A/N: This is the first proper fanfic that I have uploaded on here. Please give me constructive criticism and any tips that could make it better. I look forward to hearing from you! More chapters soon!

Much love, Jasmine xx

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC

A Study in Healing

Sherlock regretted the first step that he took into St John's. It was just after the summer holidays and he immediately knew that year 11 was going to be a pile of bullshit. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket as he was sauntering to the toilets to skip form registration. "Mycroft," He snapped, "What do you want?"
"What's so wrong with checking up on my brother on his first day back at school?"
Sherlock grimaced at his brother's slimy voice coming through the phone. "Just tell me what you want." He really wasn't in the mood for his brothers shit. The tall boy listened to his brother's whinging with a scowl.
"Are you listening to me, Sherlock? Like I said," Mycroft replied in his composed manner, his voice as calm as he could get when talking to Sherlock, "As you know, I'm going to be away for a few weeks so mother and father will be expecting you home at 4 o clock sharp." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, his brother was such a boring shit.
"Right." He muttered, hanging up the phone and stuffing it in his pocket. Lessons would start in ten minutes, God's sake. Why was he even here? With a sharp turn, Sherlock slammed his body into the toilet door, wincing at his bones crunching against it. He could hide in there for a couple of minutes before being dragged off to registration. A bang on the toilet door told him that his time was up. Sherlock rolled his eyes once more and stalked off to form; hating this sodding school.

...

It was the middle of English when John Watson, the newest member of year 11, walked into the library; his hair still damp from morning rugby practise. His golden skin was glowing from the exercise, which made Sherlock's chest seize a little. Making his way to turn a computer on, John shot a slight abashed look Sherlock's way, making his brows knit together in concentration. He couldn't deduce much from this boy, it was infuriating. A frustrated growl escaped from Sherlock's mouth as he finally tore his gaze from the boy. John looked so consumed by what he was doing; reading about Shakespeare. He didn't look the sort to be interested in such drivel. With that new found information, Sherlock couldn't help but to feel intrigued by the boy's ambiguity. The confused thoughts bubbled inside of him, stirring around and lingering –waiting for him to eventually crack and delve for information about this seemingly normal boy.

"Oi, fag! What're you staring at?" A hiss of a question snaked itself around Sherlock, momentarily stunning him and catching him off guard. Anderson glanced behind his shoulder to where Sherlock was looking, sneering at him in scrutiny. "Who're you being a pervert on then, Holmes?"

"Ah Anderson, what're you doing here, in a library? I would have thought by your IQ that you're here to read the picture books. You'll have to go to the primary school down the street. I see you have evolved enough to form a simple sentence." Sherlock spat, his cool eyes boring into Anderson's; staring right through the grubby adolescent. The boy's spotty face contorted into something of a grimace. Sherlock smirked at the sullen boy scrunched into his ugly school uniform. "Can you comprehend the words 'fuck off' yet, or are we still working on that?" With that, he turned back to his laptop and ignored the jeers coming from Anderson's crew of testosterone pumped Neanderthals. The sooner they sod off the better; Sherlock Holmes had no time for their meaningless drivel that spouted from their mouths. He couldn't concentrate with this shit anymore; it was just too much to handle so quickly. With exasperation for half the idiots that existed in St John's, Sherlock shoved his books into his bag, not caring if they creased, and left the library. There was no place for him there.

...

Throughout the day, he constantly found his gaze rest at John, searching for any clues he was giving away about himself. It made Sherlock's stomach churn, what was it about this boy that he couldn't deduce? He knew what John vaguely liked, how he likes his hair to be done, what deodorant he prefers best. That he hates the way that spiders crawl... But what was it that was so fucking blank about John Watson that he couldn't detect?

...

By lunchtime, the day was dragging; his body stung, and Sherlock just couldn't think straight. As soon as the bell rung, Sherlock bolted. He faced the wall outside, far from sight of any CCTV cameras and pulled out a fag. God, he needed this. With shaking hands, he struggled to light the cigarette, leading to a roar of frustration. An uncomfortable cough from him made Sherlock spin around, bumping his head against the wall. John Watson looked back at him meekly before muttering "Sorry" and turning back on his heel and quickly walking away. Sherlock frowned before taking a drag from the newly lit cigarette. What the hell was that?

...

Making his way to the parking lot, Sherlock was consumed by the very little information that he had gathered about John Watson that day- and the absolutely shit day that he had had at school. He hated this shit hole of a school. I can't fucking stand it here, I don't know how long I can take this shit day after- The slight rumble of a car ripped the boy from his thoughts. "Thank God," He hissed under his breath, sarcasm dripping from his mouth, "Just when I needed a cigarette. You really know when to pick the perfect time." He got into the BMW with a flounce, shutting the car door with much more force than necessary.

Sherlock felt his phone buzz once more during the car ride. He snarled and ripped the phone from his trouser pocket, growling the words "Fuck off, Mycroft." The angered boy just wanted isolation for one fucking second, was that too much to ask?
"Sherlock," Came his brother's aggravated reply, "Look. I just wanted to... check in on you, considering that-" Sherlock hung up with a grunt, hating his brother for being such a meddlesome git. He never got a single moment to himself without disruption; it made him want to strangle someone. Sherlock slumped in the car, watching the landscape fly past him, and waited for the tedious journey to end.

...

"Sherlock! You're home." Sherlock's mother, Vivian Holmes, called uninterestedly from the living room. She didn't come out to greet him, she never did. Sherlock mumbled in response and stalked upstairs to go to his bedroom, accidentally stumbling into his father as he turned a corner. His father swore viciously under his breath as he shoved past the lanky teenager.
Sherlock gritted his teeth and ran for his bedroom. He needed to be alone, he needed this, now. The shaking boy slammed his door shut and bolted it, closing the curtains; shutting off all light from reaching the room. With paralysed lungs, he gasped for air as he delved into his draws, ransacking them until there was nothing inside. Where was it? Why the fuck wasn't it in his hands already!? Sherlock swallowed and tried to remember where he had placed it this morning, his brain hurting and jaws clenching. Small tears of frustration stung his eyes as he gave a desperate cry. He needed it. A miniscule glint of metal caught Sherlock's eye and he almost shouted in relief. Sherlock dove to get the blade before he could lose it again. He let out a shaky breath as he held it close to his body, the feeling of security, the feeling that he had something that he could rely on. The overwhelming emotion that he was so completely alone that he had to take comfort in this was too much; tears escaped from his red eyes as he squatted down against the cold wall of his bedroom. Breath after shaking breath led to complete hysteria, the boy was breaking down. He couldn't breathe; Sherlock couldn't do anything but sit in total paralytic distress. His whole body was quivering, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He couldn't do this. The small hunch started to rock back and forth gently, sobs coming from his bloodied mouth where he had been biting his lip to stop himself from being heard. He was such a coward; such a fucking coward. How could he do this to himself? Sherlock whimpered and succumbed to the urge, ripping his shirt off in the darkened room, the same routine of years flashing through his clustered mind. The blade did its ferocious work on his body as Sherlock's hand guided it in frenzy; strike after strike on his tender body. All of sudden, the hysteria died down. The thoughts stopped; the feeling of nothingness, no pain. Nothing. All he could feel was the warm liquid flowing down from his body, it was tranquilising. His shallowed breathing steadily returned back to normal, the realization of what he had done smacking him in the face. "Sh-shit." He whispered, making a move to turn the light on and immediately regretting it, burning sensations rippling through his body. Sherlock gulped weakly, chastising himself for being so fucking stupid.

Sherlock stared down at his ruined body. He had a feeling that he needed stitches, the boy hissed as he examined one; it would heal. This was certainly not the worst time, not by a long shot. The scarred boy looked helplessly at the destruction he had done to himself, haunted by the time that Mycroft found him lying in a pool of his own blood, barely conscious. Sherlock shuddered at the distinct memory, the paralysing disgust that he felt towards himself. He had become a monster.

The pale boy staggered to his desk, muttering profanities until he finally sat on his chair, opening a draw to get bandages and butterfly stitches. What had he changed into? Sherlock frowned as he tried to remember a time where this hadn't become his nightly ritual. Shaking his head, he cleaned himself up, gritting his teeth at the sensitivity. His thoughts had started to get cloudy again; it wasn't fair. Taking a deep breath, he opened his laptop to find anything he could about John Watson. It was going to be a long night.