Author's note: Bipolarity is different for everyone and this is based on how I experience the disorder. This isn't meant to glorify bipolar disorder or to make someone upset. If it does, I'm sorry. Also, some knowledge about bipolar disorder is required to understanding this, so I'm suggesting that you google it.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: Self harm, thoughts about suicide

There was a very good reason to everything which was going on in Sherlock Holmes' life. There always was. Why he always wore long sleeves, why he sometimes didn't talk for days, why he sometimes didn't sleep, didn't eat and couldn't sit still. There was a very easy explanation for all of this. The detective was diagnosed bipolar.

It wasn't something people knew about. No one knew, in fact. Except Mycroft, and Sherlock had made it quite clear that no one was to know about his disorder. When he was diagnosed, Sherlock had been on medication and had seen a therapist. But, it wasn't his thing. The last 20 years, he had been completely on his own. And he was fine. Sort of, at least. It was under control.

Except for the occasional thoughts about suicide and the self harm, that was. The reason to why Sherlock always wore long sleeves, so that nobody could see the scars on his arms. Some were more than 20 years old and barely visible while some were a few days old.

It was early evening in 221B and Sherlock stood by the kettle, watching it boil. John was away, he had gone to visit his family for the weekend, and wouldn't be back until Monday. Soft music was playing in his ears from the headphones he was wearing. This was the first time since John left that he had gotten out of his room. He was only dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. It was something he allowed himself to do when John was out, when his scars wouldn't be seen.

Whistling along with the violin piece, Sherlock prepared his cup of tea with the same insane attention to detail as everything else. Tea bag, water to a certain level, two teaspoons of sugar and stir five times counter-clockwise. After placing the spoon in the sink along with the growing pile of dishes, he moved into the living room and sank down onto the couch.

Lately, Sherlock hadn't been feeling completely fine. After several weeks of manic behaviour, he had crashed about a month ago and sank into the deepest depression of years. He hadn't been able to do anything it all. The only thing he had been up to was laying either in his bed or on the couch, staring into the ceiling, with John yelling at him to 'get off his skinny arse and maybe help around the flat'. Of course, Sherlock hadn't answered.

In order to keep it in check, he had brought the knife to his arm and now a few red scars had joined the already existing. They stood out against Sherlock's pale skin and the white t-shirt. Now, he was finally a bit better. He could think again. His mind wasn't just a gaping, black hole which absorbed any thought of happiness or hope. It was a bit better.

After taking a deep sip of the tea, Sherlock laid back in the couch and grabbed a magazine which happened to be there right next to him. It was apparently about gossip, something Sherlock couldn't care less about, but it was something to do.

Due to the music, Sherlock couldn't hear when John arrived. The first indication of that he wasn't alone in the flat was when John touched his naked foot, causing Sherlock to flinch.

"I thought you wouldn't be home until Monday!" The detective said as he ripped off his headphones. John looked tired, his hair stood on end. Early train, then. Pasta for lunch. Fight with Father.

"Nice to see you too." John said with a soft smile. "And, it is Monday." John's eyes scanned over Sherlock, who quickly crossed his arms over his chest when he remembered they were bare. Had John seen the red marks?

"Oh." Sherlock just said and tried to count in his head. It really was Monday. Then it was almost a week since he last ate something. That could explain how exhausted he felt.

"You okay?" Sherlock's thoughts were cut short by John's soft, worried voice.

"Never been better." He quickly lied.

"What happened to your arms?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

There was no answer from Sherlock this time. He kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest as he stared at something above John's shoulder. What on earth was going to happen now? What if John persisted? What if he contacted Mycroft? Sherlock could feel the anxiety snake around his chest.

"Sherlock, talk to me. I see that they are from self harm." Sherlock heard that John sat down in his arm chair and kicked off his shoes. The detective still didn't turn his head to look at his best friend and flatmate. He had to bit down on his tongue to not snap at John about the fight he had with his father.

"Look, I'm going to make a cup of tea. I'm not dropping this. We have to talk about it." John's voice was still very soft, he hadn't even commented about the mess of the flat. 'Clean up while I'm gone, won't you?' Those had been his last words before he set off to meet his family. He really must be worried.

They sat opposite each other in their arm chairs. Sherlock was now wearing a sweater over his t-shirt, hiding his arms from John's calm, blue eyes. It seemed like none of them wanted to start. Sherlock's heart was beating fast in his chest. Was he actually nervous about this? Yes, he supposed that was what he was feeling. He was nervous.

"How long have you been hurting yourself?" John's voice was, as it had been before, very, very soft. That was one thing which always surprised Sherlock. "And, no lying. Please be honest with me. Just now. Please."

"Since I was about 13. On and off." It wasn't a lie, it was completely true. It was when he entered his teenage years that he started displaying symptoms of bipolar disorder. But, he wasn't diagnosed until he was 16, after a suicide attempt.

"Why?" It was first now that Sherlock met John's eyes since he had commented about his arms. The blue eyes were worried and filled with something Sherlock couldn't really put his finger on. The same with his voice.

"To keep the anxiety at bay. And the... Other thoughts."

"Other thoughts?"

There was a long pause when Sherlock thought about how to word his next statement. John had said no lying. After a while, the detective cleared his throat.

"Every now and again I might have some thoughts about hurting myself in a more... Final way than just cutting."

Sherlock could see John's eyes widen and his right hand twitched around the cup of tea. With a low sigh, Sherlock took a deep sip of his tea which had since long gone cold. He just wished that John would stop there, that he wouldn't ask more questions. Sherlock was in no form to make up some silly lies or to just ignore his friend.

"You mean you have thoughts about killing yourself."

"Correct."

"Why haven't you talked to me about it?"

"Not important."

There was a loud bang as John placed his tea on the table next to his chair with more force than necessary, causing the tea to spill onto the smooth surface. Now there was anger in John's eyes.

"Can you just take something concerning yourself seriously?" John's eyes flashed. "Suicidal thoughts are nothing to laugh about! And, what happens when they turn from thoughts into planning and then into an action? What if I come home to find you dead?"

"I said thoughts, John. Not intentions. Do try and keep up."

There was another long pause between them as John stood up and grabbed a piece of napkin to wipe up the spilt tea.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He finally said as he sat down again.

"It's quite alright."

John shook his head vigorously.

"Not, it isn't. You're finally opening up to me and I yelled at you. Not very professorial."

"Maybe not."

They drank their tea in silence, John with his now mostly empty cup and Sherlock with his cold tea, doing his best to not think. Which was impossible. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think about his disorder, to think that maybe he wasn't handling it as well as he thought he did.

"You said it has been going on since you were 13. Have you ever gotten help for it?" Sherlock had almost forgotten that John was there and flinched when John spoke with him.

"Yes." He admitted. "Once when I was 16, until I was 18. My parents forced me."

"And, this didn't help you?"

"No."

"So, you were diagnosed with depression, I suppose? Just, judging by the way you've been acting these last few days, I think that's what you have."

Once again, Sherlock took his time to decide how to word things.

"Sort of." He finally decided on. It wasn't a lie, it was an evasion.

The thoughts began spinning in John's head, Sherlock could see it. John was a doctor after all, and even though he wasn't a psychiatrist, Sherlock was sure that it wasn't a difficult diagnosis to make. All the signs were there.

"Are you bipolar?" John's voice was just as soft as before.

"Exactly. Great deduction, Doctor Watson."

"Are you on any medication? Do you see anyone about it?"

Sherlock only huffed as an answer.

"I'm taking that as a no. You know, you really should do that. In fact, I know someone who's an expert no bipolar disorder. I can get you a time next week."

"I'm fine."

"I said no lies."

A deep groan escaped the detective as he sank deeper into his chair, pulling his legs up under him.

"Do I have a choice?"

There was a small pause and Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes. There was a small smile on his lips, he knew he had won.

"Of course not."