This isn't how things are supposed to be
Self-harm: The deliberate non-suicidal injuring of one's body.
That is how it was categorized in his mind but for some reason, crouching on the tiled surface of the bathroom floor, with the constant sound of water flowing from the shower, clutching to the blade as if it were a lifeline meant so much more than a simple definition. When he did this, this thing which he found shameful and humiliating, a clear display of weakness he liked to pretend he did not have, Sherlock Holmes, the emotionless consulting detective, could feel. He claimed he did not have a heart, he did, but it was drowned out by the constant noise made by his brain. The deductions which would simply not stop coming, the endless reams of information which poured out of his long term memory, bombarding his conscious mind. All the noise stopped him feeling, his mind did not have a chance to feel, and he grew to hate it. But somehow the lack of feeling caused one thing to arise, and that was pain, pain from past memories he should have been traumatised by but simply did not have time. The noise in his head, his precious mind became too much for him to cope with.
Looking down at his arm he sees the blood, dark but made brighter due to the oxygenation of the haemoglobin. Why. Won't. It. Stop? His mind won't leave him alone. Only then does he consider the fact there is probably more blood than there should be. He hadn't nicked an artery; he wasn't foolish enough to cut on his wrists but preferred to slice slightly higher up his arm. Grabbing a towel he pressed it hard into the open wound, as he did so observing the cuts at various stages of healing while revelling in the silence of his mind provided by the pain of pushing the towel into the wound.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Are you alright in there Sherlock, you've been in there for a while."
"Yes," hissed Sherlock, irritated by the interruption of his private time. In the solitude of the bathroom he could stop pretending but as soon as he walked out of the door he had to be the other person, the one everyone expected him to be. Of course, much of that personality was his personality but sometimes it was so exhausting, sometimes he simply felt like bursting into tears, but he couldn't, that wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes did not feel and that was the way it always had to be.