Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters - All rights go to Moffat, Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle
Author's Note: This fic is Likely to be a one-shot unless there is a good response. I did find this quite difficult to write and there may be slight variations of character, and I apologize for this. The depictions of cutting were a little more graphic than I was intending, please, please, if this is going to affect you, do not read. This fic was a very personal thing for me - the writing of it helped me immensely, and I am sorry if it is actually worse than I think it is. I was happy, that is why it is being published. Apart from that, enjoy the story and I hope it is too your liking :)
John Entered the little flat, noting Sherlock sitting like a hawk on the edge of an armchair, his fingers steepled against his lips, the all too common pose. John shook his head a little and began unloading the groceries into the fridge, or the small space he could find around the experiments.
'Pressing case is it?'
Sherlock shot him a look
'Bored John. Bored.'
He threw himself down to sit on the chair properly, feet slamming flat to floor, placing his hands on the armrests, fingers drumming urgently.
'A Cigarette, John. Get me one'
'Nope. You're doing well.'
'Please John'
John shook his head a little before leaving to get his laptop from his room. Upon his return, he noticed Sherlock searching the flat. He smirked a little before turning his attention the write up of cases for his blog.
John saw Sherlock leave the room out of the corner of his eye, but didn't think much of it, knowing that it would likely result in an explosive experiment or a rare occasion that the man actually slept. The latter was less likely, given the time of day. John refocused his attention back to his laptop.
Meanwhile, Sherlock entered his bedroom and immediately pulled a small red box from his draw, containing some tissues, gauze, a bandage and a single small blade, which he picked up with his thin fingers. He placed the box on his bedside table and climbed onto his bed, clutching the razor.
The razor. A tiny weapon of destruction, removed from a pencil sharpener many years ago, something to change himself, slightly unhealthy, yes, but better by far than any drug. Sherlock had first begun this habit when he was 15. He wasn't an emotional child, and many took this as heartlessness. Sherlock Holmes did care. Immensely. He did however have a small amount of trouble allowing people to see this. When he was called heartless, he didn't cry or weep, he thought to give them exactly what they wanted and began to drag the emotions out of himself, or bury them deep, until he could barely feel at all. Eventually, he didn't need the razor the keep the feelings out, but habits are very hard to break, and boredom always needs an antidote.
Slowly, Sherlock raised his left sleeve, scars lined his skin, memories from the past, reminders. Some white and raised, likely to never fade, some pink, new skin, more recent tracks of boredom, there were purple scars, those days, almost faded from existence. The fact the Sherlock always wore long sleeves was not due to embarrassment or shame of any kind, he couldn't care less if anyone saw. However, if someone did see, the constant questions of his current mentality and the looks of sympathy, and yes, disgust, he received distracted him from his thinking, his work, so he kept them covered.
He pressed the blade to the inside of his forearm, feeling the familiar prick and slight pain, sighing as some of the boredom was alleviated. He slid the blade across, watching the blood bead. The relief from the boredom and emotions creeping up on him was instantaneous, but didn't last long, so he moved the razor slightly to the right and made another cut, enjoying the pain. Sherlock made cut after cut across his arm before setting the razor on his bedside table and leaning back into his pillows, relishing in the throbbing pain of his arm, closing his eyes and relaxing.
John was slightly concerned - he had not heard any explosions coming from Sherlock's room and the man himself had not yet emerged. He rarely slept, and if he did, it was never during the day. Fearing that Sherlock might be ill, John set his laptop aside and rose from the couch.
John entered Sherlock's room after knocking. With no response, he presumed that Sherlock was asleep, a sight that John simply had to see. However, upon pushing the door open, he stumbled upon a very different sight. Sherlock was relaxed, eyes closed. His features similar to those of a sleeping man, however, his bloodied arm was in stark contrast indeed.
'Oh God Sherlock'
His eyes flew open the second John spoke and he quickly tried to cover his arm. This confused him slightly, he had never worried about people seeing before. Never the less, he fumbled to cover the still oozing wounds. But it was to late. John had seen.
Thankyou for reading :) As I said, if you would like a continuation, please review to let me know.