The bandage was off now. He had been taking it off to take glances at it for the past few days now; his small guilty pleasure. Every time he saw the gash of raw red he felt a sense of complete calm wash over him. I t was part of the addiction. Now it was off completely and was catching his attention every few minuets. He didn't mind. The fact his arm was no longer bare pleased him. But he always saw John staring at it with a mixture of pity confusion and plain sadness. He just didn't understand. It was his way of coping with everything… it was better than drinking. This was a different type of addiction.

He lay on the sofa draped in his blue dressing gown in the foetal position, back to the world as usual. What was the point in facing them if all they did was shun him?

He shut his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to a dusty childhood memory.

He lay crumpled on his bed, a skinny sickly pale figure, trembling with some sort of emotion he had lost years ago or just couldn't feel anymore; Letting it out with involuntary shivers. Every few seconds he let out a raspy chocked vulnerable sob, drawing in air with shaky breaths his head was raised and he scanned the room, his blue eyes bloodshot and dripping with tears. Face red and his black silky curls matted and tangled covering his face. His fingers had been raking through his hair for the past few minuets whilst trying to keep his sanity together-

But wait of course he had no sanity. There was no sanity for him. He was the opposite of that.

So smart but still somehow so stupid, completely incapable, stupid boy.

The voices were ruthless, hissing at him; at his every sob and every tear, as he tried to keep himself together. What was the point though? Everything they say is true. He was mental... unstable…

He looked up, trembling, the silence caved in on him. He couldn't take this anymore.

He felt round in his School blazer for a pencil sharpener and grabbed a screwdriver from his tool drawer. He unscrewed the nail and slid out the blade, he balanced it between his fingers for a while, admiring it. The smooth touch of the metal against his skin, the voices in his head were urging him.

He deserved this after all

Yeah. He did… of course he did…

He rolled up his sleeve and felt the cold pinch his pale skin, the sound of his own breath filled the cold large bedroom. On the floor were scattered clothes and dirty school uniform. Smothered with dirt and grass stains where he was constantly being shoved around, pinned against walls and hit with various stuff.

He let out a sigh through gritted teeth.

He shouldn't. But no reasons to support that theory came to his head.

He pressed the blade against his skin and let out a hiss as a fierce jolt of pain raced through his arm. He yelped and yanked the blade from his skin almost immediately.

There was a small groove in his skin. He let out a sniff and shook his head. The voices weren't satisfied, the pain was sudden but… nice. He pressed harder to the groove and gritted his teeth. A small whimper came from the depths of his throat and his skin succumbed to the harsh blade and blood began to drop to the surface, he watched fascinated as the blood began to dribble down his pale arm and he realised he had cut deeper than he anticipated.

"Sherlock?"

He was yanked from his blissful memory with a harsh suddenness that made his eyes snap open and a small growl emit from his throat. He didn't move but questioned the voice that called him.

"Yes?"

"You were… whimpering."

The sentence felt foreign and strange in John's mouth and it was hard for him to get out at first, but he couldn't sit listening to him jerking and whining in his sleep. It was too pathetic a sight.

"Oh."

came Sherlock's dull reply. He had taken to fantasising after he found half of his scissors and most sharp knives out of easy find. Then realising an explanation would have been a good idea he coughed and mumbled something about a nightmare about drowning. John nodded, uncertain of the truth of the statement.

He could practically taste the words being left unspoken in the air. The stillness of the flat was broken by his movements that led him swiftly back to his room, where he felt he was obliged to be when Sherlock was like this. Distant and consumed by a past he had to accept he probably wouldn't know much about. He shut his door quietly and fell back on his bed.

Shutting his eyes he tried to keep his thoughts focused on his breathing, maybe some sleep would help him pass the boring hours. But the thoughts of the kiss kept flashing in his head, never really going away.

He had felt something. He knew he had. But why? He wasn't… gay. But the second their lips touched it was like a small spark of passion, the excitement rushed through him and it was a buzz like nothing he had felt before, different from when he was out in the war but close. Like curiosity mixed with the element of danger. A dangerous concoction but one he found himself craving for. When his fingers trailed along his skin it was as if the life had been sucked out of him, all the fight and questions and he felt fully prepared to give himself away there and then. Something he wouldn't ever do. But in a matter of seconds would do willingly for Sherlock. It didn't make sense… Why him? What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made him feel alive? He let the thoughts he usually shunned away in to the darkest corners of his head swirl around with freedom in his mind. The reasons began to build. Without him he would be the one thing he despises now. He would be in an empty flat living out a painfully dull existence and slipping in to a heavy depression.

He owed him so much, for everything.

Also the way he was in his being, his dark curls falling over his face, his cheekbones, how his voice was almost always a smooth dark purr. His eyes mostly though, his eyes that pierced him and cut him in to a million pieces and drove straight in to his core. How the icy blue swirled and danced and refused to stay put when his emotions were riding high. Like him. His agility, the way his body reacted to the smallest things… even his touch.

Sherlock reacted to his touch… he sat up at this thought. Does this mean he could feel something too? He felt his heart rate quicken as the thought that Sherlock actually might be attracted back lifted his heart and set a new lease of hope and purpose to him. A machine he wasn't… but a lover maybe?

Sherlock still yet to find out what exactly happened that night he drank, it definitely held the explanation as to why John had been acting to nervous recently. How he seemed flustered around him. He needed something to use against him, blackmail? Maybe something stronger… or maybe…

"Here I got you this."

John stared up from a recent novel he had been reading. He sat in the living room which was bathed in golden artificial lamp light. The buzz of London outside their small flat window gave him a sense of comfort in the lone dark of evening when a grumpy sociopath isn't much company. And insists on deducing and telling you the end of the particularly gripping best selling crime novel you were reading.

He stared down at the tea cup and frowned. Sherlock offering him anything was a strange concept to consider let alone it happening. But it was.

"What's in it?" grumbled Watson, taking the cool beverage and sniffing it.

Sherlock let a small smile hover and tug at his lips before it vanished, leaving the ever present scowl on his lips.

"Don't be silly. Nothing. Can't I have a nice gesture once in a while?"

John sipped the coke suspiciously and could have sworn he tasted an edge to it but thought nothing of it. The fact he'd even made tea was a miracle in itself. Also the look on Sherlock's face, like he was anxious to please convinced him too. And since his inability to even make tea

It was when John stood up half hour later he realised just how drunk he was. He had felt giggly earlier but didn't think much of it due to the fact he was kind of tired.

He felt himself staggering backwards and feeling for the arms of the chair he at comfortably in moments ago only for his hands to grasp nothing and he yelped as he found himself crashing backwards on the cold floor. Groaning he opened his eyes and felt the room whirling at a slight pace, golden lights mixing with the blue of the city outside and the mixture of furniture. He clutched his head and groaned. Shutting his eyes made no difference to the fact he felt awful and about ready to heave.

How did this happen? Then he remembered, searching through his muddled thoughts it must have been the Tea Sherlock gave him… he must have spiked it with something. He reached up a hand and tried to drag himself upwards without tumbling down again and failed. He flelt two strong hands grab him from under the armpits and haul him upwards. Every sense in his body screamed at him to jerk away and see who this was, the soldier part of him did anyway. But after a few seconds he knew he recognised those hands and did everything he could to stop himself blushing. Standing him upright by his shoulders John stared back in to the ice abyss that met his gaze and felt flushed with sadness, then a slight resentment. How could he not remember? Yes he was drunk but surely it must have meant something to him? I mean it was his fist kiss probably. You remember stuff like that, it sticks in your head. Or at least a kiss with your flat mate who isn't gay… well isn't supposed to be gay. He tried to struggle out of Sherlock's grip but he had a vice like grip on his shoulders and an intense glare in his eye.

"Lemme go Sherlawk-" muttered John, the words came out slurred and sloppy. He growled but it came out more of a drunken protest.

"Now now John." Said Sherlock holding the solider steady.

"You hadn't been completely honest with me when I asked you what happened the night I got drunk. Were you?"

John was taken aback by Sherlock's tone. He had not only spiked his tea but also started speaking to him like this?

Why did he like it?

He hunched his shoulders and squirmed again in his grip shaking his head.

"Nothing happened-"

"Don't play innocent something OBVIOUSLY happened" snarled Sherlock, tired of this game now, pinned John against a wall and held him in place.

"You've been acting different, you don't look me in the eye properly anymore, your nervous, you tense if I touch you-"

Sherlock was surprised in himself for being so upset over such trivial things, but he knew he didn't like the changes and just wanted things back to the way they were.

"John just tell me it can't be that bad-"

John was shaking his head, muttering.

"I'm-I'm not…" His voice trailed off and an expression of confusion was left on his tired face.

"Not what? John your not making sense-"

"I'm not gay!" snapped the Soldier and Sherlock's grip was loosened slightly. He could have easily broken free but he didn't. He was close to Sherlock and as much as he tried to push the thought away, he liked it; being near him, close to him. Breathing in the smell of coffee and hearing the sounds of his breathing. Just his being around him was enough.

"I don't understand-"

"You wouldn't." muttered John darkly. "That night when you were drunk you kissed me Sherlock."

He didn't want to see the look of shock on Sherlock's face and barged past him but stumbled and grabbed the table to stop himself going over completely. He felt his head pounding and a sense of regret but relief that Sherlock knew.

Sherlock felt a twinge within him. The voice in the back of his head again, mirroring all the words he said himself.

"Alone protects me."

And that it had. But maybe once in a while, we need someone to be alone with us. To help the words go away and to bandage the wounds left by them.

He felt torn. A sudden rush of emotions that he hadn't felt since he was young, emotions he HAD to block out for his own good, came rushing to the surface. The rush was amazing if painful. He couldn't feel anything for years and now he could. And he knew who he felt them for. He snatched a glance at his blogger, seeing things he hadn't seen before, things he only saw when he was drunk. He saw them now. For the first time properly.

"John-"The words caught in his throat.

"Don't. I know your married to your work and I assure you it meant nothing to me." Growled John. Sherlock could tell he was lying. He still couldn't meet his gaze and he rubbed his neck as he said it was a way to assure himself. He moved swiftly over to him; Closer now staring down in to his shocked eyes. Pupils dilated, Of course. But then again his had too he supposed. He didn't know what he could possibly gain from this...

He gently cupped his Bloggers face and stared down at him.

"Why do you keep insisting on such dishonesty John?" he said softly. His whole body was shaking a slightly. He hadn't done this kind of thing before, but the way John's eyes lit up he had a feeling he was doing it right… it FELT right anyway.

Sherlock's touch seemed to sober him up quicker than anything, this was happening… really happening. He could practically see the confusion and internal battle going on inside Sherlock's head. He was feeling the same as him. John reached up and gently planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips. It was so soft it was questionable it happened. But it did and Sherlock felt himself craving, more. John could hardly look Sherlock in the eye, embarrassed. That was until Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and kissed him passionately. John showed no resistance and found himself caught up in the wildly passionate kiss, losing himself in Sherlock's mouth. Feeling his hands slide up to run his fingers through his midnight silky curls and breathing in his smell.

Sherlock had pushed him up against the table and John felt their hips crash again. He felt his whole face go red but he let out a sloppy drunken giggle and found he couldn't draw himself away from Sherlock's mouth to protest. He grabbed at Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock felt his hands sliding down John's shoulders and exploring, John let him. His skin against his made him feel… alive. The rush of warfare didn't compare to this. Like colours exploding on to a canvas his body was in harmony with Sherlock's hands as they slid all over him and he found his hands doing the same. The sound of their muffled but now heavy breathing was the only sounds in the empty cold flat.

John slid his hand in to Sherlock's and proceeded to drag him to the bedroom, Sherlock didn't protest, his curiosity led him this far so he didn't see any reason to stop now. But as John reached for the handle Sherlock grabbed his wrist and whirled him round kissing him again. His lips were unattached for a few seconds and already he felt cravings, an ache for him. Slowly he pushed against him and backed him up against the bedroom door and allowed himself to explore his mouth. John had other ideas and proceeded to plant small kisses on Sherlock's prominent jaw line and down to his pale neck. He heard the small whimpers emanating from Sherlock's mouth and remembered what little experience, -if any experience at all- he had. Pretty much any basic thing he did could turn him on right now. He proceeded to nibble at his Adam's apple and pull his hips closer to his. Sherlock couldn't stop the smirk spreading on his face and pulling John up by the scruff of his shirt collar kissed him again. John smiled against his lips and felt his hands slide up his arms, then his fingers running over the deep gash and stopped. Sherlock felt John suddenly falter and his touch over the wound. He winced. His heart rate exceeded faster than it was already going, scared. He jerked it away. Reading his thoughts John took his wrist gently, and kissing his softly on the lips whispered.

"I love you no matter what. "

"How could you love someone like me?" muttered Sherlock, hiding his face among the black silky curls that befell his face. John brushed them away, tilting his chin so he was staring right in to his eyes said;

"A few mistakes won't stop me from loving you."

"But I do this to myself on purpose!" Snapped Sherlock, jerking his arm away, John looked startled but kept his grip on Sherlock.

"I know, and I'm going to do everything I can to help… to stop whatever it is making you do this to yourself."

Sherlock looked down at him, unsure how to react. The only other person in the world knew his secret. He let out a sigh. John reached up and stroked his cheekbone and leaned in kissing him again.

Sherlock could feel the pain slipping away and slid his arms around the Bloggers waist.

"My dear Watson…" he mumbled against his warm lips. John smiled and fiddled with his satin curls playfully.

"Come on detective…" he smirked. "I'll make the pain go away."

For the first time he saw colour flush on Sherlock's cheeks as he led him to the bedroom.

Should I continue? Reviews make me happy so please review. Thanks for reading!