Big self-harm and wound description tw. Have fun reading you depressed fucks.

It had been a nice dinner. A wonderful dinner, even. It was a bit awkward at first, but after a bit, the two of them found their natural rhythm again- chatting and joking and being themselves.

Sherlock and John arrived home at around 10:45. Sherlock was laughing over some obvious and only somewhat funny deduction he'd made about a woman rushing to the bathroom. John was laughing right along with him. Mrs. Hudson greeted them downstairs, and they said their hellos and headed upstairs.

"Oh, really, John, it wasn't that funny, was it?" Sherlock asked, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.

"Sherlock, I have never seen you joke the way you did tonight. What was that?" John made a concentrated face, pressing his hands together in front of his mouth- mimicking Sherlock. "'I deduce by the way she's hurrying towards the bathroom, she's got to pee. Badly.' How do you say that with a straight face?!"

Sherlock shook his head, grinning.

"That... was fun. I'd like to do that more often"

John smiled brightly. "Right, then. We will."

"I'm going to shower," Sherlock said, once they reached their flat. John nodded and continued to up to his room.

It was around then that the night took a turn for the worse.

John decided to get a drink of water.

He headed down to the kitchen, grabbed a cup and filled it with water. He was just about to take a sip when he heard the bathroom door open.

"Shit, shit, shit," John heard Sherlock muttering.

"Everything okay?" John called out.

"Shit. Yeah! I forgot a towel, don't look, thanks," Sherlock responded.

John furrowed his brows and looked down at his glass of water. Sherlock sounded a lot more upset over a towel than he should.

Suddenly, there a was a bang. John started, surprised Sherlock must have dropped something.

"Sherlock?"

"It's all fine!"

"What did you drop?"

"Nothing, John."

John took a sip of his water.

"Actually, John?" Sherlock said from the hallway.

"Yes?" John replied.

"Could you... come here? I need you for a moment."

John felt his heart jump.

"Do you... have a... you know, towel, now?" John said, nervousness in his voice.

"Of course."

John let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. And that was the last pleasant part of his evening.

He headed towards the hallway and turned the corner. He couldn't comprehend, for a moment, what he saw.

Sherlock (in the trousers and white shirt he'd worn to dinner), holding a towel to his arm. There were little objects scattered across the floor. Medical scissors. Bandages. Suturing equipment. A small tube of antibacterial ointment.

A small red spot was slowly growing on the towel where Sherlock held it to his arm.

There was a metallic smell in the air. The smell of blood.

"John, I'm afraid I may have nicked an artery. I need stitches." Sherlock said, and pursed his lips.

John stood still, uncomprehending for a moment. Then, his doctor's instincts kicked in and he felt himself walking forward, picking up the scattered medical supplies. He felt a hundred miles away as he led Sherlock to the living room and cleared a spot on their table, instructing Sherlock to hold the towel firmly against his arm while John went to wash his hands and grab some gloves.

He still didn't understand how within ten minutes of being home, Sherlock could have been- what, attacked by an animal? By a person with a knife?

He was denying the obvious truth. It wasn't real until Sherlock said it was, he told himself. Anything could have happened.

John walked back, feeling like he was working on autopilot as he moved the towel away to look at Sherlock's wound. Wounds, apparently, as there were two. Two vertical lacerations on the back of his forearm. John took a deep breath. He could see the yellow of fat, and it might even have been deeper, but John couldn't tell, what with the blood pumping from the wound. It flowed out of the wound in time with Sherlock's heartbeat. It wasn't a very heavy flow, though, indicating either a nicked artery or a severed arteriole. Most likely the arteriole.

John folded the towel to a clean section and pressed it to the wound.

"Hold it here," he instructed Sherlock. Sherlock did as he said. They sat in silence for a few minutes. John barely felt the time pass. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or not- maybe this was just another bad dream?

Finally, John moved the towel off of Sherlock's arm. The cuts had mostly stopped bleeding. John opened the bottle of sterile water he had brought and slowly poured it over the wounds, washing the blood and any foreign contaminant off. Sherlock didn't even flinch.

Next, John took the numbing cream they had and applied it around the wounds. He slowly took off the gloves he had been wearing, now covered in numbing cream, and pulled on a new pair. Then he picked up the suturing needle and forceps.

He was going to stitch up Sherlock Holmes. In their living room.

"Tell me if it hurts too badly, we can stop for a moment," John said quietly. Sherlock nodded. They continued in silence.

John carefully pushed the curved needle into Sherlock's skin, pulling the suturing thread through. He held the wound he was working on together, unconsciously shuddering because of how it oozed. He never expected to see wounds such as these on Sherlock. It was crazy to even consider. Yet, here they were.

John pulled the needle through the other side and glanced at Sherlock. He was staring at the wall, making no indication of pain.

So John pushed the needle through again. And again. And again.

Finally, both wounds were sutured. The lock stitch suturing technique was what John went with. It was good. This was fine.

Sherlock was still staring at the wall. He looked as far away as John felt. John sighed.

"Sherlock. What happened?" He finally asked.