Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of this story.
Rated M for mature content such as self-harming, eating disorders, mental illness, suicidal references, etc.
It's not finished yet.
Hope you'll enjoy this first part *even if it's really really short*
One night
1.
The blade touched Mycroft's skin, it sank deep into it leaving a red line before it.
The home was silent: no one upstairs and no one downstairs, no on in the garden.
He was alone in the Holmes' mansion, mother and father were away and Sherlock was roaming around somewhere downtown.
Mycroft begun to shiver, the window in his room was open and the adrenaline in his veins was growing.
It was winter, almost Christmas time.
Mycroft took a deep breath and proceeded to put another cut on his right arm, more blood came out of it.
He never cut his wrists , he just cut his arms both left and right, he used to cut his legs as well but he preferred his arm: more pain and more blood, more action.
Another deep breath and another cut on his skin.
He got up from the bed were he was and took another cigarette from the packet.
He would have cut more often if it wasn't the promise he made to Sherlock too many years ago, he told him he wouldn't cut as often as he used to those days.
He used to be much more addicted to it, he couldn't spend a day without doing so. He has always considered himself a week man and that was the best proof of it.
It was night now, the sky was cloudy and a freezing breath of wind come trough the window and made him shiver once again.
He had nothing to cling at.
Just himself.
He hated himself more than any other one in the whole world.
He moved towards the window, taking deep breaths of the cold air.
He noticed someone in the garden.
It was Sherlock and he wasn't alone, there was a girl with him. They were kissing.
He looked at them and then closed the window.
He laid on the bad again, wishing to cry, but he didn't, he never did, he didn't think he ever will.
Everyone managed somehow to go on with their lives, he was the only one who felt trapped in the past, motionless and powerless in front oh his mind, the one that was now slowly killing him.