A/N: This is not the best thing I have ever written (understatement). The characterization is probably very off, and I apologize for that. To be honest, I wrote this completely for myself, and it deals with feelings and situations that are very personal to me. But I sincerely hope that someone other than myself will be able to enjoy this and get something out of it.
Thank you for reading! :)
WARNING: In case you missed it in the summary, this story contains detailed descriptions of self-harm and could be triggering.
Disclaimer: BBC's 'Sherlock' is not mine and never will be. For that I am grateful, because I would probably butcher it.
Freak.
John felt anger burn hot in his chest as the word echoed through his mind again and again.
No more.
This was the last time he was letting that word come out of that woman's mouth.
He strode right up to Sally Donovan, only half-noticing out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock quietly slipped away from the soon-to-be confrontation.
"What the hell was that?" He asked, straightening himself up to his full height and staring at Sally with barely contained anger. He could care less that she had seven centimeters on him in her high-heels.
Sally stared calmly back at him, furrowing her brows like she couldn't understand what he was on about. "What was what?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Calling Sherlock a," John clenched his teeth, hating the feel of the word on the tip of his tongue, "a freak." He discovered that he hated the sound of it coming out of his mouth even more.
Sally gave him a look. "He is a freak. Don't tell me you haven't noticed by now – you live with him." She gave a breathy laugh at that, as if the idea of anyone living with Sherlock was an unbelievable concept.
John bit his tongue, trying to keep his temper under control. "No. No, he's not. He's brilliant, amazing, a genius... not a freak. He will never be a freak, no matter how many times you call him that." He glared hard at her, as if to burn through her skull with his eyes.
The only thing that accomplished was to turn her expression from skeptical to pitying. "Oh, you poor man." Her brown eyes held a spark of amusement and John hated her for it. "You love him, don't you?"
John felt his anger begin to boil over and he knew that if he didn't end this now, Sally might wind up on the ground holding together a broken nose.
"I'm his friend and I care about him." He hissed, getting up in her face. "And if I ever hear you call him anything like that again, I'll have you arrested for verbal abuse."
He turned on his heel, leaving her with raised eyebrows and wide eyes, and marched away from the crime scene, fully expecting to find Sherlock impatiently waiting for him around the corner.
Instead, he was met with no one and an uncomfortable, unfamiliar silence.
Sherlock?
Cold, sharp metal and a clean, pale stretch of skin were all he needed, all Sherlock needed to make the sting go away.
It was stupid, he knew, to hold onto the words, to let them affect him the way they did. But they were all too familiar, and sometimes familiarity does not succeed in breeding tolerance – only contempt.
So Sherlock found himself sitting, as he often did in such situations, on the edge of the bathtub, razor blade in hand. He stared down at his arm, sleeve unbuttoned and fresh cuts just beginning to weep red tears.
Plasma, erythrocytes, leukocytes, thrombocytes, he mentally recited.
Leaning in closer, he pressed a finger to the tiny droplets of blood that had sprung up randomly along the breaks in his skin, smearing the red fluid around in the shape of a lemniscate.
Freak.
A low growl emanated from deep inside his chest and he raised the blade again, pulling up his sleeve further to find more unblemished skin. He lay the metal against his upper arm, pausing for a moment before pressing in deeply and dragging the blade across, relishing in the pain and the feeling of control that it gave him.
He peered down at the newly made cut, watching in fascination as the skin parted and his body slowly started to react by sending blood to the empty, but quickly filling, wound.
Freak.
NO!
Sherlock bit his tongue hard, sucking on it and being rewarded with a familiar, bitter taste. He stood and faced the bathroom mirror that sat above the sink. Glaring at his reflection, he set the razor down for a moment so he could free the hem of his shirt and unbutton it carefully.
He stared at the scars that marred his ribs. One word, cut in clear, cathartic lines. It had bled quite a lot when he'd made it, and it had been one of the only times that he had seriously begun to rethink this... thing that he did. But eventually the bleeding had stopped, and he'd been relieved – so relieved that he wouldn't have this taken away from him, that no one would have to know about this.
He closed his eyes and gently traced the word he'd carved into his torso, reading it by touch alone.
Freak.
Yes. That's what he was. A freak.
… a freak... you disgust me... repulsive, unfeeling, thick-headed...
A tear fell down his cheek and he cursed himself. This was supposed to distract him from everything, to help him regain control of his emotions, not to lose it.
… control?... no control over yourself... look at you, destroying your own body...
But it's the only thing that he knows will work.
… an idiot, you know that?… hate you... all hate you... John hates you... only a matter of time before...
No! No, John would never leave him.
…why not?... worthless, stupid... can't even take care of yourself, much less a friend...
That's... that's...
… the truth... you know it is... he hates you... like everyone else... could never do anything to change that...
...
Yes.
A quiet gasp breaks through the silence.
"Sherlock?"
John stood just outside the open bathroom door, trying not to stare at the cuts decorating Sherlock's arms, instead searching his face for answers.
Red-rimmed eyes and tear-trails accompanied the same mask of indifference that he always wore... but John knew Sherlock. And in his eyes, he read a deep and unsettling pain.
"Sherlock. Oh god. What the," he quickly edited himself, discarding the word 'bloody', "hell did you do?" He managed to ask it without any accusation or disgust, only with the same calm concern that was evident in his features.
Sherlock looked over at him with a blank expression of shock, his mouth opening and closing twice before he got an actual word out. "John. I can explain-"
John paused, looking stricken for a moment, before he stepped over and gently pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips. "No, no, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You don't have to explain." He said in a soft, apologetic tone, taking Sherlock's arm in his hands and gently probing the cuts, while his eyes flickered over the scars on his chest.
When he looked back up at Sherlock, he was staring down at him, eyes piercing and wide in surprise. "You... you're sorry?" He said, his voice sounding strange and choked. "This isn't your fault."
John blinked and shook his head. "Sherlock... this isn't about whose 'fault' it is." Sherlock looked away, his lower lip trembling in a manner terrifyingly unlike his usual demeanor, but John reached up and cupped his cheek, turning Sherlock back to face him. "Hey. Hey, look at me."
Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment before looking back, raising his tear-filled grey eyes to meet John's misty blue ones.
"There is nothing you have to explain to me. You don't have to explain to me why you did this, and I'm not going to ask because... I know this is going to sound crazy to you, but I... I understand." John looked deep into his eyes, trying to underline the sincerity and truth in his words.
Sherlock's expression became cold and stony, and he turned away again with a bitterly hurt glint in his eyes – an old wound reopened. "Do not lieto me and do not pretendto understand me, because you do not and you will never-"
John felt a twinge of pain at those words, and he held up a hand to stop Sherlock. "Sherlock. Please. Just trust me."
He grasped the hem of his jumper, fingering the seams and letting out a long breath.
He pulled the jumper and his shirt over his head in one swift movement, priding himself that his hands did not shake even for a second.
That twinge of pain he'd felt was not for himself, but for the man across from him who was currently reminding him of a part of himself that he'd hidden away. A part that he would've gladly forgotten long ago, but for...
The scars.
John found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, entranced by the sight of the distorted skin that he had avoided looking at for so long. Many of the scars were far older than his war wounds. So many years ago, yet he remembered the reasons for each one – most of all, the solitary word that marked the inside of his right arm:
Freak.
He tore his gaze away from the mirror and his mind from the memories, and turned them both back towards Sherlock. "You're not the only one."
Who's been branded a freak. Who's cut and hurt and mangled their own body to forget the pain. Who's fought battles against themselves... and lost.
Who needs someone else.
Tentative, pale hands reached out to reverently caress the letters carved into John's arm. The tall detective stood closer and held the marred limb against his chest, resting it just below the word that adorned his side.
He looked up into the mirror that he and John stood in front of, and what he saw made the scars on his beaten and battered heart burn... and fade.
Because what he saw was himself.
And he was understood.