A/N:
I'd like to preface this by saying that I am not in any way attempting to romanticize any of the self-destructive themes in this story, including: self-harm, drug/alcohol abuse, reckless behavior, etcetera. That is the exact opposite of my intent in writing this story. I went into it with the idea that I could interpret these heavy themes differently, and I thought I could make the elements of the story more realistic as well. I have quite a bit of experience with the effects of all things self-destructive on friendships, family, and romantic involvements as well. In attempting to describe the self-harm, I've used my knowledge of what it's like for me and weaved it through Molly's and Sherlock's characters.
Warnings (if required) will preface each chapter. Expect the following: graphic – but not dramatic or gory – depictions of self-harm, an illustrative portrayal of a psychotic episode, and explicit sexual content (completely consensual). This story has six chapters in total – all completed – and I'll update periodically.
If you're looking for a sappy ball of fluff where he sees her cuts and kisses her and cries and professes his love to her, then you'd best look elsewhere. That's not how it works in real life. In an ideal world, maybe – but that's not how I've experienced it. That's not to say that there can be no happy, romantic ending, though. In fact, I've seen happy endings after this kind of ordeal. In all honestly, this story was spurred by a sudden spike in my personal urges. Since those urges began a little over six months ago, I've handled them well, and I have this story to thank for that.
Though Molly Hooper's path has met many a mortal soul, not a single member of the crowd has even come close to seeing the morbid truth: that what lies beneath her saccharine, ubiquitous smile is nothing short of tragedy.
Granted, she never gives anyone much of an opportunity to take notice; she's far too busy isolating herself from the rest of the world. She makes artful work of making herself unimportant and invisible (secretly, she takes pride in this ability).
She doesn't very well recall how the problem arose. She remembers the thoughts that ran through her head at the time, and she remembers the waves of emotion washing over her, but the rest is just a blur of faded images and stories of memories she hasn't quite retained (she only remembers them because they're tales that she's told herself a thousand times). Most people remember the incident that was, ultimately, the catalyst in their downfall. Most people can tell you what forced them over the edge, or what sparked their need to jump. Molly doesn't remember what initiated it – she only remembers the result. She only remembers the overwhelming, biting urge to hurt herself.
Okay, in all honesty, it didn't clearly define itself at first – it manifested as a nagging, intrusive demon that refused to leave her be. Whenever Molly would feel the slightest twinge of joy, the demon would remind her of how utterly stupid, insignificant, and worthless she really was – how she didn't deserve to be happy or free. And, in time, Molly learned that there were ways to sate the Monster in her head, at least for a little while. Anything self-destructive would do, really, but Molly took to a certain habit that she felt she could maintain control over. Drug and alcohol addictions could easily get out of hand, and mindless sex could have physical repercussions. She was much too timid to be a thrill seeker, so the more natural adrenaline approach wouldn't work either. In the end, the only thing that she felt right doing was the ritualistic act of hurting herself.
Her habit isn't the way they make it out to be in the media. It's not always razors on wrists, and it's not always as reckless and as spontaneous of a habit as it may seem. Not for everyone, at least. Molly doesn't use razors, and her arms and wrists are only ever utilized if her usual spots are otherwise occupied. She doesn't feel withdrawal symptoms if she goes without it. She doesn't feel the need to go deeper each time. And more than anything, it's important to note that Molly Hooper does not want to kill herself (that's not to say that she doesn't want to die – she just can't fathom being her own means to an end. If Molly Hooper were to die tomorrow, she wouldn't be wholly dissatisfied with the idea). Molly's urges can't really be equated to those of someone suffering an addiction. She doesn't feel that she needs to hurt herself. She knows she could very easily go without it. It's not like dosing up time and time again to numb the pain – the self-harm only serves to temporarily relieve her mind of some of the weight, making it bearable for a short while.
Molly Hooper doesn't do it for attention. She doesn't want to be seen or noticed. She doesn't want help, because she doesn't want to stop. She knows she should hate it – she should be disgusted and appalled – but as morbid as it may seem, she likes it. She takes pleasure in the damage; she relishes the deep self-loathing that it provides. No – it doesn't provide the self-loathing, per se, but it does validate it in her mind. It justifies hating herself so very deeply, and it serves as physical evidence in her mind. It scratches that itch inside her; it stops her inner voice from begging for something else to reiterate the awful things that the Monster in her head tells her every day.
Molly has stopped resisting the Monster in her head. She's stopped blaming it altogether for being the source of her agony, because deep down, she knows it's just another manifestation of the bad things buried in her mind – the truths that she can't bear to hear come from her own voice. It's okay, though – she's made amends with the Monster. They have deep conversations over tea, in which they share their thoughts. The Monster always has the same things to say – but then again, so does Molly (and she can't shake the thought that the Monster's voice sounds an awful lot like Sherlock's).
"You should probably stop trying. Just give it up – it's for your own good, trust me. This coming from a friend, love. I hate to tell you this, but, well – you know what I'm going to say. You're nothing. You've got this brilliant mind – unrecognised wit that no one will ever see in you – trapped in the body of a quiet little mouse, with the heart of a coward."
Molly sighs inwardly, because the only thing that she can ever manage in response is, "I know."
Though Sherlock Holmes' path has met many a mortal soul, not a single member of the crowd has even come close to seeing the morbid truth: that what lies beneath his inhuman, heartless, sociopathic demeanour is nothing short of tragedy.
Granted, he never gives anyone much of an opportunity to take notice; he's far too busy taking them apart and repelling them before they even meet his gaze. He makes artful work of getting people to hate him (secretly, he takes pride in this ability).
Sherlock Holmes is a man of many vices; no matter what they entail, and no matter what degree they progress to, one fact is always constant: these vices are morbidly self-destructive. Thereupon we take witness to the frailty of genius – the mind and the heart go hand in hand, regardless of whether or not Sherlock believes he is capable of possessing the latter at all.
There is, of course, much to be said of the matter: of the man likened to a computer, with meticulous stealth and agility like a video game character, language as pointed and precise as programming code, and a mind equivalent to a hard drive. The only difference between Sherlock's mind and a computer's hard drive is that, while a hard drive has a limited amount of space for data processing, Sherlock's mind is vastly (if not infinitely) expansive, and it has very little limitation in the way of what it can achieve if given the proper attention and maintenance.
A mind this great is hardly ever sated – it needs to be challenged constantly to keep it sharp. One cannot merely sit Genius in the corner and expect it to stare at the wall. No – one would be much better off handing it a puzzle and watching it dance (if not purely for entertainment purposes, then to keep it from becoming homicidal).
Therein lies the problem for Sherlock Holmes: the final problem – the only problem. The greatest problem he has ever faced – one he has confronted more times than he'd like to admit, even to himself. Because what happens if Genius grows tired of having to search for challenges and puzzles to sate its ravenous appetite? What if the world around it refuses to play along? What if nothing – nothing in the whole of the universe, no one on the face of the planet – can satisfy the gaping hole that sits where a beating heart should lie? What if Genius succumbs to the madness that incessantly taunts the bounds of its mind? This is unfortunately the gruesome end met by many a great, intelligent mind.
And Sherlock Holmes is no exception. He cannot escape the tightrope walk that he so frequently finds himself facing. His greatest aspiration is that he might continue to live day to day, balancing on the precipice of contentment, scared straight by the looming threat of plunging into the depths of the madness permeating his own mind (he prays to no one in particular, absolutely petrified by the prospect of developing an ear infection).
So, bearing this in mind, one cannot wholly blame Genius for the havoc wreaked in its wake.
Sherlock's callous nature essentially stems from this cold, solipsistic little world that he's conjured up in his head. To him, it's always been a place of sanctuary; he can cavort about in his sociopathic musings – he can flout social norms without fear of censure or exile. And the best part about this beautiful little refuge is the blissfully quiet, transcendent solitude that is the world's atmosphere. Not a soul is to witness his indiscretions; no one is able to stop his train of thought before it has the chance to become destructive – or great, depending on one's perspective. His thoughts are rooted so deeply in this haven that he has created – this alternate plane of existence that he recedes into far too effortlessly.
Of course, Sherlock could not have created this world without a little help from outside sources – namely, his vices.
It began, in his youth, with rebellious behaviour. When Sherlock first began to realize the potential of his mental capacity – or, as he might put it, when he first began to realize that he was abnormal with regard to his peers – the accompanying darkness slowly crept in, shadowing the boy in his endeavours throughout adolescence. After years of trying so desperately to blend in with the crowd, Sherlock found himself growing restless. He couldn't bear to be dormant, regardless of whether or not it meant that other people would overlook his abnormalities. The mindless nonsense – the ludicrous infantilism in navigating social circles and the status quo, the idiocy of primary school education, the blatant ignorance bred so proudly in the college and university years – nearly drove him mad. All of the absurdity (the things that made him question the promise of humanity, or lack thereof) led him to lash out. His studies and his research began early on in life, as he developed a knack for deduction and a growing hatred for the rest of his species. This sparked the development of the cold, inhuman exterior witnessed today – the shell that Sherlock sees in the mirror that he knows everyone else sees as well. Sherlock's peers were never kind to him, but then again, he was never kind either. He was never bullied; his peers were far too afraid of him to even bother approaching him. As for friends, he had very few, if any. He more considered them "casual acquaintances."
Actually, he considered them "Flatmate #1," "Flatmate #2," "Drug Dealer On Speed Dial," "Flatmate #2's Drug Dealer," "That One Bloke that Doesn't Fall Asleep in My Lit Class," "Flatmate #1's Friend with the Car," "Desperate Lonely Barman from the Pub," and "Umbrella-Clad Drama Queen."
Throughout his transitional years, Sherlock experimented with many forms of self-destruction. He was never much of a fan of heavy drinking – it ruined his capability of higher thinking, in a very bad way. Alcohol was only ever an occasional indulgence. Physical activity never helped enough, no matter how much he ran or boxed or climbed or swam. He does, however, believe that mental acuity relies heavily upon physical agility, so that practice was never fully abandoned.
Sex is... Well, sex is complicated. He once accidentally let it slip in front of his mates that he was a virgin. They took him to the pub, determined to get him to lose his virginity by the end of the night (he did). After that, he didn't care much for pursuing women, or even men for that matter, having concluded that he learned what he needed to know from his initial experience. He will never admit to anyone that he doesn't remember a single moment of that night. Sex was a brilliant release, but it could get messy (no pun intended). STD's and other physical complications aside, dealing with manipulating people time after time seemed far too complex and involved a task for him. It was never just sex or release for other people – there was a certain intimacy aspect to it all that he was unable to provide. He only ever had sex twice after his first encounter: once with a sweet, desperate girl that his mates set him up with, and once with a nameless fox that he met in a pub. The latter taught him almost all of the information that he retains today regarding sex. She treated him like a student, and she was a brilliant teacher.
The greatest, most elaborate vice of them all was Sherlock's shameless drug abuse. There were different drugs for different occasions: cocaine to make something productive of his scrambled thoughts, opium to forget, marijuana to mellow him out, and nicotine for his battles with everyday stressors. The drugs were his favourite distraction of all; it required absolutely no effort on his part to keep his demons satiated. All he had to do was light up, shoot up, or snort up the substances, and the weight would be lifted. Glorious, it was, until he decided to become a detective. Apparently, it was okay being an addict and a graduate chemist simultaneously, but the same could not be said for being an addict and a detective. Umbrella-Clad Drama Queen swept him away upon graduating uni, scolding him for his shenanigans and forcing him to undergo treatment. Sherlock decided that he needed to sacrifice either his drug addiction or his prospective career as an aspiring detective. He chose to give up the drugs.
He accepted his brother's offer, with the added promise of having some strings pulled to get him a place to start out in his career. Granted, it took three separate inpatient programs, but within a couple of months, Sherlock had overcome withdrawal, fought through the detox, and had given up on all of his substances, save for the cigarettes (those would never go – they were his anchor; they kept him sane in his hardest moments). Mycroft invited Sherlock to stay with him in his extravagant living quarters, and Sherlock had to begrudgingly accept. He had nowhere else to live. Soon after beginning his new position at Scotland Yard as a consulting detective, and after months of cohabitation with his brother's most hateful existence, the dust began to settle. As it were, this might seem like a beneficial development in the young detective's life; but as the dust no longer obscured his sight, he began to notice the return of the shadows lingering around the edges of his vision. The darkness was returning, creeping back into his psyche, to the freshly-cleansed nooks and crevices, to pollute and infect them with an ambiguous foulness that, frankly, scared Sherlock beyond his wits.
Needless to say, he needed to find another solution.
In a whole world of endless possibilities, Sherlock took solace in his work, and even more so in his mind. He built that little world inside of his head, brick by stubborn brick (this being an expression, of course – Sherlock would never use something as shabby and fracturable as brick to build his rampart). If Sherlock hadn't been a recluse before, he definitely became one by that point. There was no room for family or social obligations in his hectic yet solitary life. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.
He lived this way until he was able to find a flatmate that would put up with his antics – and that was the start of his friendship with a one John Watson. Still, the work was at the forefront of his brain at all times. When his priorities came under question by the people he acquainted himself with, he just insisted that his obsession was a way to stay sharp and to keep him from growing bored. This is true, to some extent, but Sherlock failed to mention to them what would quickly replace the work in the front of his mind, should he let it slip; he never told them that there was a darkness circling like a cloud of vultures, ready to pounce the instant he decided to relax. The darkness finds contentment rather enticing, which is why Sherlock needed to acquire a job that would lend chaos and spontaneity to his schedule. He needed something that required most all of his focus and attention.
It may be unhealthy – depriving himself of social interaction, food, and sleep – but that's rather the point of self-destructive vices, isn't it? To Sherlock, it all became a matter of what was the most socially acceptable, the least outwardly disconcerting, and the most stimulating vice of them all; Sherlock found himself a relatively comfortable spot, as a cube in a world of cylinders all trying to find their niche. Needless to say, there's no perfectly-fitting spot in this world for a freak like Sherlock Holmes. But he could make the best of it, at least.
(And by "make the best of it," Sherlock means, "contort my cube-shaped existence to fit into uncomfortably tight circular holes to live forever in a constant state of discomfort.")