A/N: This is my current form of escapism. You'll get what I mean when you read on. Enjoy.
The room was rather dark, only lit up by a long, thin candle, but light enough to just about see what was going on. The curtains were drawn shut. The door had been closed and locked. The room was hot, void of air, humid.
He sat on his bed, the weapon held in between his fingers, his breath heavy. His shirt sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, revealing his toned, tanned arm. It was stick thin, and covered in blood.
Sherlock looked at the scars he'd just created. They were faintly crimson, stinging like crazy, pouring blood. His gaze drifted to some of the old ones, ones from a few nights before. They were inflamed and carried a pink hue. They were most likely protesting against being kept under long sleeves.
He couldn't let John see them. John might have a fit, judging by how much he used to care for Sherlock. That would be the end of his escape. And Molly, Molly would kill him. Even though she knew he was gay and didn't have romantic feelings for her, she still loved him ever so deeply.
Sherlock looked at the jagged glass edge in his thumb and index finger. His red blood trickled down it. He smiled wickedly. It was always a great relief to focus the pain on his arm and not on his life.
Again, he positioned the glass on a clean spot of skin on his arm (he was running out of those) and dug down deep. He scored downwards, creating a colossal sting of pain. He screwed up his face, contorted in pain. He slashed through his old scars, reopening them and making them bleed masses again.
The cold, cupric liquid trailed down his arm in rivers. The cooling sensation felt refreshing against his scorching skin. The wound stung, but it was pleasurable, not painful. He fisted his hand, letting the blood pool over his knuckles. He ran the glass across them, splitting them open. Blood poured out some more.
He switched to the underside of his arm. There, the scars were weeks old. They hadn't been reopened. So tonight he was going to open them up. The sting was fresh, a new sort of zing. Sherlock smiled evilly, his villainous side surfacing. The blood gushed out and dripped onto his icy white bedsheets. He cast a worried glance downwards at them, thinking of Mrs Hudson.
She would get so annoyed with him. It wouldn't be fair on her sixty-three year old soul. But once he started, he just couldn't stop. His arm was covered in slits and scars. Some very old (months old, in fact) and the new ones from seconds before.
There was nowhere else on his arm left to cut. So he decided to end it. End the pain. End it all.
Discarding the glass, he walked up to his wardrobe and opened the left door. Right at the back, past the vast number of shirts, was a knife. He had taken it from Mrs Hudson's kitchen six months ago, preparing for an emergency. He sat back on the bed.
Thinking quickly, he sent John a text: Goodbye, John. Have a nice life without me. Give your family my parting love. Tell them I'm sorry. - SH
Sherlock threw the phone aside and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his sharp collar bones. He placed the tip of the knife at his neck and replayed everything in his mind.
John: With his wife Mary, his daughter Maria-Janice, my old best friend. Forgotten me.
Molly: Annoyed that I am gay, starting to drift away from me.
Mrs Hudson: Really vexed with me living here, shooting holes in walls; leaving body parts in the fridge, having drugs busts so often.
Lestrade: Probably just puts up with me for John's sake. Will be glad to hear he doesn't need to.
Anderson: Hates me. Thinks I'm a suspect in the cases we study.
Donovan: Hates me because Anderson does.
Mycroft: Doesn't care. Never did, anyway. Despite everything he said.
Sherlock closed his eyes, and wedged the blade in. Pain seeped within him, and he retched. Suddenly feeling light headed, he lost his balance and fell back on his bed.
And, in an instant, Sherlock Holmes was gone.
A/N: Here you are. Wow, this was depressing to write, even by my standards (possibly because he's my favourite character and he's already died once). But then, writing this stuff stops me from doing this to myself. This is my third M-rated self harm one-shot. But anyway, hope you enjoy it, nevertheless. Goodbye.