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A/N- I'm trying this drabble thing out. The chapters are all one shots, but tied in from time to time to keep a consistent flow.

All deal with extreme angst that might be triggering, so please keep that in mind.
These are all issues concerning the main characters of the show, but mostly Sherlock and John (rarely ever Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade and Moriarty [rarely ever]).

Notes: I refer to John as a veteran from time to time. I know when we think of veteran, we think of early military men, old and grey- but a veteran is anyone who has served in the armed forces. At least, that's to my best knowledge. If you think I'm using it wrong, please tell.

ExNotes: The title isn't meant to sound pretty. I think, when I first thought of it, it was a spin-off of "To Kill a Mockingbird"- no relation to that story- which then reminded me of 'to kill two birds with one stone'- to relation.

This one deals with cutting. Others will have other issues.

Please review though. The author fav's and story alerts are nice, but I seriously need to know the deal with my writing- I don't want to confuse my readers, overlook too many grammatical errors, or bore you. So I really need to know how I'm doing so far, and if this is what you want.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself." He sighed as he tended to the wound, that was bleeding rather profusely just moments ago. "This has to stop."

Languid pale eyes, that hinted a light green in the dim ugly bathroom light, stared at the long gash being treated, hastily. "I can see why you would assume it's a bad thing, John." He hesitated at the mention of the name, sparing a glance towards the ex-army doctor who curses as he turned back to grab hold of more gauze as more bleeding seeped through. "But as you can tell, no harm came from it- "

John had to pause in his actions as he had given out a small huff of a laugh through a pressed, angry smile tired eyes to the ground by the toilet. "No harm?" He interrupted, then looked to his flat mate who had pressed his pale lips into an indifferent line, head tilted in the most peculiar of daring motions.
John's forced smile fell. "Sherlock, you are sitting on the toilet seat in your blood soaked pajamas, as pale as the tile on the ground, at the late hours of a Thursday, because you decided to do something utterly stupid, that it honestly makes me question your intelligence." His tone lightly rose, but settled, as he shook his head, looking away from the only man that managed to anger him beyond compare, but also managed to save him from his mundane life- that at once seemed to be the only thing going for him, in that single roomed apartment, with a bed so thin it was almost questionable as to how he didn't roll off during his nightmares.

Sherlock's brow rose, notably insulted by the comment, as he kept his eyes to John's the entirety of the twisted situation, ignoring the wound that started to burn as John reapplied antibiotics to keep any infections at bay.

John pulled the gauze away after tapping it against the wound that ran vertically down Sherlock's pale long forearm. "What did you use?" He asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world at the very moment, turning his head from side to side lightly, as if he could find the answer from the way the wound was inflicted, laying about. He looks up to Sherlock expectantly, waiting.

But Sherlock made no effort to answer, and instead looked away, staring at his wound. It was clear in his motion and the way his face faked a stoic gaze, that he was not going to inform the doctor.

"Sherlock-" John pressed, hands hovering over the wound as he hesitated to further treat it- as if the answer was the only way he'd continue to tend to Sherlock.

However, that was a poor gamble, and in response, almost as if aimed to disappoint or rile his flat mate, Sherlock retracted his arm, pulling his blue silk pajama robe sleeve down with a careless tug, now bloodied at the cuffs, down. "Well, now," He sighed as he abruptly stood, paying no mind to the cut, to the way it hurt as scrapped and pulled against the bandages and the silk fabric, to the way his legs lightly trembled from blood loss. "It seems your quite done. I'll be headed to my room now." He bowed his head lightly, as if giving thanks, before he turned towards the bathroom door, ready to make his leave.

But a hand gripped at his upper left and injured arm, pulling him back into the bathroom, or at least trying to turn him, to force him to face the shorter man. "No, Sherlock, we need to talk about this-"

"We don't need to talk about anything." Sherlock nearly hissed, his sudden change in mood making John's pressed expression soften, now taken aback.

The taller pulled away, John making no effort to keep the grip, but, even as Sherlock turned, doesn't allow him to continue, by taking quick swift steps forward, blocking the man entirely from further leaving the bathroom.

Though, there was no shoving, or yelling that followed, only silence as Sherlock stared down at the man, observing as he spotted the way he stood with tense muscles, forcibly upright in the most prideful of manners, arms crossed against his chest. A single full brow furrows as he stared down at his shorter flat mate, who remained stiff, keeping a fixed glare. "John, I am taller than you, and do know how to box. Your army training or my loss of blood wouldn't keep me from winning-"

"Yeah, let's not question the outcomes to that, because even Sally would be perceptive enough to notice how completely full of shit you are right now." John said with utter ease. It was almost unsettling. At this point, yelling seemed more fitting.

Sherlock's face smoothed, slowly turning into something rather humored. "Ah," He let a crooked smile take his place on flat lips. "I see." He nodded lightly, taking a step back. "So, then, what shall we discuss John? What shall I say to ease your dull, curious mind? Hm?" He tilted his head lightly with a pursed smile. "Are you going to play the role of the therapist this time? Psychologist? Trying to trail my actions by recalling the conversations tactics used in the sessions you had with your psychologist in attempts to mimic the procedure of ask and tell, then unravel?" He chided.
He knew the words weren't exactly calloused, and were rather bland compared to his usual spite. But he wasn't being completely honest, or rather, was, but not his true self when it came to insults, but that was because he was trying make John leave him alone, now being fed up- just to allow him access to his own bedroom, to -for once in a long while- honestly rest.

But, living with someone for so long has its disadvantages, and John was displaying it- the knowing of who you live with, the expectations emitted from your fellow resident.

And so here they were, Sherlock Holmes, six foot tall and slender, towering John Watson, five foot seven with a mesomorphic slowly progressing into endomorphic -due to stress, Sherlock figured- body frame, forcing a rather insulting gaze, -it only being returned with a seriously concerned yet stern glare. In other words, John knew what Sherlock was doing, and wasn't going to fall for it.

And from the corner of his trained eye, John then noticed the seepage of blood through the delicate fabric. He lightly tutted, exhausted. "Come on," He tried to steer Sherlock back towards the toilet with his hands. "You're bleeding again-"

"I'm fine." Sherlock took a step back, trying to avoid any contact in the small room. "You've done your part. I can further treat it on my own. Just leave it be, it'll eventually stop bleeding-"

John cut him off with a humored huff, again. "Yeah, no." He shook his head lightly. "The only reason why you're not in surgery is because you're too stubborn- and I know that as soon as I hail a cab, you'd run off, and still manage to be more agile than me despite the amount of blood you've just lost." Sherlock made a face in what he regarded a compliment. "Now," He motioned towards the toilet seat. "Sit down, and let me further treat it."

A sigh escaped the taller as he frame slackened. "Pointless," Sherlock quickly retorted. He caught John's falling expression and then sighed. "Oh, how utterly predictable." He muttered to himself, suddenly nearing John as he almost seethed. "I'm not referring to you. I'm referring to this." He held up the injured arm, though the wound was still covered by the sleeve. "Besides, it'll most likely need stitches, something we don't have. Therefore, your furthering your treatment would be pointless."

"Something I shouldn't have here at home." John quickly added. "Something they have at hospitals." He hinted further, then recoiled. "Something I can probably quickly go run and grab because of my license with hardly to no questions asked." He paused, breathing through his nose, staring at Sherlock. He lightly turned his head mid-shake. "But I can't leave you here, not after," He gestured towards the arm with a tilt of his head. "That." He finished, then looked back at Sherlock. "Not to mention, the other ones need to be looked at too. Knowing you, the ones I've failed to observe are most likely infected. And unless this was some suicide attempt, I don't think you want to live with a missing limb."

Calm, frosty, at ease. Such the soldier. But Sherlock wasn't going to follow orders- he was allergic to such an idea.

With sudden found strength that he imagined he gathered while gazing down at his flat mate, Sherlock reached out with both arms, grabbed hold of John's shoulders, and steered him away to get passed him. Not a full second later, John was on his heels, irritatingly calling Sherlock's name.

But all the while Sherlock managed to ignore him, as if he weren't there, even as he walked into his room, quickly turning to slam the door in John's face.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as he banged against the door. "Sherlock, open up. We seriously need to talk about this-"

"It wasn't a suicide attempt!" Sherlock shouted, only for the sake of having John hear him passed the wooden barrier- patience and calm still managing to keep his tone leveled. "Really John, you, just like Lestrade and Mycroft fail to know what the word 'experiment' means." He added as he further walked into his room, ignoring the 2nd bathroom in his room, not the one in which he was tended to, the light still on, the tiles still marked with trails of blood, drying droplets, but nothing dramatic. He made his way to his bed, stationed right next to the door, unfortunately, and lay in it, long legs stretching out across the queen sized bed that managed to fit his tall frame.

"Sherlock, I will kick this door down if you don't open it." John threatened, and Sherlock could imagine his expression.

The taller craned his neck lightly towards the door. "Oh do be the hero, John. We all know how much you love that word. Also, if you do that, tell Mrs. Hudson I wasn't the one responsible for a broken door frame and its missing hinges." He babbled as he closed his eyes, pretending to drift off into sleep- well, he enforces the idea that he's faking it, but in reality, he's very tired.

Sherlock ignores the seepage of blood through his sleeve as he rests his head on it, admiring the sharp pain lightly. But as he realizes he might get it in his hair, he instead places it under the pillow, shifting lightly as he settled more comfortably for a nice nap, yawning lightly.

"Stay awake." John demanded. "You've lost too much blood-"

"John, there has never been a moment, or perhaps there has been a rare occasion, that I ask you leave me to sleep. This, is another one of those rare treasonable moments. So please, please, leave me be." He favored, nearly sounding as though he were pleading. But instead of a verbal response, or the shift of feet, he received silence. He lifted his head and craned it further. "John?" He called out, the turned further.

There was no bang following the movement outside his door, but the sound of a turning knob, and soon after, the door opened rather gingerly, it almost made it look pathetic. John waltzed in, turning the light on, Sherlock's debit card in one hand, ignoring as the taller man squirmed in the bed against the light.

"I taught you how to pick locks, John. To use a card to slide in between the frame is rather uncalled for, if not appalling." He complained, but hardly had time to think of another string of insults when John suddenly grabbed his shoulder and pulled so that he lay on his back. He lay there, still, gazing up towards John who stood at the side of the bed, unable to wrap his head around what had just happened, his brows furrowed. "John," He started, barely above a whisper, as if trying to collect some meaning behind the gaze that looked down towards him. Regaining himself with a rather subtle concern, "John, I thought I made it clear at Angelo's-"

"Oh for god sake Sherlock, come off it!" John interrupted looking away, bothered. "I'm not hitting on you, for God's-" He paused, regaining himself. "I'm going to treat that cut, and you're going to give me a good reason as to why I shouldn't take you to a ward-"

"I don't see why that would be necessary-"

"It wouldn't be if there was just one, Sherlock. But there are over 20 scars trailing down your arm- and most are not fresh, so don't pull this 'experiment' crap on me, because I know it's not that, and unlike Mycroft and Lestrade, I'll never buy it, especially," He paused and grabbed at Sherlock's arm, pulling the sleeve up against the blood smudged arm. "Especially not this. This is not an 'experiment' Sherlock. This is you doing something utterly real, unfathomable, but true. And this," He paused, resting his index finger next to the vertical scar. "This long, nice, fresh cut you've got going on here is vertical." He let go of the arm. "I'm a damn good doctor Sherlock, and I've served in the military. I've treated kids who've tried to sever their carotid artery, so I know a serious self inflicted scar when I see one. And I most definitely know the difference that horizontal and vertical self inflicted wounds imply." He glared. "So don't think me naïve, do you understand me?" He demanded, with a tone that could resemble that of a man in high command.

Sherlock didn't even nod, and instead he just gazed, reading John's expression as the creases grew.

"Now sit up-"

"John-"

"Sit up. I need to treat that, the rest, and get you something to eat, or at least drink. And then," He paused as he got up. "Then we need to talk about," He gestured towards the arm, not finishing his sentence as he stalked off to the kitchen.

It took awhile, but Sherlock finally did as told, sitting up and against the headboard of his large bead, left hand clutching at the wrist of his injured arm. John had pulled up the sleeve, so now Sherlock was left to see what he had done, but in truth, wanted to ignore it. Because therein were the many trail marks that would never fade.

Cocaine track marks? Sure, you could easily hide those. And most people with an untrained eye would assume they were some skin condition, or the result of some illness. Once, someone thought Sherlock was dying of cancer, stating that his skin was nearly transparent and so pressed against his bones. So they 'deduced' that they were IV marks. Others think it's something else. But cuts? Slices? Especially at a certain angle, also if side by side in a runway style that was once a motion, then they know.

It didn't take a genius to figure those out. Self inflicted marks, the most appalling of injuries.

In truth, it was one of those 'in the moment' kind of deals.

Sherlock was sitting in the living room while John was a work, staring off into the ceiling, thinking endlessly about anything- from the news of yesterday, to basic human anatomy, to the making of the sofa he lay on, to the chemicals found in nicotine patches and why did they think they were better than delicately holding a cigarette in between fingers or lips, before the 'moment' took place.

It was then that he, somewhere within his thoughts, wondered how long he could go without doing something to stop his listless thinking.

Cocaine was a bad idea, prolonged, noticeable, and John would be home soon. Then, he'd notice, he'd tell Mycroft and Lestrade- and that was something he wasn't willing to face, not because they thought he'd be intimidated, but because it was a slow lecturous process that he hardly cared to bare witness or be victim to.

And that's when the 'moment' took place.

He moved his legs swiftly off the coach, and with quick steps, he found himself in the kitchen.

Without much care hesitation or care, he pulled a knife from the slab on the counter- that John used for cooking his own meals. He didn't care about the width or length of the knife- one the size of a butter knife could do. The cheap wooden slap toppled to the side, the knifes falling to the ground audibly, loudly so- but Sherlock paid no care to mind over such trivialities, or if Mrs. Hudson heard. Because as motherly and worrisome as a mother hen, she wasn't as bright as to assume he was doing something stupid. She would just assume he dropped something, as anyone else would.

He only had to test this motion out, again, as he had a week ago, after the long nearly seven year break. Once he was done, list in the past, he'd go to the kitchen, wash the knife he used, and tidy his mess up.

But for that moment, he was completely and utterly fixated on dulling his thought process, even for a few moments. So what he would do afterwards mattered not.

As he stood there, in his sanitary bathroom, forearm held over the sink, blade pressed against his skin, ready to be dragged horizontally, he remembered hearing something about people who were devoted to putting their lives at risk by cutting vertically, teasing at death, if not to greet it.

And Sherlock couldn't help but want to play with the balance as well.

So he angled the blade down vertically, the tip pressing against the old scar, the tip hardly sending out any painful signals, receptors nearly fried after so many years of self abuse.

At that moment, he had felt afraid, as he stared at the tip, wondering if he should do it at all. It almost reminded him of his first time, which almost ended badly- He had missed an artery, barely, as he pulled the box cutter too quickly, deeply.
He was young, untrained in treating such deep wounds, and he had panicked of course, and wondered if he should call for help- but instead he tended it himself after asking his aunt, who was a kind yet simple minded nurse, how to tend to deep gashes over the home phone line.

And it wasn't until the healing process was almost done at least a week later, that he saw the exterior of the untouched artery poking from the surrounding tissue that had yet closed.

He tested the blade, so that the first time he mistook the sharpness wouldn't take place again. Placing it near his wrist, but a safe distance from showing, he dragged the blade horizontally against his skin, many times, each shallow mark different in depth.

With a sigh he saw the results to his testing. So now he knew, and now it was decided, as he placed the tip almost at the center of his arm, angling the place vertically.

He reminded himself to breathe, that fear was such a pointless thing, as he stared at the pressed skin under the blade. And just like the first time, when he was afraid, he grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and dragged.

And as expected, he failed to do it right- in respects to avoiding this.

The knife had cut smoothly as he pulled it against his skin, from his wrist, down the to the pocket of his elbow. And all he could do was stare- because unlike the first time, this was long, deeper, but at a greater length compared- the first obviously easier to tend to in comparison to this.

'Shit!' He had cursed with hushed tone, dropping the knife, immediately reaching out for the toilet paper with his uninjured hand, pulling at the sheets and pressing it against the wound that was already bleeding profusely. 'Shit shit shit.' He kept going, the word serving as a mantra. And he further panicked as the toilet paper just absorbed the blood so quickly, it was soaked in a matter of minutes, becoming useless, easily tearing to peaces.

Towels, he frantically thought, looking up, around.

He didn't know when, or how, he had ended up on the floor with his back pressed against the wall, legs sprawled out as he pressed a soaked peace of toilet paper in one area of the long cut- and what a useless idea that was. Because the cut was deep and lengthy it couldn't be covered entirely but the alternative gauze he forced into it. The towels forgotten only a few feet from him.

Sherlock didn't know for how long he sat there, and failed to hear the sound of tired overworked footsteps stomp up, -sound coming from the staircase that was three walls down-, ascending towards their sitting room.

Didn't hear his name get called out as the doctor announced his arrival with the mention of food. Didn't hear as John briskly walked passed his rooms open door, connected to the kitchen -the bathroom not near but away from the room door, across the room- rendering it impossible for Sherlock to see in or out from such an angle.

Sherlock heard, but couldn't comprehend as the footsteps came to a sudden stop, and shifted in a defensive near panicked motion near where, Sherlock presumed, was the fallen wooden slab and its knives sprawled on the ground.

He heard John call his name out again, fully alert, and again, not ultimately concerned, but rather suspicious. The consultant knew it wasn't the suspicions concerning what he had just done to himself, but rather, the idea of an attack.

But Sherlock was too tired to reply, or indicate his whereabouts, and instead succumbed to silence, and the sudden need to sleep. It was, as he had hoped, not few moments later, when John noticed the light emitting from the corner of Sherlock's dark room, that the footsteps got close, and the call of his name softer.

And suddenly, John was there, standing at the door frame, arms at his sides, fists clenched, expression contorted in shock and despair as he stood and bore witness to a bleeding six foot pale man on the bathroom floor with a vertical slice going up his too pale arm, blood pouring out almost comically so, covering old and recent scars with it's brilliant dark red.

He didn't know how, or when John managed to get the man onto his feet and out of that bathroom. Didn't or couldn't understand John as he frantically demanded that Sherlock stay awake as he struggled to get him to the other restroom where the antibiotics flourished in numbers and brands, along with first aid kids- couldn't find reason in John not taking it to the blood stained bathroom, leave Sherlock, and just return with the items.

Sherlock couldn't recall how many times John slapped him to keep him awake, or when he argued with Sherlock when the consultant demanded to not be taken to hospital- because they'd demand he stay, and Mycroft would not use his powers to get him out. Eventually, John closed the scar well enough with butterfly band-aids, taping material firmly in place, going and coming back with more glasses of orange juice. At some point he brought food, but of course, Sherlock had no appetite, and his stomach seemed to rebel at the idea of food at such a pathetic state. But he managed to keep most of it down.

The moment he pulled his head away from the small trash bin full of his sick, John suggested they move to the lounge room, and so they did, with an aiding strong grip. Sherlock put the bucket down, and, with weak legs, managed to make it to the sofa, almost toppling over the small coffee table he failed to spot as he was half heartedly placed in the cushions with as much gentleness as John seemed to care to muster at the moment.

Eventually, the supplements aided in his slight recovery, however, the wound still bled, and he was still too tired to care to stay awake and argue with John or food.

And as if called, in came John with some biscuits, an apple, and yet another class of orange juice.

Sherlock made a face. "Can't I just have water? Tea? Coffee? Anything but that dreaded citrus-"

"Water wouldn't help, tea consists of water, leaves, and milk. Coffee has too much caffeine-"

"Orange juice has water in it too-"

"But it also holds more of the nutrients your body requires. So shut up, and drink it." John finished, glaring at the man who sat on the sofa, no sign of reluctance to enforce more demands on his old and weary features.

And so here they were, in the living room, consultant on the sofa, doctor holding firm on his ground, standing a few feet away, seemingly tense, as if ready to jump Sherlock and stop him from doing anything.

Sherlock ceased to oppose, making another face as he sipped, then gulped the drink, licking at his lips with disdain. He nervously eyed the biscuits though, wondering if he could keep them down with all the juice in his bowel, stomach more full than he imagined possible.

John noticed immediately, but didn't pull the plate away- instead, used it as a way of getting answers. "You don't have to eat any," A lie. "If you tell me why you did this." He added rather softly, completely different from the person just moments before.

Sherlock stared at him, expression stoic, lips lined. Was he interrogating him, using forced food as torture? How pathetic. "Because I was bored." He perked a brow, turning his head lightly as if this was some interesting news to tell. "Consistently so." He kept the informative bit that it was also the fault of his running thoughts.

John couldn't help but narrow his eyes in response in the most confused of expressions, as if Sherlock had told him something beyond his understanding- and who could truly say this wasn't, entirely.
He had dealt with many self-harmers, saved many attempted suicides.
But, -dare he say-, those were normal people, of an entirely different caliber.

This was Sherlock Holmes, a walking example of genius. "Because you were… Bored…" He didn't ask, or rather, it didn't sound like a question, more so a statement. This was the first time he had heard that one- 'because I was bored.' He shook his head lightly, mouth dropped slightly. "So…" He paused, trying to think of a way to steer the situation into what it truly was-serious. "So you harm yourself, because you're," He paused, tone tilting as a single brow rose in skepticism. "Bored?" He finished.

It was this time that Sherlock perched a confused brow. "Yes…" He drawled out rather slowly. "This is the first time you've heard of such reasons-"

"No, this is the first time I've heard such bullshit as an excuse." John let out a huff resembling a laugh as he forced a smile that was anything but warm and entirely sarcastic. He kept his eyes to Sherlock, no signs of looking away in surrender on his display.

A smile forced itself on Sherlock, quirked and faded, and again, he was the man everyone recognized- stoic, composed Sherlock Holmes, ready to stab you with his sharp tongue. "Is it so difficult for even someone of your average, yet higher than most in your category, intelligence, to understand the differences of reasons when it comes to such…" He looked away, seeking the word he knew John held firm in his place. "Delicate matters?" He smiled lightly, amused with the word, the way it sounded, so pure, so disgusting. But the smile faded again as he looked back to his flat mate, who kept that unwavering gaze. "There are thousands of reasons-"

"But those reasons usually get dimmed down to hundreds, then into double digits." John interrupted, walking towards Sherlock taking a seat next to him on the sofa. "Pretty soon it stops at one," He brought up an arm, holding out his hand in between them, index finger out, pointing skywards. "Only one. One good reason." His hand slowly fell, though as if to keep calm, as he went to grab at Sherlock's injured arm. "And once that reason starts to get to you, you can't find a reason to stop, to run." He wrapped his calloused hand around Sherlock's thin wrist and rose it for both to see. "Instead you just decide to stay put, and let it kick your ass until you're a bloody mess on the ground." He didn't seem offended as Sherlock snatched his arm away, didn't look away as Sherlock only glared. Instead, John continued. "And do you get up from the ground and tend to your wounds?" He paused, rhetorical question, he shook his head once, eyes never pulling away. "Nope." He answered, angling his head lightly, his head tilting farther down, slightly, in a lecturing posture. "You just stay there, and let yourself bleed to death instead."

All these metaphors, Sherlock kept his gaze to John with an almost quizzical expression, as though fascinated. Could it be…?

With a slight defiant lightly parted smile, as though figuring it all out, pale gray eyes glanced towards John's arm. "Give me your arm." He demanded, rather smugly, even more so amused when, rather than look shocked, John shifted lightly, a low suppressed grumble, that resembled clearing it, in the back of his throat. Sherlock's brow further rose. "Ah, as I had assumed long ago." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, though the tone of utter humored amusement still lingered. "And now you want to tell me what's right and wrong. You can to clear me of my vices when you've had so many." He kept an unwavering gaze towards John.

Sherlock continued. "You've not only come face to face with this because of your field. But because you yourself fell victim to doing stupid things-"

John interrupted Sherlock with a huff of a laugh- 'stupid things'. "Sher-"

"And now you feel some sort of justification in trying to steer me away from it, but John," He shook his head twice, slowly, daringly, tutted twice. "You fail to see the differences." Without warning, Sherlock shot his un-injured arm out and grabbed at John's arm, pulling it up, vertically, to hold in between them.

Sherlock was rather pleased in finding than John's arm went limp, knowing that it was not because the shorter was afraid, but rather found no reason to pull away. The look on the ex-army doctor only said- better get this over with now rather than later.

"You," Sherlock tightened his grip lightly. "Fail to see that the reasons for your scars are as a result of self loathing." Sherlock's tone was different, rather than the stoic monochrome flutter of words when announcing his observations, it was perked, lightly menacing, insulting, amused, almost hushed. It reminded John too much of Moriarty.

Sherlock didn't stop there. "You fail to realize that these no doubt started shortly after you were shipped off into the war, no doubt after you lost a soldier, a friend, no doubt after you first killed a man whom you started to believe had a life behind his person- a wife, a child. No doubt when you failed to save a life." Something flicked in John's dark blue eyes and as if finding something out, the expression of fascinating epiphanies, Sherlock's body angled away lightly. "Ahhh." He drew out, barely above a whisper. "That's it? Isn't it?"

The flicker behind John's fallen gaze wasn't anger, or that of an offended man. It was the moment in which someone had prodded and jabbed at a rather bad bruise, or when a person you didn't want to further mess with you saw a flaw on you and decided to keep at their insults while using it as leverage.

John made a half hearted effort to pull away, lips pressed, eyes still to the ground.

Sherlock could tell he was getting frustrated now.

"That's it, isn't it John?"

"What is?" John quickly responded, not wanting to dance around this anymore, still trying to pull away from time to time, though not with all the strength he had.

Sherlock didn't let go, however. "You, Dr. Watson the soldier- an army doctor no less. John Watson, loyal brother to his alcoholic sister. Kind John Watson, who lost his parents too early in his life. John Hamish Watson, who failed to save the lives he most cared for." Sherlock's free hand reached up to the cuff of John's sleeve, to which John instantly reacted by cursing under his breath and trying to pull away. But somehow, Sherlock had found the strength to grip tightly, and quickly, he pulled the sleeve down. A small fascinated sigh escaped the pale man who didn't dare drop his smile. "Ah, and there it is. John Watson, a man who's tried to end his own life more than once."

And it was obvious, nothing to steer clear, no way to excuse. The white scars that started a few inches from the wrist- to hide well under sleeves incase the usual slide. Vertical scars that went down towards the pocket of ones elbow, angry and deep, but long since healed. There were two, and from what Sherlock could induce, they were done years apart, but most certainly before he met the consultant.

"It's rather unfortunate, if not hypocritical, when a man such as yourself tries to seem righteous and sound-"

John finally managed to pull away, -as Sherlock seemed to go into one of his mind secluded dazes-, and cursed lightly as he realized the conversation had steered away for some time now. "Damnit Sherlock," He muttered, fixing his sleeve as he turned to face away. "This isn't about me!" He suddenly got up from the sofa, walking forth a few steps, pinching at the bridge of his nose, other hand on hip. The hand at his face came down, flat, as he motioned. He held it in place. "This is about those." The hand motioned towards Sherlock's arm now forgotten on his lap. "This about now. Mine are healed, and yours are fresh." His arm fell to his side. "This is about you!"

"What about me…?" Sherlock muttered, looking away disinterested with a sigh.

John couldn't hold back the anger. "You're not right!" He shouted. "This isn't right!"

"Well it certainly isn't wrong!" Sherlock lost it as well, turning his head back towards John to glare at the veteran medic. Silence lingered momentarily, Sherlock noting how John's face had fallen. "I'm not in the wrong!"

"Sherlock-"

"You, you," He looked around as if trying to find a spiteful word to match his furious expression. "Idiots always think it has to do with some traumatic experience." His furious expression notched down lightly. "Always assume it was because someone important died, or because 'daddy abused me, mummy didn't love me enough'," Of course he wasn't referring to himself. "Or perhaps it was rape, neglect, maybe utter self loathing." He kept talking about reasons others found. "But that isn't. Me. John." He spat. "I am not like you people. I don't find a comfort in doing stupid things for reasons of the past that do not effect or concern me!" He yelled, and followed it by silence, breathing somewhat heavy, eyes glaring, though slowly relaxing as he seemed to see who he was glaring at, as if coming back down to himself.

John kept a rather astounded expression the whole time, and how he managed, he didn't know. Rather than glare, seem humored, or offended, for some reason, he found himself to look simply flustered in a slightly taken aback manner. And he couldn't fit the reasons as to why.

Instead of John adding his own suspicions though, as to add onto the short list of reasons Sherlock gave as an example, it was the taller seated man who talked instead, eyes to the floor. "I don't have reasons other than my own. There is nothing wrong with my past, and there is nothing traumatically related that would trigger my actions." He mumbled, exasperated. "It may sound insane. But I find that doing what I do in order to keep myself from drowning in boredom is better than shooting something up or drinking myself to feel anything but bored." He looked up. "However, you keep siding it with self destructive tendencies-"

"Well, aren't they?" John cut in, both arms fallen to his sides. "Because Sherlock, this isn't healthy…" He held out his arms. "None of it is."
He turned away, running a hands through his hair, sighing. "If you're having problems keeping away from drugs, that you have to resort to this- then you're an addict." He shook his head with a small dry laugh. "And damn me for not second guessing the alcohol bit." With his back turned to Sherlock, facing the kitchen, he eyed the cabinet in which the scotch and whiskey remained for a bad nights dream, a stressed day or a simple holiday.

Hell, he felt like he needed a glass now. He could only imagine how Sherlock felt at the moment, or if ever, knowing that the alcohol was just there. "So in the end, this isn't about boredom…" He stopped, stood still for a moment, then turned to face Sherlock. "This is about your addictions, and what you do to avoid boredom-"

"Not entirely but close enough." Sherlock wafted a disinterested hand. "But as I say now, and what I have said before- what I do in these moments, is of no concern to you."

Another dry laugh from John. Sherlock really needed to learn what the word 'friendship' implied. "No concer-.. Sherlock!" John pressed his lips, managing to allow his tongue to lick against his bottom lip as he would subconsciously do when stressed or in thought. "Sherlock," He calmed. "It is of my concern-"

"And why would you say that?" Sherlock didn't seem genuinely confused, just ultimately frustrated, but he kept his composure. "These," He glanced towards his arm. "Are not your arms. What happens to me as a result should never concern you, because it has nothing to do with you-"

"Oh for gods sake man, shut up!" John finally yelled, rather, full heartedly did so.

The past lost tempers in the last hour compared nothing to this one.

"They have every bit to do with me you bloody idiot!" At least his body wasn't wildly gesturing with his lost temper. "You arms, your addictions, you!" He sighed. "You're my flat mate Sherlock! My good friend. And when you do stupid things, that could potentially kill you, it scares the living hell out of me!" He turned away, then back. "I mean where in your massive brain do you assume that I wouldn't give a fuck if I came home one afternoon to a six foot tall blood drained or OD'ed male, let alone my best friend!" John noticed how Sherlock seemed taken aback for only a moment, but ignored it. "Did you think I would just brisk by your corpse, have a cup of tea, and call a woman in for a quick fuck? I mean for Christ's sake Sherlock!" He finally sighed in exhausted defeat, walking over to sit in his own arm chair.

It is in that single outburst that Sherlock realizes what he had genuinely wondered for some time. John cares. Honestly cares. For the longest of time he had wondered if it was all due to some spur of loyalty he had gained in his services in Afghanistan, and as a seasoned soldier, couldn't shed the skin of a troop as easily as Sherlock would.

But no, that wasn't in.

He gazed at the ground, at the rug that had turned ugly and stained over the course of their living, tea stains, chemical stains, blood. This rug was once Sherlock's when he lived on his own. He could still see the stains in with he allowed the syringe to drip its seven percent solution before shooting it up.

Now the rug was stained with John's little trembles that would let the sometimes over flooded cup of tea to spill its contents, or the coffee that was a bit not good on a hasty morning. Mud stains from the boots that John would at times keep on despite the weather outside.

Something as simple as a rug could tell so much to Sherlock, he rather loathed the poet that was starting to bleed through the cracks of realization- he, Sherlock Holmes, the freak, the odd figure, the genius too great for his own good, the careless man who had torched emotions as he knew they messed with ones thinking process- he was no longer alone.

The triple digits had become double digits.

Sherlock looked up to John, who sat in his hideous arm chair, right arm resting on the arm rest, hand dangling off the end, left arm propped on the corresponding arm rest, bent at the elbow, hand near his face as his fingers traced at his forehead, as if soothing or trying to smooth the lines of concern. His dark blue eyes, now slightly hollow, gazed at his left outstretched leg, as if it was the most interesting thing to allow his mind to wander.

But Sherlock knew, in those eyes, he could almost see the memory in its past limp, could almost read the mans thoughts as he probably questioned if living with the crazy consultant to respond to these kind of situations was really all worth it.

It was in that posture, Sherlock damned himself, that the true signs of worry presented themselves. And it was genuine in every which way. But Sherlock, who had succumbed to a life of closing himself off from all that would make a normal persons heart lightly flutter or stomach drop, had hardly taken to notice that posture that would usually present itself every time he and John would have an argument concerning Sherlock's health or little escapades with running towards crime rather than away.

"John, I-"

"Not now Sherlock." He closed his eyes, but continued at his current state that he found some sort of comfort in.

In response, Sherlock looked up to John, not realizing he had looked away. "But-"

"Sherlock," John opened his eyes, warning the taller man as he looked to him, but then kept his threatening words to himself as he noticed the most human, most genuine expression Sherlock had ever shown present itself. He mentally sighed and looked away, ahead, out the window. "What is it..?" He masked his curious concern with indifference.

He imagined it was the only way Sherlock would find comfort in continuing.

For a moment, silence followed, and John could almost hear the taller man's hesitation when words got stuck in his throat. But eventually, with a near silent sigh, Sherlock adjusted himself on the sofa, leaning against his thighs, as he gazed towards the ground. John looked to him, and noted how the taller had seemed to dwell within himself, his outer shell of a body just serving as the owl to the words that were like a message from inside.

Full lips parted, gray eyes glassed over. "Behind the mirror, there's a hole. In that hole, or rather, cubby, I've hidden an old wooden box… Within the wooden box is a cloth that wraps around a clean, unused syringe and a few bottles of liquefied cocaine… Around that wrapped cloth are a few unused safety plastic sealed syringes." He flinched lightly. "I had decided that it was the best place to hide it after the drugs bust. At first it was in my room."

John hadn't realized he had glanced towards the mirror he had placed there more than once, feeling utterly stupid for not thinking about looking there rather than under the skull, cabinets, or in between both of their bed mattresses. He still managed to keep his posture, fingers still smoothing at the skin of his forehead.

Instead of exploding, as most people would- instead of asking the wrong and stupid questions, John decided to approach this rather casually. "And where did you get the syringes?"

Sherlock looked up, though he was still seemingly hiding within himself, he still managed to look caught off by John's response. "Bart's. Usually when I go to the morgue, or when you're at work and call me from your office phone, asking me to bring you your mobile."

But John remember he never had forgotten it. It was always in his coat pocket or on the coffee table before he left- as always, to remind himself in taking it with him. It was only recently that he had found it misplaced. Now with that information, he could only guess it was Sherlock's doing. But, this was good, John decided, very good. He kept at it. "And the drugs?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, then back, then towards the window, as if the answer would be out the glass in its entirety. "Around London. A few within the network know me well, and don't hesitate to get me what I need."

The Baker Street Irregular's, or simply The Irregular's, John decided. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had referred to them as his 'network' to avoid his sources from getting caught. "And have you…" Pausing, he pulled the fingers that smoothed his head away and pointed towards the mirror.

"Been using?" Sherlock looked to him, then looked towards the mirror. "No."

John nodded immediately in response with a low 'hm' in his throat, hand smoothing his forehead again. He hadn't used, and that was good. But John knew, by the way he said it, it wasn't an entirely unfavorable idea.

Now the veteran army doctor wondered what it was like for the very bored Sherlock Holmes, alone at home, while he worked and treated patients who thought they were dying over runny noses.

Pulling the smoothing hand from his face, John pointed towards the mirror again. "May I?…" He bluntly asked, as if asking to see some ornaments in glass casing that was some sort of fascinating heirloom.

Sherlock gestured towards the mirror. "By all means."

And with that, John hefted himself to his feet with a low grunt as a sign that his tense muscles were starting to act up. He briskly walked to the chimney and held his arms over the mantle piece, glancing towards Sherlock's reflection in the mirror, who sat defeated on the sofa, gripping his arm.

Well, the conversation had drifted, yes, -he eyed the arm covered in blue silk that stained with dry blood-, but that wasn't a matter that was going to be forgotten and ignored. But as of now-

He pulled the mirror off the wall with a low grunt, proving it to be heavier than he thought. Slowly he balanced it in his trained arms, as if hefting an AK74U into his tired hold, and placed the mirror on the floor, looking up as his body followed with standing upright, eyes to the somewhat messy yet nicely carved hole in the wall. Oh, Mrs. Hudson was not going to be happy once they moved out…

A hollow feeling resided in the pit of his stomach as his heart sank at the idea of moving out, but he quickly ignored it as he reached out and grabbed hold of the, just as Sherlock said, wooden box, all polished and seemingly new.

The wood was no doubt oak, expensive, and those golden swirls craved under the gleam was no doubt the real deal. This was an expensive item to use as a box to stuff and hide narcotics in. He looked up, expecting to see the mirror reflect Sherlock behind him, but he stared at the wall for a moment, remembering that he had removed it, before turning to look at his flat mate.

John held the wooden case in his hands, finding it to be locked shut by a rather rusted padlock. He made no effort to find an alternative way to opening it, and didn't look to Sherlock and ask for the key. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, head slightly nodding but not doing so, and he looked to his flat mate, who only sat in the sofa, gazing at John, quizzically.

This, John, of course, knew that it meant Sherlock was going to judge himself upon a response of any kind.

So instead of seeming ultimately disgusted, angry, or disappointed, he locked their eyes, and made no gestures towards the item in his hands. "This has to stop." He repeated rather sternly, but his tone made no indication of hostility, had no traces of a threat.

This time, Sherlock didn't look to him with a hint of indifference. This time, his thick brows didn't raise or furrow. This time his body didn't turn, his lips didn't quirk at the edges.

Instead, this time, for a rare moment, Sherlock allowed his genuine feelings towards the situation overcome him, as the unusual brightness glassed his pale eyes, staring at John, tears he didn't allow to fall.

The double digits had become one single, solitary digit.

Glancing towards the box then back to John, he blinked once, nodded once, and with a voice barely above a whisper- "I know."

A/N- This is story and chapter one of the next few coming up. Remember, these are all long one shots huddled into one for the sake of keeping all one shots from eating up my fic wall. All the chapters will be their own story, however, things from previous chapters will mix in from time to time, only to strengthen the other chapters.

Next up is more angst. Eating Disorders.

Remember that all of these are triggering, all deal with many issues- cutting, eating disorders, drugs, and may even cause PTSD from some of the content in the later one shots.
I just like torturing characters with angst ok? Lol. Please review.
Please?