A/N: I won't put much here, I'll just say I hope you like reading this and that's it.

Trigger warning: suicide/ self-harm

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, in any format.

Standing on the edge, I knew this was it. Take a deep breath a jump, doing what I'd wanted to do for years. To stop being the freak, to just get away, stop hearing the voices. The voices that never shut up, not for one second, always telling me how worthless I am, how I'm a show off, and how everyone will leave. Now that John thought it was all a lie, he would leave to, and I would be alone again with nothing but the voices, the drugs, and when things got to bad the blade. This time I'd had enough though. Moriarty had taken the last thing that mattered away from me, the one thing keeping me from plunging of the edge. Now I was falling, metaphorically and literally, towards the floor. The last thing I heard before I blacked out was three voices yelling my name. The last thing I thought was that I hadn't fallen hard enough…

19 years ago – attempt number 1

A young Sherlock stood with in the middle of the room, his sixteen years of torture showing in his slumped posture, his defeated eyes. His head bowed towards the floor, not even looking as he injected too much heroin into his blood stream, the cries of the other children at school echoing in his head, he was a freak.

16 years ago – attempt number 2

He had sat in the bath, the tub filled with water, the blade pressed against his femoral artery. He had started to get used to the constant insults, the name calling, but they just didn't know when to stop. The mention of his own parents not wanting him, the implication that they had beat him because he deserved it, the thought that his adoptive parents had only kept him for the money. It had all been too much, driven him towards and over the edge again. So he ran the blade across his thigh, deep into his flesh until he was certain he had hit the artery, and then watched in sick fascination as his blood swirled and mixed with the water.

10 years ago – attempt number 3

Greg had gotten married five months ago. He had yet to talk to Sherlock, despite his promises, despite him saying he wouldn't leave like the others. Now he was gone though, like all the rest, and Sherlock was left alone with the voices, the pain. He'd been alright to start with, but the loneliness, and the constant torture of the voices had finally gotten to him. His mind was overcome, unable to function with the wild, loud, and painful yelling in his head. So here he was, on his own by the train tracks, waiting to throw himself under the next train just to get away. He could hear the sound of the train wheels on the tracks, getting closer, and the voices already dimmer.

2 years ago – the not quite attempt

He'd got the bottle of bleach last night. Now all he had to do was go about his normal activities so Mycroft wasn't suspicious, then drink it when he got home. The voices had started screaming again, warning him that everyone was about to leave. Molly had helped him for a few years, but nothing lasted forever. Then Mike Stamford introduced him to John, and something strange happened, the voices got quieter. So that night he didn't drink the bleach, instead he waited for his meeting with John, letting himself hope that maybe this time it would last.

Present day – four days after attempt number 4

There was an annoying beeping in the back of my head, making it throb painfully, the too bright light visible through my heavy eyelids. I tried opening my eyes but they felt like they were weighed down with cement, so heavy that I thought maybe someone actually had. When I finally got them to open a slit the room's lights blinded me completely to my surroundings, halting my deductions of where I may be. After my eyes became accustomed to the lights I quickly realized I was in a hospital room, the pale blue paint, the machines, the bed all made it obvious. The obnoxious smell all hospitals had was missing, but I didn't stop to ponder on that long. There was something, something I was forgetting, something important. Dammit I have to remember what it is, why was my mind moving so slowly, almost like that of a normal persons? I needed to figure out why I was here and then get out, as fast as possible, I hated hospitals. There were no windows in the room, no way of figuring out where I was, no window on the door, no people around to ask. How was I supposed to get out if I didn't know where I was? Then I saw it, hooked onto the bottom of my hospital bed, my notes. If I could just reach them then I could figure out why I was here, in this room, with a throbbing headache and as far as I could tell, three fractured ribs, my left kneecap dislocated, my left leg broken in three places, and my right arm broken in two places. All of which I can sum up to be a mild inconvenience, at the very least.

The voices weren't there at the moment, which confused me; normally they were there constantly in the back of my mind. They never shut up, only after… oh, shit. I remembered, I remember the voices screaming at me, stepping off the roof and into thin air, hoping it would end. I had failed again, I was still here. I knew as soon as someone else came into the room I would have to face the consequences, what would John think of me now? He would hate, or pity me; I wasn't sure what was worse. Either way he would leave, just like I always knew he would, leave behind the sad little detective who couldn't take the voices in his head. My head was starting to throb again, the energy it took to function at my version of normality making me slow down again. I felt so tired, I just wanted to sleep…

2 days later

When I woke up again I wasn't alone, on the blue chair next to my bed sat Mycroft. I briefly considered pretending to still be asleep before he saw me awake, quickly realizing it wouldn't work, he wasn't as stupid as normal people. I kept my breathing steady though, hoping to drag out the limited time before he realized I was awake, and when he did I would have to face the consequences. "I know you're awake Sherlock, there is no use pretending otherwise." His strangely soft voice reached my ears, lacking the usually condescending tone. I sighed deeply; wincing at the pain it caused my ribs. "Hello, Mycroft," My voice was quiet and raspy, my throat dry from days of not being able to drink orally. He passed me some water from the tray, watching me as I swallowed painfully and handed the empty cup back to him with my good arm. Placing the cup back down on the side he turned back to me, "I bet you're wondering where you are by now, you're at my house." He told me. This wasn't surprising; I'd already guessed this, considering this is where I had ended up the last two times. "What exactly happened?" I asked him, my voice already stronger than the last time I had spoken. He shook his head at me slightly, disapprovingly, "You remember jumping don't you? Yes of course you do, and the snipers on your friends," he told me, all of which I did already know, "but we both know you didn't have to actually jump." He added. I looked at him expectantly waiting for him to continue, wanting to hear the full story before we got into physiological side of my latest attempt. " Moriarty didn't expect you to actually do it either, he told everyone he wasn't Richard Brook, then disappeared again," he paused and seemed to be debating whether to tell me something, "everyone thinks your dead Sherlock." He told me, looking into my eyes for my reaction. "That's good, that's okay." I informed him nodding, glad I didn't have to worry about people abandoning me anymore. He frowned at me, "Sherlock, was it the voices again?" he asked sadly. I looked down, we both knew the answer to that question, we both knew why I'd jumped, and I wasn't going to insult his intelligence by voicing it. I hated that I was this weak, that I couldn't stop these emotions, that I was the freak like they all said.

Finally Mycroft left, after informing me I would be staying with him until he was certain I wouldn't try again. I would also be dead as far as anyone else was aware, Mycroft had made all arrangements, I would be dead until he was certain I was completely mentally stable, and he was certain Moriarty wouldn't do anything. When I was certain he had gone, I started planning my escape. Physically escaping would never work; even if I got out he would find me within twenty-four hours, so I had to convince him I was better.

Psychiatrist appointment – 1- Psychiatrist number 1

"Do you want to talk about why you jumped?" he asked, stupid man, of course I didn't. I just fixed him with a deadly glare. "Look if you don't talk to me, I'll have to talk to your brother about getting you sectioned." He informed me. I cocked my brow at him, "and then I'll tell him about the fact that your only here to gain information on him." I told him icily, I honestly hated people like him, supposedly helping others, but only at the promise of helping themselves to others money.

Psychiatrist appointment – 4 - Psychiatrist number 2

"Your brother says you've found a way of self-harming again, will you tell me why you want to hurt yourself?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair. "The voices are getting loud again, it's the only way to shut them up." I answer, catching him off guard, I have never answered him before. "Do you want to tell me what the voices say?" he continues, smiling slightly. "I don't know, do you want me to tell your wife about your affair?" I ask him smirking now. His mouth opens and closes like a gold fishes, obviously in shock.

Psychiatrist appointment – 5 - Psychiatrist number 3

"So, I hear you like solving puzzles, Sherlock?" she started, making me raise my eyebrows. This was a new path; maybe it was a trick to get me to talk. I narrowed my eyes at her slightly refusing to answer, I didn't trust anyone new. "I know you don't trust me at all, but maybe we could just talk," she continued, "about anything you want." She added. She was in her mid-fifties, had three children, one committed suicide. She honestly wanted to help, no ill intentions showed in her persona, nothing I could deduce at least. "Yes, I like solving puzzles," I told her. She smiled at me slightly, and I, surprising even myself, returned it.

One year after attempt number four

I'd been alone again for three months. Mycroft had deemed me fit enough to live in a small cottage he'd bought for me, on my own. At first everything had been good, I carried on seeing Raina, my therapist, but that had all changed. Last month she had died from the cancer eating away at her, and now I was completely alone again. The scars and fresh red marks on my arms had multiplied, left unchecked by anyone who would offer help, the voices encouraging the pain, telling me I was a freak that deserved it, only quieting after my arms were in shreds. Soon though, Mycroft would visit, he would notice, and then everything would get confusing. He would send me to a new therapist who wouldn't help, bring me back to his big mansion where he can watch me, and I would go back to being silent and hiding knives.

Three days later

I'd been right, well mostly. When he came he noticed he gave me that sad, disappointed look, the one that showed he cared, the one that made me wish I wasn't such a disappointment. However he hadn't taken me back to his big mansion, he'd made me pack everything I needed then sent me to Molly Hooper's. He'd told me didn't need watching, I apparently needed friends. Molly had known I wasn't dead; she was the one that had been trusted with finding a replacement body. So now here I was, unpacking in the spare bedroom of Molly's apartment, hoping that maybe the voices would shut up if I talked to someone real…

A/N: there's chapter one! Please review any feedback is welcome. Also do you want this story to be Sherlolly or Johnlock? I haven't decided and your opinion would be helpful!