So this is incredibly random. XD It's four in the morning and I have insomnia, and so this shitty drabble came out. It's Sherlock, obviously, and there's a trigger warning for self-harm. Kay? Kay. Working on LMD now.
Disclaimer: I own naught.
Freak. What a strange word. What an ordinary word. And yet, Sherlock ponders, it is so very fitting for him. That's all he is, isn't it? The freak of nature, with the freaky intelligence and the freaky life. The man too much of a freak for friends, and too much of a freak for people to want to be his friend. He doesn't mind though. He never does. Except at night.
At night when he's alone, and John's gone to bed he lets the sociopathic facade leave and he cries. He cries for the life he was never meant to have, for friends he will never meet, for dreams he will never fulfil.
The stars and the black night glare upon his freak form as the freaky emotions overwhelm him. And he never asks for help. He never asks it to stop, because he deserves it.
It's obvious, really. One is only a freak if one is trying to be a freak. Whether it's subconscious or not, it's a choice. And so the mighty Sherlock Holmes breaks down in silence, and sometimes in the refuge of his bathroom, he finds solace in his knife.
Sometimes he lets the sharp, shiny blade glide along his wrist, allowing the crimson to spill upon the floor like a gruesome painting. He lets himself smile at the pain rather than grimace, for the knife has a way of making even the freakiest of things so ordinary. Everyone bleeds. Everyone gets cut once in a while. And so he does it so that in that moment he is not a freak, but he is. He always is.
It doesn't upset him anymore. He's learned to not only accept it, but embrace it. Freak. What a strange word. What a perfect word for him.