Trigger warning : Self harm
I'm writing about it because I'm completly stressed out at the moment and I have urges to hurt myself, so I have to get this off my mind.
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It was one of those quiet afternoons when John was working; Sherlock was alone at home...
He's chronically depressed and even John doesn't know about it.
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The logician glanced at his scarred forearm; he was fighting the urge to selfharm since a week.
He went to the kitchen and gathered wine bottles; once back in his room, he drank them all.
With his shaky hands, he reached into his pockets and found his oldest friend.
A cutter blade.
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He clutched the blade and sliced into the pale flesh. Blood dripped and stained the carpet, but Sherlock couldn't care less.
The detective cut again, and again, until his whole forearm was covered by about fifty cuts, some superficial, some deeper.
He put a compress on the wounds, and wrapped a bandage around his arm.
He thought he should tell John... But he couldn't do that to him. His John.
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Mouth shut. Blank eyes. The void.
The overhelming shame and loneliness.
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Because that's what he is in the end, lonely.