Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 5

JOHN'S POV

The frail, ghostly man lying in the hospital bed in front of him was not his best friend. It couldn't be. His chest rose and fell sluggishly and his prominent bones made him look like he hadn't eaten in months. The thick bandages around his wrists, though, made it all too real.

John haphazardly collapsed into a chair placed next to the bed, his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle a sob. He had seen so much in Afghanistan. Blood. Gore. Death. Soldiers committing suicide, too haunted by the things they had seen. But this was different. Lying in front of him was the man that single-handedly saved him. He owed him so much, and Sherlock didn't even know it.

He waited for his vision to clear before grasping Sherlock's icy hand in his, his heart trying to fight it's way out of his chest. John placed his forehead on his chest, just like when he had waited for the ambulance to take Sherlock in the first place.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. What have you done?" His attempt at remaining strong failed, and he gave way to tears.
                                                                            
SHERLOCK'S POV

He had been trapped inside his mind for the last few minutes, the medication they gave him making it hard to function. It took him a while to figure out what had happened, where he was. When he did, though, he didn't like what he found. It was the burning smell of antiseptic that gave it away. He was in a hospital. He felt pressure on his wrists, and a throbbing pain. His attempt hadn't worked.

All too suddenly, he mind was transported back to 221B. John was in the lounge, waiting for him to be done in the bathroom. He had only just gotten home after three hours of wandering the dirty streets of London, though he barely remembered any of it.

He had been crying most of the time - John had found out about his other addiction. He knew all about the drugs, but this addiction, this...cutting, was much too personal for any other person to know about. It was his emotional crutch, something no strong man should have, and he was sure John now thought of him as nothing but an attention seeking fraud.

John.

He felt like his heart had been ripped open. He knew how John had taken it when he had faked his death. He had always kept an eye on John throughout those two years, and it killed him to see him ache. But the hardest part was seeing just what lengths he went to to numb the pain. Alcohol. Cutting. Suicide.

Mercifully, he had never succeeded. His frantic calls to the emergency services had made sure of that. And while he could sleep at night knowing John hadn't died, it didn't stop the pain of knowing he had caused it, and worst of all, that he couldn't stop it. Not until he had dismantled Moriarty's terror network.

But now he had hurt John yet again. It was all his fault - his inability to keep John from harm. It was at that moment he realized the only way to save John was to not be around him at all. 

His thoughts were abruptly transported back to the present as he felt a pressure on his chest. He tentatively opened his left eye to peek at what, or who, was touching him.

The telltale blonde-grey hair and the jumper gave away the person's identity.

John. The last person he had expected to see.