasn't too worried. This time it had been medically induced to help him heal; it must have been written on Sherlock's record what a lousy patient he made. He was still too pale, too weak. It would take days for him to get his strength back, and it was unlikely the scar on his wrist would ever fade.

John had often heard it said that sleeping patients looked peaceful, but he didn't think Sherlock had ever looked less peaceful in his life. He looked exhausted and worried, as if his brain was still running to ruin inside of his unresponsive head.

About ten hours, that's what the doctors had said. About ten hours until he's awake enough so you can talk to him. You can go home, change out of those bloodstained clothes, sleep a little.

John wondered if it was even physically possible to move from the uncomfortable hospital chair next to Sherlock's bed.

He must have fallen into a fitful doze somewhere around hour three, because he awakes with a start around hour nine when Susan comes in through the doors.

"The doctors told me he's stable," she says flatly, standing on the other side of Sherlock's bed.

John scrubs a hand over his face, glad he'd at least cleaned the blood off of his hands. "Yeah, thank God. He'll be awake in about...yeah, about an hour from now."

She stands awkwardly for a few more minutes then sits on another chair, adjusting her handbag against her bright red nails. It's quiet, too quiet, an uncomfortable quiet. "John," she starts softly, finally looking up at him. "That thing yesterday. It really was important."

"What thing—Oh, that?" John sighs, trying his hardest to remember Susan's insistence he see something on the table. Last night is mostly a blur in his memory; he hasn't been this truly exhausted in months. "Yes, it might have been."

"It was," Susan insists forcefully, the beginnings of a stern scowl on her face. "You should have saw it. It won't be there now."

Oh, hell, she isn't going to go into this now, was she? John closes his eyes and sighs, then opens them to fix his tired gaze on her. "I don't care how important it was, Susan, alright? He was dying, right there on the floor!"

"And you're always the one he calls, aren't you? Not 999? He's got you right in his pocket, John!"

John lets that comment stand, staring at his girlfriend in abject confusion. "Just to clarify," he starts, heartbeat picking up in disbelief and anger. "I discovered my best friend nearly dead last night, and you're insulted by how I treated you?"

Susan looks away, pursing her red lips, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. "You shouted at me, ordered me around, ignored me, and left me at your flat! Left me there, with all those chemicals and all that blood! Why wouldn't I be angry, John?"

"Right, Susan...I can't even believe we're talking about this." John barks out a cynical laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm a combat physician, remember? I'm trained to do whatever I need to do in any situation in order to save lives, and you're going to question that?" His face hardens as he catches her gaze again. "Do me a favor, alright? Don't. If you were the one bleeding out on the floor and I had Sherlock there to help me, he would have obeyed me unquestionably, without complaint. I don't care what else is happening, saving a life is always more important!"

"No, John, you were a combat physician. Now you're a respectable doctor with steady hours and a private practice!" The words hang in the air like an accusation, and John has to look away, swallow, shut his eyes. The best years of his life—what he still truly is, on the inside, what Sherlock knows he still is—and she shoves it away, ashamed it ever existed. But he has to move on, right? Afghanistan was years ago, and it's never coming back.

"It doesn't matter what kind of doctor I am," John whispers, eyes still shut. "I am the way I am. His life comes before everything."

"Yes, it's always about him, isn't it?" Susan hisses, ignoring his words again. "It's always about him with you, do you even listen to yourself? Well, listen to me for once, got it? You need to hear what I found in that kitchen!"

"Susan," John says tightly, warningly. Something's warring in his chest, the need to break something fighting with the thing breaking him. "Fine. Just tell me. Tell me what was more important than my best friend's life."

But now that Susan has the opportunity to talk, it doesn't seem like she wants to. She frowns and looks down, worry lines appearing on her forehead. "You got the text for help about forty-five minutes before we got to the flat, right? Well, I found a beaker of that chemical he got all over himself when the vial broke. It's a white liquid when it's first formed, but it precipitates over time to form a white precipitate and a colorless solute."

She stares meaningfully at John like this would mean something important, but she often forgets that army doctors are not trained in chemistry as well as she is. "Get to the point, please, Susan," John mutters quietly, his patience nearly at its limit for the day.

She takes a deep breath and starts talking, her anger seeming to have abruptly drained away and left only pity in its place. "John, it's a reaction that takes time. If it had been sitting for an hour, it would have been all separated—instead, not even half of it was. That solution was made no more than twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes before I found it, which means Sherlock couldn't have cut himself more than twenty minutes before we came."

Twenty minutes? A mere twenty minutes? But he'd gotten the text an hour before...No, it couldn't be, could it? Could Sherlock have honestly planned this? He'd said he'd miscalculated, but John had taken that to mean in regards to his experiment, not his timing.

While John is well aware of the countless ways Sherlock can and does manipulate him, this...this is heartless. Unbelievable. Sherlock knows the intense survivor's guilt John has, as well as the nightmares that plague his sleep about the soldiers he couldn't save. Tripping that particular trap door—the one that reminds him of pain and sand and blood and screams—just to guilt John into never leaving Sherlock's side is inexcusable.

John thought Sherlock knew that boundary was sacred, thought Sherlock cared enough about John to never go that far. He'd obviously thought wrong.