He scrubs his hands through his unruly curls before bunching them into fists and . Not hard enough to tear the hair from his scalp but hard enough to hurt. It isn't enough. He needs a sharper pain. One that will stay longer than him removing his fists from his scalp. Sherlock stands up slowly and wavers slightly, light-headed from the mixture of narcotics and alcohol rushing through his system. The drugs that are supposed to be numbing him, helping him forget. They do nothing now. His body is too used them. Fucking Junkie. He walks carefully over the gaily patterned wall and balls his fists as his thoughts turn to his father. His father in his 'infinite wisdom' the one who hurt him. Marked him, in more ways than one. With a wordless scream of frustration and disgust he lashes out with a closed fist at the wall. Leaving him with only a numb, throbbing pain. Not enough. He does it again. Again. Again. Again again again. Until his knuckles are red raw and bleeding, until the smiley face on the wall is left with smears of red from his blood but the pain is still not enough.
He totters over to the small table and reaches out with a shaking hand to the open whiskey bottle left there from earlier. Forgot about the fucking shaking. Fucking junkie. He pours the sharp alcohol over his damaged knuckles and hisses at the pain. Still not enough. It's never enough. He'll never punish himself enough for being so weak and pathetic. With another shout of anguish he throws the half-empty bottle at the bright yellow face on the wall. It mocks him, taunts him. He doesn't need to worry about interruptions, his landlady is away. He doesn't care where, all that matters is that he's alone. Sherlock sinks to the floor, his already injured hand is split open from a shard of glass and he looks down. Momentarily distracted from the bitter memories that rush through his head at lightspeed. He misses that pain. The pain that stays sharp for hours. The pain that just might end in eternal sleep. End in peace at last. His bruised fingers clench the shard and squeeze, lacerating his hand. Not quite to the bone but deep enough that he doesn't care. Doesn't feel. All he feels is the wonderful high and pain from the drug-addled blood that slowly drips to his fingertips and onto the wooden boards below.
He brings the hand to his chest and using the glass, tears open his skin from his collarbone to his hips. As blood moves sluggishly down his torso he brings the shard to his left arm, and there slits open the flesh from shoulder to elbow. He drops the shard and somewhere in the recess of his mind he hears it shatter. Peace. The point where his mind doesn't move as fast. Doesn't spit those hateful memories at him. It makes him human. Normal. He isn't a freak now. Finally I can forget. A small. tired smile cracks his lips before he leans back against the sofa with his head resting on the seat. He relaxes completely and slips into unconsciousness. The darkness welcoming him into it's soothing arms. He's falling. Falling.
He jerks awake with a gasp. As though he has never breathed before. His eyes squint through the white lights surrounding him and he hears the beep of a heart monitor, the faraway voices of people talking, crying, living. A Hospital...Great.