"I'm just saying, my brother is unpredictable; please take care of him"

"I assure you, I'm trying my best"

Both men seemed almost blissfully ignorant of Sherlock's presence on the staircase,

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock uttered plainly, taking slow steps downwards, "Lovely of you to pop up a whole thirty-six days after the incident..."

"Don't pretend you were not aware of me 'popping up' only a few days after"

"Ah, yes. To spy on me." Sherlock chuckled, muttering something about 'immaturity' under his breath, "I'm quite sure you've seen enough, I would appreciate it if I couldn't hear your chatter with John every Friday evening while I attempt to sleep."

"He's only worried, Sherlock" John exclaimed, before Mycroft had a chance to retort,

"Worried?" Sherlock snorted, "I don't recall seeing this man by my bedside at the hospital." His face suddenly grew stern, "I don't recall seeing this boy by my bedside, when I needed him!" He reached the bottom stair,

"I... don't understand..." John muttered,

"Don't pretend you didn't see it, Mycroft." Sherlock seethed, ignoring John completely,

"Now, Sherlock-" Mycroft tried to reason with his dulcet tone,

"I was just a twelve year old boy, barely old enough to know better..." Sherlock said, stood with his hands on his hips, "Did you think you could pretend it would go away?"

"I didn't..." For once, Mycroft seemed to be at a loss for words, "Sherlock... You have to understand,"

"Nosebleeds, yes, nosebleeds. It fooled mother easily enough, didn't it?" He continued, ignoring Mycroft, "I assumed you might pluck up the courage to tell her I was lying. Thankfully, you didn't."

"You're sick, Sherlock" Mycroft reasoned in a gentle voice, refusing to retort with angry words,

"I am completely fine, Mycroft," He spoke his brother's name with venom on his tongue, "Leave."

Mycroft didn't need to be told again, he knew well of his brother's stubbornness, there was no use trying to reason with him,

"Thank you, John, for your information." Mycroft said gently to the seated man,

John offered a weak smile as a 'you're welcome', being frightened of infuriating Sherlock further,

"I hope you'll get well soon, Sherlock." He said, turning to the man on the stairs, Sherlock only glared,

Mycroft left without saying goodbye.

"Twelve?" John asked as soon as the door slammed shut, "You did that when you were twelve?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, as if John had not been in the room during the debate between him and his brother,

"Nothing?" John rose to his feet, "Sherlock you cut yourself when you were twelve!" John exclaimed, the more emphasised words coming out as mere shocked whispers, his phone buzzed in the background, but alas, was ignored.

"Yes," Sherlock replied plainly, "And thirty six days ago was nothing. Absolutely no relation at all."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't you?"

"Well you haven't been honest with me about this yet,"

"I assure you, I have, John." Sherlock answered calmly, "Don't press the matter." Sherlock turned on his heel, and stalked off back up the stairs. Sherlock had pretty much returned to normal over the past 36 days, cases as usual, his attitude never faltering. But John couldn't help but notice how he avoided him more than usual.

John strode in the kitchen, angrily. Why couldn't Sherlock see he was trying to help? John wasn't against him, he pulled a tumbler out of the cupboard, his hands shaking with frustration, the tumbler slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor.

He left the glass there, uncaring to the mess he made, or if he would accidentally remember he smashed it when he woke up and trod through the house barefoot tomorrow morning.

"Sarah, I know... I'm sorry"

John's voice was muffled through the wall of his bedroom, but clear to Sherlock.

"Sherlock has been on my mind a lot recently, I'll admit that, but he's ill, Sarah!"

John paused for a moment, for the voice down the phone to respond, "Listen, I just... miss you, alright?" He said softly, "I know you don't think this would work, but I think perhaps we drifted apart a little, that's all."

Sherlock sighed to himself, eyes stinging with the unfamiliar fear of tears,

"We could try? What do we have to lose?"

Sherlock didn't cry,

"Okay... Bye..."

The conversation came to an end. He heard John stalking around his room, lounging on his bed, pacing and pacing.

Sherlock had had John, for all of 36 days, John followed him around, and making sure he was fine. And now he wanted Sarah back, his girlfriend. Understandable really, he had no time to discuss matters with Sarah because of Sherlock. But, Sarah had taken this to heart, if John really wanted her back, why would he leave it for so long? She didn't understand.

Sherlock had strolled into the kitchen without realising it, propping himself up on the counter top. He could still hear John pacing, pacing and sighing. John was hurt and it was purely because of Sherlock.

His arms stung as the rough fabric of one of his cheaper shirts brushed against healing wounds, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He had nothing to hide anymore.

There was a sob, a quiet strangled sob from upstairs. As much as Sherlock tried to block it out, it was still there.

He pulled himself from the counter, as ungraceful as he had ever been, he yanked the stubborn drawer open.

And there was the feeling, more physical that emotional, the instant urge rising in his chest, he tried to force it down, but it was a part of him. His arms ached, and all he imagined in his head were lines being engraved in his own arm. A perfect distraction, and god, he wanted that distraction over anything else.

He rummaged through the cutlery drawer, butter knives creating grooves in his palm as he pushed them away, searching hungrily. Unaware of the lack of pacing, that John was now listening desperately to the sound of metal smashing together.

Sherlock wasn't going to find anything sharp enough in there, John had removed all sharp knives, Sherlock was already aware of that.

So he sunk to his knees, shutting his eyes tight, feeling like a small child, so desperate, so vulnerable, a grown man, so pathetic. His nails sunk deep into the porcelain skin of his wrists, barely making dents upon the scars.

He sat silent for a moment, trying to drive away the urge, the feeling deep within his chest; rising to his throat- he held back a cry.

His eyes opened a little, and wondered around the floor until falling upon the thin shards of glass left by John earlier. He shuffled over to them, sliding his fingers upon the smooth surface of a larger shard before daring to pick it up.

Utterly unaware of the soft footsteps so very near to him, he held the shard up to the small light of the single light bulb adorning the ceiling, examining the interesting shades of green it created; then taking it from the light, so very near his arm, he was so close, so very close to the seething white hot pain he glorified so badly, and nothing would stop-

"Sherlock?"

The voice was hollow and dry, "Sherlock, no!"

John ran over, wrapping his arms around Sherlock chest and dragging him backwards, Sherlock struggled violently,

"No!" He cried, "I wasn't!" his voice strangled and wet, "I wasn't going to!"

John pinned him to the ground, wrestling the shard from his grip, which was surprisingly hard due to the fact Sherlock had curled his palm around the shard and was ever so blissfully ignorant to the fact it was slicing through the calloused skin of his hand.

"Sherlock..." John uttered, prying the glass from his fingers and throwing it aside, now on top of Sherlock, his hands resting on the other mans shoulders, "Sherlock," He whispered, voice full of disappointment,

"I wasn't," Sherlock repeated, in a childlike fashion, tears now streaming from his eyes and John collapsed into him, breathless with shock and the effort it took to wrestle the detective down, John sobbed into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"Stop, please, please, please," he whispered, "stop."

Sherlock didn't reply, but for now the urge was lost.

And there, on the cold uncomfortable tiles of the kitchen floor, they slept.

"Sherlock, are you awake?"

"I have been awake for quite some time, are you prepared to move?"

"Oh... Sorry..." John said, blushing as he pulled himself from Sherlock's body, his own body aching,

There were a few moments of slightly awkward silence while Sherlock pulled himself up from the floor and John wondered around the kitchen nervously,

John sighed, "You were going to..."

"No," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper, "No, I wasn't."

"Don't lie to me, please. Sherlock," He sunk to his knees by the discarded glass after retrieving a dustpan and brush and proceeded to clean it up, Sherlock watched him intently, "This is not like you."

"Perhaps, you don't know me as well as you think," Sherlock muttered, casting a careless glance in John's direction before wondering out of the room,

"You know I can't let you do this?" John asked, finding Sherlock stretched out on the couch,

"Do what?"

"Kill yourself,"

John perched carefully on his armchair,

"Oh, come on, John. I'm hardly killing myself."

"Do I have to remind you how you almost died?"

"That was an accident"

"An accident" John echoed under his breath, "I can't- Sherlock... I can't watch you do this to yourself,"

"Then leave."

It was hard for John to believe that Sherlock was being sincere, but with a second thought, Sherlock hadn't asked for John's help for quite some time, nevermind ignoring him completely,

"I care about you, I can't leave for you to kill yourself," John mumbled, closing his eyes briefly, somehow it felt too shameful to cry in front of Sherlock,

"Why would you care?"

"Because!" John said a little louder than he intended to, "Because, you're my friend. For god's sake, Sherlock, we're not all like you! I don't want you to die, I want to help."

"Don't pit-"

"This is not pity, Sherlock!" A tear trickled down the man's cheek, "Please, talk to me."

Sherlock sat up, "Please, John. This is beyond what you would understand." Sherlock said plainly,

"Try me," John muttered, wiping his eyes relentlessly,

"Stand."

"...What?"

"Stand up, John."

"Wh-" John began, but thought it best not to question and got to his feet nervously,

Sherlock followed suit, and walked over to John, their body's close, so very close. Heat radiated from John, and Sherlock closed his eyes, this is the human contact Sherlock missed, being able to feel the warmth of someone.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, his voice trembling slightly,

Sherlock lost all control of his temptations, he brought a hand to the back of John's neck and pulled the man's limp body to him, pressing his soft lips against John's, in a hard kiss, a desperate kiss, hungrily pulling the shorter man closer, with a hand on John's waist.

John was unresponsive, but for a few moments Sherlock didn't care. He ran his tongue along John's lips, begging him to open his mouth, and then he came to a realisation. What did he expect the unresponsive John to do? Be submissive. No. He pulled away, his breath shaky and eyes filling.

John just stared with wide eyes.

"I-I'm sorry" Sherlock stuttered, he didn't intend to take it as far as it did,

"Sherlock I-"

"No!" Sherlock uttered quickly, turning and walking upstairs with heavy footsteps.

John slumped back into his chair in shock, before muttering to himself...

"What the fuck?"