Warning: Graphic Self Harm and Drug References

I don't own the characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but these versions are Mark Gatiss's and Steven Moffat's. I simply get to play.

The "Sociopath" with a Breaking Heart

Sherlock heard the pitter patter of rain on the roof of 221B. It soothed his aching some, he had always loved rainy days. He wasn't sure why, the rain had no significance in his life. It was just something that tended to happen on particularly painful days. It was like the sky cried for him. After all, he was a sociopath, right? Sociopaths don't feel emotions, right?

Sherlock liked to call himself a sociopath, but he very well knew that he wasn't one. He thought that maybe a few others, besides his annoying older brother, Mycroft, might secretly know that he wasn't a sociopath. Like his flatmate and best friend John Watson, or maybe his landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe even DI Gregory Lestrade knew it. But to the rest of the world, he was a high-functioning sociopath.

He could easily pass off as one. He was very good at hiding his emotions, therefore he was good at pretending that he didn't have them. But Sherlock most definitely had emotions. On the outside, his mask of indifference sat in the same position every day, but on the inside, he was screaming. He screamed because of his boredom, because of his sadness, his demons, his darkness, and because his heart was slowly wasting away. It was like pieces of it were rotting and wilting and peeling painfully away, leaving open wounds that would never heal. That was Sherlock's version of vulnerability. Some days, it was manageable. Others, he locked himself in his room with a razor blade, a syringe, and a rag covered in floor cleaner.

Sherlock gazed at himself in his floor length mirror. He was shirtless, his dressing gown hanging from his shoulders, tracing the shadows that his rib bones cast on his skin. He was unhealthily skinny, but refused to eat because it slowed his thought process. Looking up at his face, he saw the shadows his cheek bones cast, saw the sunken in skin of his eyes from restless nights of unstoppable thinking and constant hurting. He looked at the curly mop of raven colored hair, always untamed. He saw the full lips, beautiful, but chapped and raw from constant worrying. He saw the dull pallor of his skin. He was almost grayish. He had to admit that the direction his life was going would kill him someday. He was so malnourished and sleep deprived that he could pass as a patient of a psychiatric ward. It was unattractive.

Just another thing to hate about myself, he thought. He turned away from his reflection, biting back the tears that continued to well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He willed them back, but it was too late for them to return to the dominion from which they had come. They rolled down his cheeks unrelentingly, letting out a small portion of his heartache, but not enough to calm it for the next several weeks to come. He glanced back at his reflection, and all he could see were the scars. They were white and pink against his grayish skin. Some were larger than others, some were from a razor blade, and some were from the needles. The scars reminded Sherlock of the words he had said to John not three days before. "Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them," he had snapped. Yes. Sherlock Holmes was not a hero.

He shifted his gaze to the syringe full of heroin on his night table. His brain fought with itself, needing the heroin, but struggling for dominance over his condition. He stood still, staring at it, for a good ten minutes, but in the end, he gave in. He glided over to his night table and picked the thing up, rolled up the left sleeve of his blue silk dressing gown, and slid the needle into his arm until the hub touched the crease in his elbow. He almost groaned with relief when he pressed down on the plunger, the drug coursing through his veins. He slowly removed the needle from his arm, feeling dizzy with pleasure. The heroin made him numb and sleepy, a feeling that made him content. He sat on his bed swaying for about five minutes, and then decided that the heroin wasn't enough. He picked up his razor blade, reveling in the cool kiss of the steel to his skin. He pushed, with caution, into his arm and dragged the blade down, opening up a long red gash on his forearm. He did it again and again, on both arms, until his hunger for pain was satiated. He sunk to the floor slowly, feeling the blood roll down his arms, drip away to form beautiful scarlet teardrops on his bedroom floor. He looked at them with wonder and awe, remembering the the stuff pouring from his veins was what kept him alive. He felt his tears begin to form again, and he allowed them to fall this time. He wept silently, knowing that his life was falling apart before his very eyes, but not knowing how to stop it. His tears joined the ever increasing amount of blood droplets on the floor, causing it to swirl into varying shades of red and pink. Sherlock buried his face in his hands, shoving his head between his knees, as if it would keep out the darkness. He sat still for what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time, sobbing quietly, wishing that his pain would just disappear.

He had lost it. He had lost the fight. He knew that he couldn't have won, knew that the syringe and blade would come back to haunt him sooner or later. But he had worked for a month, just keeping those two things from his mind. In a moment of frustration, he stood up and hurled his lamp across the room, letting out a tortured yell and shattering the mirror with it. He collapsed face forward onto his bed, weeping audibly now.

There was a knock at the door. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

John. Of course it was John, the ever sensitive doctor, only willing to see the good in people. Sometimes Sherlock found his concern nice, like someone actually cared. Other times, he wished John would just go away. Sherlock didn't want to drag him into the mess that was his life.

Another knock. "Sherlock? What happened? Are you okay?"

John was met with only silence on the other side of the door. He began to panic, frantically pounding on the door.

"Sherlock? What the bloody hell is going on? Are you alright in there? Do I need to call the paramedics? If you don't answer, I bloody well will."

At John's threat, Sherlock managed to choke out, "I'm fine."

"Then what was the loud crash that I heard? Even Mrs. Hudson came up!"

"The lamp...er...I knocked it over," he spoke semi-convincingly.

"Sherlock, will you let me in? Just so I can assess the damage?"

"Erm...no...I'm not...erm...I'm not wearing any clothes," Sherlock struggled for a reasonable excuse.

"Sherlock, we're both men. I don't really care whether or not you're naked." John began jiggling the doorknob to see whether or not the bolt would come loose. When it wouldn't, he started shouldering the door, hoping that it wouldn't take too long to open.

"No, John! I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm not in the best state right-" Sherlock began, but never finished because John had busted the door in.

"I don't bloody care if you're not in the best state. I just want to know that you-" John shouted as he walked in, but stopped at the sight of the scene in front of him.

John could only gape. There was a broken lamp as well as a shattered mirror in one corner of the room, a razor blade on the floor among the drying blood droplets, a used syringe on the night table, and a bloody, red eyed Sherlock sitting on the bed.

"John, I can explain. See the thing is-" but Sherlock never finished his thought. He was too busy trying to catch a sobbing John Watson as he collapsed.

I hope you enjoyed! This is my first fic ever posted, so feel free to leave feedback so that I know what you hope to be better for the next chapter!