Chapter 1: Boxes
***Disclaimer: I, of course, do not own the characters of D.I. Greg Lestrade, Doctor John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, any of the other characters of the show, "Sherlock", or the show itself. They are owned by the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss- though, technically, I believe the original Holmes text are now in Public Domain, but you get my point. Plus, I am not profiting in any way.
*Also, It's been a while since I've writing- for anything, so this is a trial piece. Okay, Here we go.
Sherlock Holmes awoke with a start. It was dark and he was cold and sticky. His head was pounding and it felt heavy. He blinked a few times to let his eyes adjust to the darkness; he was on the bathroom floor. He felt around for his mobile, which sat beside him. The time read: 23:30. Good, he'd only been there for a half an hour or so. He frowned and wondered if John had come home yet.
Slowly lifting himself off the floor, he felt a shot of pain rip through his lower extremities. He silently cursed and steadied himself on the edge of the bath. Finally able to pull himself up, he reached and flipped up the light switch; closing his eyes before the florescent light made his head worse. Slowly opening them again, he looked around at the floor which was covered with blood, tea-light candles that had been burnt out, matches, towels, packages of alcohol wipes, a razor blade, and gauze; a small tin box lay off to the side.
Taking a seat on the toilet, he examined his injuries. Six incisions were made above each ankle, but below the calves. He had been careful to stay near the surface and away from any major veins or arteries, not going too deep or making too many cuts.
Sherlock began the clean-up process, attending to his fresh wounds first. He paused for a moment to look over the older ones; some were faded almost out of existence, some were a light pink colour, and the ones that had been a little deeper were maroon. Carefully wiping the blood off the newest lines, he applied antiseptic and bandages. When he was satisfied, he quickly mopped up the floor, determined to do a better clean up job in the morning.
Stowing the paper towels and cleaner, he gingerly took the tin box from it's place and opened the lid. He made a mental note to get more gauze and alcohol wipes, as he placed what he had left in the box, which also held extra blades and a small sewing kit.
This has to stop. A voice popped into his head and that annoying sounded like his flatmate and only friend, John Waston. It had been nearly a week. You were doing really well. If you don't stop, eventually I'm going to find out and then what?
"Shut up, John." Sherlock whispered into thin air. His heart raced at the thought of John discovering his deepest secret. No, John could never find out about this. He would think he was pathetic and disgusting. No longer would he be seen for his brilliant mind, but for his weakness. Seeing himself through John's eyes, Sherlock was just beginning to believe himself to not be a freak, but if John found out, then again, that's all he'd be.
Sherlock and John had just had another row about experiments in the kitchen. He couldn't figure out why John didn't understand that some things just needed to be refrigerated and John was too impatient to do anything except yell. After which, John stormed out of the flat claiming he needed a break.
Sherlock had just stood there, silent; keeping his mask in place. Despite what people, and even he himself had come to believe, he wasn't without feeling, and some of the words John spit out in anger penetrated his, (supposedly), thick skin. Sherlock was sure that some of John's anger came from his non-reaction, but that's how it was in the Holmes household; you didn't show emotion, good or bad.
If you were happy, sad, angry, frightened, you kept it to yourself. If you needed to talk to someone, well, you didn't. Whatever was happening on the inside, you kept up appearances on the outside. So, from the tender age of two, Sherlock, had learnt not to show any emotion. Instead, he kept it hidden far beneath the surface in a box that was deadlock sealed; only once in a while, the box would overflow and Sherlock would need a release.
After John left, Sherlock slumped down on to the pewter-coloured sofa that lined the wall of their flat. Curling into a fetal position, he wrapped his royal blue dressing-gown tightly around him and stared at the back cushion. The sound of John's voice yelling was playing through his head as though it was song he hated on repeat. It was unbearable when John was angry at him. John, the one that really mattered. The only one that could make or break him- not that he'd ever let John know how much he counted. He wasn't suppose to care, after all.
He stayed like that for a few minutes before he became agitated and had to switch position. Laying on his back, he stretched out his long, lean form. His black curls were in disarray; sweat beads were starting to form on his forehead.
It was already starting; his whole body shaking, his breathing starting to shallow, his mind racing- even more than usual. He could feel the urge growing stronger. His eyes, that were squeezed tightly shut, popped open and he sat up sharply.
Making a quick trip to the bathroom, he shut and locked the door tight. People would say he was being ritualistic, but Sherlock was not 'people'. He knew it was a habit, but wouldn't go as far as saying it was ritual.
Opening the towel cabinet, he reached back to the farthest point of the shelf where his tin box sat. Grabbing it, and a handful of tea-light candles, he slammed the door shut and turned off the light, sliding to the floor. Turning the torch application on his phone to on, he gently lifted the lid off the very old box that held all the tools he would or might need.
First, he lit two of the candles and placed them on floor beside him, turning off his phone. Next he took out the razor blade and rolled up the cuff of his pyjama bottoms. Running a finger over the previously made scars, his pulse quickened in anticipation and he made the first incision of the night.
As the red dots appeared and started their decent down his leg, he started to feel as if he could breath again, his mind was able to quiet, his body relaxed. As his sense dulled and numbed, Sherlock made sure to maintain the control he needed to make the perfect lines until he was completely calm, then leaned back, letting the exhaustion take over.
Bloody git! John Watson had stomped down the stairs of 221B, pulled a jacket over his jumper, and slammed the front door behind him. He would hear about it from Mrs. Hudson later, but that really didn't matter to him at the moment. He had been wondering around London for nearly an hour contemplating why he was still friends and flatmates with Sherlock. What hold did he have on him. Letting out what could only be described as a growl, he came to the edge of Baker Street and stopped.
He shouldn't've lost his temper like that and he knew it. He had had a horrible day at work and then came home to yet another head in the fridge and lost it. Sherlock hadn't even reacted at first, and when he did all he said was something about things needing to be refrigerated.
Why couldn't he understand that's where they prepared their food. A separate table had already been moved into the living room because John had refused to eat on a table that was covered with body parts, molds of any and every kind, and sometimes maggots. Yes, his yelling had been out of order. And, Sherlock- Sherlock just stood there and fixed him with a cold stare.
What was with Sherlock lately, anyway? No snide remarks, no ramblings, just a stare. His moods had always changed with the wind, but this was different. He'd been closing in on himself . Even Lestrade had noticed and made mention of it when they were at their last crime scene. John shrugged it off at the time, but now, now he was growing concerned. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the git after all; maybe he was. Letting out a deep breath, he started making his way towards the flat.
"Sherlock?" John called out when he reached the main landing. The living area and the kitchen were both vacant. "Sherlock?" He knocked on the bedroom door with no avail.
"I'm in here," Sherlock's voice came from the bathroom.
"We need to talk."
"Busy," Sherlock said curtly.
"I can wait."
Sherlock sighed. Luckily, he had the bathroom back in order. John would never suspect a thing. Unlocking the door, his made his face go blank before stepping out.