Disclaimer: Same as always. I don't own anything.

A/N: Sorry this took so long and that it's so short.

Chapter 2: Realisation

"Alright?" John asked as Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom looking pale and exhausted, a complete turn around from the man he had left not an hour ago. Sherlock nodded, but made no sound, making his way to the kitchen.

"Right, well," John continued, still unsure, "I shouldn't've yelled. I'm sorry." Again, Sherlock nodded in silence and pointed to the kettle, "tea?" he asked.

John nodded, accepting the cup that Sherlock held to him and noticing the slight shake of his friend's hand. As John plopped, ungracefully, in his chair across from him, Sherlock sat, pulling his knees up to his chest in a barricaded position.

"What are you not telling me?" John leant forward. "You've been more up and down in the past three days than in the whole time I've known you."

"Bored." Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, resting his head on his knees.

"No," John shook his head. "Sherlock, this is not, 'bored'." This was the complete opposite of Sherlock bored. No nervous twitching, no bequest for a cigarette, just- calm; too calm, like the calm before a storm. John had surrendered himself to the fact that no matter how long he knew this man before him, he would always be an enigma. However, he did know when something wasn't right. Sherlock was even purposely avoiding eye contact.

Sherlock's mobile sounded, pulling John out of his reverie. Quickly shrugging off his dressing gown, Sherlock pulled on socks, shoes, and a coat, making a dash for the door. "I'll be in the morgue!" he called as he slammed the door behind him.

John sat for a moment getting lost in thought for a few moments before he decided to go after him. Making a stop in the bathroom, the blood drained from his face as he turned on the light. A small silver razor blade still lay on the floor, lined in deep red, still fresh, blood. Feeling a bit lightheaded, John, thought he was seeing things. There has to be an explanation for this. He tried to ignore the way his stomach was clenching. An experiment gone wrong, Sherlock's nonchalant voice rang through in his head. Nothing to worry about.

"There's blood, on a razor, half-hidden in our bathroom, Sherlock," he called aloud. "There is reason to worry."

As John made his way towards St. Bartholomew's Hospital, he went over and over in his head how he would bring up the offending item. He had decided to walk, giving himself time to work things over in his head. Going all in, guns blazing would be bad whether this was an experiment gone wrong, or- something else.

He hoped no one else, meaning Molly, would be around. The idea of asking if Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother, knew anything flitted into his mind and lasted .02 seconds before it flitted back out. No, Mycroft didn't need to be involved, for once. It needed to be just the two of them.

By the time he had reached the doors the morgue, John was shaking. The delicacy and weight of the situation played heavily on his shoulders. Bursting through the doors, Sherlock was no where to be seen, but as he peered through the window, his nerves settled slightly as he set eyes on a familiar sight. Sherlock was hunched over, peering through a microscope. He looked much better than he had a when he left the flat. What colour he had was back in his cheeks and his hair was much neater. John cleared his throat.

"I, uh, found something in the bathroom, tonight, after you left." Sherlock sighed as John continued. "Just wondering if you could explain it."

Sherlock finally lifted his head and saw a photo of a blood-glazed razor, taken from John's mobile. "Experiment," he said after a split-moment of hesitation; one he hoped John didn't notice. He couldn't let on how fast his mind was racing. How could he have been so careless? Don't look at John, he willed himself. Not when his world could come crashing down around him. He buried his head back into the microscope, hoping that John would leave it at that and go away.

John's stomach was raging now. He had seen the look on Sherlock's face- the one Sherlock tried so hard to cover up and he could've sworn he saw the colour drain from his face. Thoughts and questions came pouring into his head like a waterfall: This can't be true. Can it? How long? Why? Bored, Sherlock's voice popped back into his head. No. Nice try. Suddenly John felt... angry. Angry at whatever had hurt and was still hurting his friend this much. Angry that he couldn't do anything to take away the pain. His heart was starting to break and as much as he wanted to ask questions, John knew getting answers out of Sherlock would be like pulling teeth. Instead, he went and stood by his friend's side.

Sherlock noticed the shift in John. He knew that he was angry, but it didn't seem like he was angry with him. He expected John to holler and rant and rave, much like his father had when he caught him that fateful night long ago. John was silent and calm. Stealing a glance at him, Sherlock didn't see a look of disgust, but one of deep sorrow, which confused him greatly.

"Home," John said gently, yet forcefully as he handed him his coat. To John's great surprise, Sherlock didn't fight. Instead, he stood up and followed John out of the hospital.