WARNING: *There may be triggers*

John Watson had never worried too much over Sherlock. He always insisted he was fine, and there wasn't much to concern John other than his lack of empathy and a few habits that stood out the most.

Sherlock only ate between cases; he was always working, so he rarely ate. Perhaps that explained his boney structure. Whenever John noticed that he hadn't eaten for a week, give or take, he forced a decent meal down Sherlock's throat.

He sometimes went days without talking, laying on the couch and staring into nothingness, thinking about god knows what. John had been warned about this habit, though, so it didn't bother him as much as it would have if he hadn't been told.

On the other hand Sherlock could carry on talking as if John were still in the flat when he had been out for hours. The more frustrating thing about this habit of his was that Sherlock expected John to know the things he "told" him when he wasn't even in the apartment.

Sherlock would leave outlandish things scattered about: toes in the fridge, rats in the cereal, shattered glass on the table, whatever it was, he claimed it was an experiment and offered no further explanation. John rarely complained. He simply sighed and maneuvered around Sherlock's belongings, even though they took up the majority of their already small living space.

John never worried much about him, he entrusted Sherlock to his unique ways of living. But that was before he had walked into 221B Baker Street at the wrong time.

"Sherlock?" John called, thumping up the steps. "I guess we can go to the lab earlier then we planned-" His words stopped short as he opened the door of the flat. Sherlock was standing shirtless at the kitchen sink, his back towards John. This would normally not have arose suspicion, considering John had seen much stranger with him, but Sherlock's startled gaze as he whipped his head back around his shoulders stabbed concern into John's heart.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" John ventured after a few moments of tension. Sherlock didn't answer for a time, and with each passing second his face grew redder.

"Nothing-" Sherlock lied gruffly.

"What's going on?" John stepped towards him and tried to get a look over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Nothing!" Sherlock followed John's body with his back in attempt to hide something from his view. "I thought you had a date with…"

"Eva?"

"Yes, of course."

"She cancelled. She had a family emergency."

"That's the third one this month?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. John glared. "That's not lasting much longer is it?" Sherlock managed to snicker quietly.

"Eva doesn't matter right now! What are you up to?" John shouted and gave Sherlock a strong shove. Surprisingly, Sherlock had not anticipated this and stumbled to the side, revealing what he had been shielding from view. John's mouth dropped and he froze in shock of what he saw.

Sherlock was holding his arms over the sink and resting his elbows on the edge of the counter. There, more like everywhere, was blood. Cuts were lined up in chaotic, gooey red rows all over Sherlock's forearms. The sink below was covered with blood and mixed with some drops of water from the last time it was run. There was a slight chance John might have taken this to be a result from Sherlock's big head on a case that had gotten him launched into something over his head, ending up in injury. It wouldn't be the first time that had happened. But what Sherlock held in his hands told John that this was the worst possible cause of injury, and having nothing to do with any case. In Sherlock's clutched hands rested two gleaming red straight razor blades.

The vast majority of Sherlock's injury, however, rested not in his arms, but his bare torso. Across his abdomen in big letters, the word "FREAK" dripped like scarlet ink.

"Sherlock…" This was all John seemed to be able to squeak out of his dry throat. Even though John could think of nothing to say, his doctoral instincts kicked in and he rushed to Sherlock's side, supporting him as he sat in one of the dining room chairs. Sherlock lowered his head in shame.

"You weren't supposed to be home for a few hours-"

"Well I'm home early, and you should be glad of it." John tore off his jacket and over shirt. He knelt in only his white undershirt with a newly acquired hand towel that had been soaked in warm water. John began wiping off the excess blood around Sherlock's wounds.

Sherlock moaned. "You're destroying it…"

"Destroying? It is destruction, how on earth could I do any more harm?"

"I'm expressing, John, I'm trying to express-" Sherlock choked on his words. John waited for him to continue and silently washed his arms. "You always said I was-a machine-" Sherlock's words were interrupted by his long-veiled emotions merging in the form of tears. His marine irises became glazed with the salty water, which threatened to plunge down his cheeks at any moment. Annoyed, Sherlock wiped the tears onto his sweaty palm.

"Well, I'm not a machine…no matter how much I pretend. No matter how much you or I or anyone else believe it to be true. I hide everything, so I understand why I may seem emotionless, but I-I am only human." At his last words, the clusters of tears swelled over Sherlock's eye lids and streamed down his face, splattering onto his chest. John realized that Sherlock had held in that last phrase forever; it had pained him to finally say it out loud.

"Oh, Sherlock," John wrapped his arms around the helpless bloody form which sat, slumping in the dining room chair. "You are human, but you're not only human. You're so much more than that. You have an amazing gift-"

"It's not a gift, John, it's a curse! A curse I would give anything to be rid of!" Sherlock's chin shook, the inability to control his emotions allowing more sorrowful tears to slide down his red hot face. John leaned back and looked into Sherlock's deep eyes. Expressing himself was so rare.

"With everything I see," Sherlock continued, once he was again in control, "it isn't possible to maintain emotions. I wouldn't be able to function if I had to sort out the sentiments everyone else seems to deliver so fluently."

"Sherlock, I was saying you're so much more than a normal human. I haven't met anyone who is capable of what I've seen you do. You are a-"

"Freak?" Sherlock jumped in, his pain audible. He glanced down at the mocking word now carved into his stomach. John followed his eye line and frowned. Donovan had taken the name calling too far. John clenched his fist in contempt. Then, looking back into Sherlock's eyes, John finished his sentence. "You are a miracle."

The single sentence, as it was so lovingly put, swept the gloomy darkness from Sherlock's expression, and sparks of hope flickered through his eyes like fireworks. He said nothing, content with the honoring encouragement.

"May I finish helping you clean up?" John asked after a few moment.

Sherlock nodded, less reluctant than before. John then proceeded in washing the rest of the blood from Sherlock's cuts. He flinched at the antiseptic John sprayed over them. John tightly wrapped Sherlock's lower torso and forearms in bandages, ignoring Sherlock's soft complaints. John made the bandages particularly tight to keep the pressure on the deep wounds and stop the bleeding, however he also thought of it as a silent hit back for Sherlock doing this to himself. John hoped Sherlock knew that it didn't just affect him.

Sherlock turned on the sink and rinsed the blood down the drain. He picked up the razor blades and began rinsing them, too, before John snatched them from his hands. Sherlock gave him a desperate and questioning look.

"No, I think I'll hold onto these, for now." Sherlock didn't agree, but held his tongue, not wanting to fight.

"Come on, get dressed," John said after finishing wiping the blood off the floor. He shoved Sherlock's purple polo into his arms.

"Why should I have to dress for the lab?"

"The lab can wait," John answered. "We are having a night out."

"A night out?"

"Yes. Go on, then."

Sherlock joined John in a taxi outside their flat a minute later. After some tension died out, they went about their normal chatter, laughs sprinkled throughout their conversation. They stopped at an Italian restaurant for dinner. Neither of them brought up the events of that afternoon.

"Let's go by the London Eye tonight." John suggested.

"What for?"

"They'll have the lights on. It'll be spectacular, reflecting off the Thames."

"I suppose."

The next cab took them to the giant Ferris Wheel. The night grew dark as the sun set, and London's lights darted within the creative arrangement of the silhouetted city. John and Sherlock began walking along the river while Sherlock jabbered on about a possible break in the case he had been working. Throughout the conversation, John was fingering the blades still in his pocket. He needed the right approach. Finally he went for it.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What I saw you do…it upsets me. You know that already, though, right?"

"I do."

"It hurts that you wouldn't think to ask me for help. Don't you consider me a friend?"

Sherlock hesitated with embarrassment. "Yes."

"I consider you a friend, too. In that light, you should know that I don't want you to get hurt, by others or yourself," John paused. "Sherlock, will you promise me that you will never do that again?"

It was fairly dark by now, but John could sense Sherlock's decisive brain making deductions and comparisons at that very moment. He waited.

"I promise. It won't happen again." Sherlock answered softly.

"Good." John pulled out the silver blades from his pocket and handed them to Sherlock. "Prove it."

"What?" Sherlock looked confused.

"Throw those into the river."

"John don't be ridiculous, I-"

"Sherlock, you have to do it. For my own peace of mind, if not yours."

He hesitated, but slowly, Sherlock walked towards the river. Looking at the sharp tools, he inhaled deeply, then sighed. In a burst of energy, he wound his arm and thrust the blades high into the air. Two faint splashes were heard shortly after.

John joined Sherlock at the shore. "Thank you."

They were silent for some time. Finally Sherlock spoke, "Can I go to the lab now?"

"No, no, no. You need to go to bed and get some rest." John grabbed Sherlock's hand and half pulled him to the nearest street curb. It seemed like John thought he would run off to experiment the first chance he got, and he couldn't have that. Or maybe that was an excuse for himself to not let go. John raised his hand, still holding Sherlock's. "Taxi!"

I do NOT condone self-harm in any way, shape or form.

Thanks for reading! xo