A/N: This is fem!John. Pre-pairing. (Pairing by the end.) Sherlock turns to self-harming to stop the flood of horrible thoughts in his head. This is the story of what happens when Joan is everyone's rock but then that rock starts to crumble. First few chapters will be Sherlock-centric. Triggering, read at your own risk. This chapter is only being used to build a slight background and bring light to the situation. I hope you enjoy.
Song for this chapter; Breathe Me - Sia.
Righteous; acting in accordance with the dictates of religion or morality.
Sherlock liked to imagine the way that people might kill themselves had they ever tried. This is what he was doing now at the diner that Joan had demanded they eat at since the kitchen was Joan's idea of 'destroyed.' The man in the far right corner, nearest to the window, was a lawyer. He was wearing an expensive suit, custom tailored by the look of the stitching, yet he was obviously at a casual dinner considering the look of the man in the jeans and jumper across from him. The lawyer liked to make everyone around him feel inferior by dressing nicely and using terms the civilians would not know. This man wouldn't dare kill himself for a few years. Not until his wife left him for someone with less of an ego. When that happened, Sherlock could see the image of this man's body swinging from the ceiling, connected to a cheap rope bought from the hardware store when the mind was already gone. Someone like that wouldn't like any scars left behind.
There was a woman in the seat of horror, the one right before the entrance to the restroom. The men's to be exact. She was alone, picking at her food and staring dazedly across the room into the ether. This woman, Sherlock thought, will drag her death out. With this one it wasn't a matter of if it was most definitely when. She was a widowed housewife. Bleach stains on her hands from bleaching up the kids messes. But, they were old. Widowed because of the wedding band transferred to the right hand instead of the left. Woman typically did this when they were in mourning, they continue to wear it because if they didn't they'd feel unfaithful. Yet, the matter that it is on the opposite hand makes her seem like she is hoping for someone to pick her up as a date. The children are clearly teenaged, not toddler. Dark bags under her eyes and the petulant way she looks around the room. After living with a teenger you start to adapt their attitude. The widower and mother of maybe two would want to drag her death out in the form of a razor. Slicing across her skin in smooth lines, rivulets of blood traveling down her forearm. In her last moments she'd want to be able to look back on her life, all the good and the bad, maybe come to terms with it before it all ended.
At the image of blood in his mind, Sherlock focused his attention back on Joan with a start, a slight one at that. The woman he was accompanying was going on about some sort of happy war tale. Sherlock liked having Joan for a flatmate and a consulting partner. At the best times, she was less idiotic and naive as the rest and at the worst, she could at least drive away the feelings of dread that have been creeping up on Sherlock more and more now.
The need now, was unbearable. And there was nothing Joan could unknowingly do to stop it. Things were trickling through the crack in the dam Sherlock uses to ward off unwanted memories and thoughts. Memories of addiction riddled teenage years were buzzing around his head in swarms. Thoughts of freak and worthless were driving Sherlock quickly toward the edge. He needed a release, something.
The tall man stood quickly, interrupting the good Doctor mid-sentence. "If you'll pardon me, Joan, I have other matters to attend do. But do not fret, the man at the bar has been occasionally glancing at you since we've arrived and hopes I'm your brother." Sherlock vacated the diner, leaving a shocked Joan in his dust.
The youngest Holmes walked quickly and with purpose. He was only about 4 blocks from Baker Street and he just hoped he could hold onto it for that long.
Bursting into the door of the complex and bounding up the stairs, he pushed open the door that led into his shared flat and made his way straight to the bathroom. Joan had no idea, but one of these tiles was just a bit loose, just loose enough to slide a thin razor under. Going to said tile and retrieving the item, Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, rolling up the sleeves to hit shirt.
He plopped down unceremoniously down onto the cold floor, back against the tub. The consulting detective twirled the blade between his fingers expertly, thoughts bombarding his senses and dulling them, along with his force of will and common sense.
No one will care, it's okay. Just a few cuts. You need it. It's good. It blocks out the idiots. It keeps you sane. Or, sane enough. It's good for you. It's a release. One that doesn't involve anyone else.
Little did Anderson know every time she commented on his skills and about how no sane person should be able to do all of it, she was absolutely right. Sherlock Holmes had a brilliant mind but suffered from manic depression, bipolar disorder, and slight anxiety. Often times he imagined that he was the one who had murdered the corpse he was examining. It was a fun game- imagining something he could so easily do. But something he should never do. Sherlock had never come close to killing anyone, but some people made him furious to the point of imaging the color draining from their faces along with the blood from their body. Sherlock was more of a man than most people cared to believe.
Choosing to think no longer, he succumbed to the willingness of his mind, sliding the razor cleanly across his forearm. Sighing in relief, the genius let his head roll back against the tub and another slice adorn his wrist. After a few more cuts, some deep enough to leave scars, he set the razor down and simply enjoyed the feeling of exuding bliss.
Joan made her way back to 221B slowly, thinking in a manner. Something was off with Sherlock earlier, she just didn't know what it had been. Sherlock had been correct about the man at the bar. He was more than willing to keep Joan company for a few drinks. Even dole out his number without a second though. Joan wouldn't call him though, there was nothing there.
Climbing the stairs slowly, she called her flat-mate's name. When she got no answer she sighed slightly, Sherlock Holmes was quite the oddity. Pulling her blonde hair up into a bun, she hung her jacket on the coat rack next to the door and decided to try again.
"Sherlock? Are you home?" She walked about the flat and stopped when she came to hear a shuffling in the bathroom. "Sherlock are you in there?" When she didn't receive and answer, her eyebrows pulled together in worry. "Are you alright in there?" There was still not a peep from inside, and the shuffling had stopped. "I'm coming in." Nothing.
When she pushed open the door, the state she found Sherlock in almost brought her to her knees.
A/N: I hope this is alright! I tried my damndest to make it long but interesting. There will be more to come, maybe even later today. I appreciate criticism!