I care way too much for vulnerable Sherlock, it's unhealthy! Anyways, I am trying to not break the characters and it's very tough, but if I give you feels I have accomplished a miracle! I think there are many other fics like this on the internet but I felt like writing it anyway! I think it will be another continuous one because I always get too carried away to write one-shots. This is set after Sherlock has returned but Mary is not living with John yet so he is still in 221b, John and Mary are in the beginning of a relationship. I just thought I would say that to avoid confusion.

Various trigger warnings for self harm and depression apply. There shouldn't be any for abuse, PTSD, ED's etc but if so i recommend you to not read if you easily get triggered because I do not want to hurt you. I know that sort of spoils some things, but I have to make it really clear because I am not putting any of you at risk. Stay safe, my lovelies.

Sherlock Holmes was fourteen when the idea had first occurred to him. It came into his chaotic mind late one cold, winter night. His loving parents were downstairs in the comfortable living room, snuggling in front of the fire and Mycroft had left to pursue a course at University a few months ago.

He wasn't lonely or sad, he told himself. Sherlock Holmes didn't feel. He was a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath, and that was what defined him even from a young age. He'd decided to label himself a sociopath when he decided that caring was not an advantage, he realised this when his companion, Redbeard, was put down. He swore to himself then that caring was unimportant and everything his brother had taught him about sentiment was correct. He did not feel.

While lying on his bed he figured there was an abundance of any interesting puzzle to occupy his hectic mind with. He sat up and lugged his thin frame to the window and stared out at the fields. There was nothing.

There was not a single footprint in the russet coloured mud that was not caused by a member of his family. He had nothing to deduce from his surroundings, so he returned to his bed and burrowed his shivering body in the sheets.

Boredom.

He was cold, bored and did not want to disturb his parents, who were happily spending time together. Perhaps, he could read a book? He wondered. So, Sherlock looked out of the corner of his eye at the D.I.Y bookshelf and skimmed it from top to bottom, he'd read them all.

The once blue sky had lost all light more than six hours ago, and the time was getting closer and closer to midnight. Sherlock had never slept well, he did not need it. His body could function suitably in any situation with little sleep and no food. He was fine, that's what he insisted.

He wanted something. He wanted anything. He needed it. The boredom was overwhelmingly tedious to the adolescent. He has such a brilliant brain but nothing to use it on, wasting it on sleep seemed utterly pointless.

So, he searched the stiff draws under his bedside table for something to do. He expected to find a crossword puzzle or a tacky, completed Rubik's Cube but instead he found a pencil-case. He had no paper though, so drawing or writing wasn't an option. Consequently, he started fiddling with the pencil sharpener, tossing it in the air and twiddling it around his fingers until his thumb got caught in the gap between the blade and the icy metal.

It was incredibly sharp.

"Ouch," He cursed under his breath.

The abrupt thrill that rushed through him when he sliced his pale skin on the blade was sort of satisfying. He put the tip of his thumb to his tongue and slipped it amid his lips to clear the iron-tasting blood away with his saliva.

He didn't like the pain, but the feeling was so intense and fulfilling that he decided to grab a small screwdriver from his father's room.

He crept silently through the small house because the floorboards were creaky and he did not want his father to find him stealing, he did not want his caring father to be disappointed with him. Besides, he was not really stealing; he preferred to think of it as borrowing. His father kept the tools under the double bed. So he rummaged through the box until he found one that would easily remove the screw from the pencil sharpener. He inserted it into the diminutive metal screw, twisted it carefully a few times until the screw was loose enough to detach from the small contraption, he put the tool back into his father's red tool box, positioned it correctly and then tiptoed back to his tiny room while dodging all the old, squealing floorboards.

He cocooned himself back into the warmth of his duvet and the contrasting chill of the blade was so tempting and inviting. It was like it was asking Sherlock to drag it across his own skin.

And so he did. He pressed the frosty blade lightly on the skin beneath his shirt. He dug it in slowly into his abdomen until the sharp tip seemed to disappear in layers of his skin. It stung. He retreated the blade and realised that there was no blood. Well, there was a pool forming, but it hardly classified as a drip. Despite the pain of the bitter blade he placed it back on his skin and this time he pressed harder. Much harder. He wanted to feel pain, he'd never even felt before. There was more blood this time. It welled as a small puddle and then the liquid appeared to expand over his fair skin. He sat there for a moment in awe of what he had done. He was bewildered that he had actually just sliced such a sharp object over his skin and he stayed there, subdued for a moment. Then his brain felt better. It was not solving a complicated puzzle, but it was focusing on the pain. This strong, strong feeling that Sherlock was unfamiliar with suddenly extend from physical pain to mental concentration on this pain. His beautiful and rare mind was finally doing something.

It was the start of a very bad road.

It was a lingering problem for fifteen years until anyone found out. Most people who engaged in the act of self harm, as Sherlock had discovered through intensive psychological research, could barely keep it a secret for a couple of years. However, Sherlock was clever and devious. He would go to great lengths to keep something a secret if he wanted to.

His methods had grown from just simply cutting. He soon found himself whacking his body with small, dense objects until a purple bruise began to form, he used a gas lighter to hover below his skin to cause minor burns. However, he used the methods a lot less in his early adult years. People would call this behavior unhealthy, he knew they would, so he didn't let anyone in because humans just didn't understand.

He had resorted to using illegal drugs recreationally to occupy his mind. He could speed up his thought process, slow it down and do anything with the use of substances. He didn't label himself and a substance abuser or a drug addict, but it didn't go down too well with the police.

He was dragged off the grungy concrete underneath a bridge one night when he was 29 and sleeping rough. His body had been found convulsing and unconscious. The sturdy hands of someone grabbed him firmly by his shoulders and placed him in the back of a police car. They placed a warm blanket around his palpitating body as they waited for an ambulance to arrive. He was checked out and deemed fit enough to not be taken to a hospital, so he was unwillingly taken to the station.

After a sleepless night on a rigid bed in a cold grey room a police officer came to interview him.

"Those things will kill you." He informed Sherlock, and this left a lasting impression on him. The man pulled out a chair aggressively and offered Sherlock a seat with a small gesture," Right, now I need you to tell me what went on last night. You were high. I need to know what charges to press and, believe you me, it makes my job easier if you tell me what happened," The officer had a raspy, London accent and spoke very affirmatively.

Sherlock sat there and didn't reply for a moment. He slouched his back and tilted his head until he was relying on the table to hold his upper-body weight. His fiddled continuously and vibrated his fingers uncontrollably.

"Sherlock!" The middle-aged officer bellowed.

"What?" Sherlock asked malevolently.

"I need you to say."

"I don't have the time for this," Sherlock stared quickly at the officer. He had short hair and was going grey but there were traces of dark brown hair dye around his hair-line, his face was squared but he had and sharp chin and he stood firmly but his posture was poor and he had a badge with his name after a 'DS' title. "You're a Sergeant, look at me and tell me what happened."

Sherlock tilted one side of his mouth in contempt as he glared at the Sergeant who looked stumped. Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly and the Sergeant smiled weakly and shook his head.

"Okay, then, my turn. You are a sergeant, clearly from the badge. Your hair was of a normal colour a year ago, evidently by the poor attempt you have made to apply hair dye unprofessionally you have gone grey rapidly. Possibly, you are having issues with you wife that caused you stress. You're not wearing your ring. Tut, tut. You tanned on the holiday you gave yourself to try to forget about your marital issues but there is an obvious tan line because you were still wearing a cheap gold ring during that holiday. When you walked me in here I caught you glaring enviously at the Detective Inspector who ordered you to do so. You wanted that title, 'Detective Inspector…" I can help you out and get you a promotion to help you become DI," Sherlock glimpsed quickly at the name badge, "G. Lestrade.'"

"How?" Lestrade asked, bewildered.

"I can solve a basic crime and become an expert on someone in three minutes. I'm intellectual and have supreme talents when it comes to deduction. I can help you on a breakthrough case if you don't sentence me. Charge me, by all means; I have no issues with paying a substantial amount."

"That's a bribe! You're bribing me."

"So what if I am?"

"Listen, can I just... I'm not here to arrest you – sure that is something I'm supposed to do, but I wanted to help you out."

Sherlock scoffed and turned away from the detective. The change of clothes that he had been given were far too small so when he turned to face the other way with his scrawny arms crossed his grey top climbed up to show his hip.

"Oh… God…" Lestrade choked as he stare at the wounds on Sherlock's thin body, "Are those… are those self-inflicted?"

Sherlock tossed his head to the side away from Lestrade and grimaced in annoyance.

"Clearly," He muttered, "You didn't need to ask."

"Right. Hm. You're a troubled child, aren't you?"

"I'm not a child."

"You behave like one! Listen, this is really dangerous and you are destroying your sodding clever mind on these drugs and this sadness-"

"I'm. Not. Sad. I am Sherlock Holmes, I feel nothing. I'm a high functioning sociopath."

Lestrade simply rolled his eyes. He then proceeded to tentatively walk over to the young man.

"Look, you're clever, kid," Sherlock turned his nose up at the older mans choice of words, "Sherlock," He corrected himself, "I don't want to see someone waste that talent so… If you want me to help you, give you something to solve. A puzzle or a crime... It's confidential information but I'm pretty sure I can make an exception if it is for the greater good. Listen, these are our cases but I can let you in. You don't need to do anything to help in return, I just don't want to see someone so great deteriorate and hurt themselves with all these drugs…"

"So, you would consider consulting with me? And let me on to crime scenes"

"If, in return, you promise to stop with the drugs and the… harming yourself? I'm unsure if you'll be allowed on crime scenes, though."

"I'll make no promises to stop," Sherlock declared, "But... I will try."

"Okay, well do you have a home to go to? I have some files on a shooting in Whitechapel that I can let you in on?"

"It's good to know that you've already made the deal to let me in on these case. I must admit it was a pompous idea of yours, but thank you for going along with it," The man muttered coldly without making eye contact with Sergeant Lestrade.

Lestrade smiled in disbelief. He liked the troubled man. He knew that he should be doing more, trying to get him into a rehabilitation centre or something, but the man was too clever that it seemed cruel to trap a great man. He thought to himself and smiled at the man, pulling him into a firm hug, but Sherlock simply froze and sat there awkwardly as Lestrade crouched there hugging him. He let go from the awkward position when it was clear that Sherlock was just going to sit there absent-mindedly. Lestrade wondered to himself why he had decided to hug the man anyway, he had done it nevertheless.

"So, you have a place to go back to?" Lestrade asked.

"Nope. No where local."

"What?! Well, my wife's away-"

"I already told you what happened with your wife earlier, marital issues, remember? No need to lie."

"Right. Okay… You can come and stay with me for a while, just when you are trying to find a permanent place. I have a large flat. When my shift is over, I mean… You can..."

Sherlock did nothing but looked away and it seemed to Lestrade like he was nodding. He would have to receive that as an agreement, it seemed like he wouldn't get much else out of the willowy, enigmatic man.

He stared at Sherlock, trying to make his own deduction. He frowned in concern; he couldn't make one because he was too cryptic. He was a drug user or addict and self harmed, but said he wasn't sad. Lestrade took a deep breath and cocked his head to the side. He couldn't even make a vague analysis of the man.

Sherlock didn't attempt to wear a façade of happiness. He simply sat there and stared plainly, he had already told Sergeant Lestrade that he was not sad, that didn't make him happy; it just meant that he didn't feel the emotions that other pitiful humans felt.

Or at least that was what he told himself.

Sherlock jolted his eyes open wide as he slipped out of the memories in his mind palace and into the present reality. He stared at the ceiling and discovered himself lying rigidly on the sofa. He blinked a couple of times to make sure that what he was seeing around him really was the miserably boring reality that he remembered.

He couldn't remember the last time he had solved a case.

He inhaled loudly and choked on the clean air as it filled his lungs. He was craving anything to take the boredom away. It had crossed his mind that his skin was itching and he was craving… something. He did not want to dismiss his thoughts but he knew that he was craving the sharpness of a blade, the bluntness of an object impacting his skin, the blazing heat of a flame or at least the smoke of a cigarette to fill his lungs and not the distracting, bland oxygen that he had been supplied with. He groaned at the nagging temptation.

"Sherlock… you okay?" A voice cooed softly from a chair in the corner of the room. It was John.

"Obviously, John."

John raised his eyebrows and stifled a muffled chuckle. He looked over to Sherlock with that 'sorry I bothered' look.

Sherlock had been witnessing flashbacks in his mind palace for the last hour; he'd tried desperately to cut some memories from those dark times that his boredom and lack of emotion had caused from his hard rive, but it was difficult to delete those memories when they were still affecting him on a regular basis even in his mid thirties, as much as he wished they weren't still relevant.

Lestrade, who was now a Detective Inspector, thanks to Sherlock consulting with him, had believed that he had given up the self destructive lifestyle. True, he had tried like he promised to. However, he still occasionally lapsed into drugs - and self harm was something he had learned to hide well. He still felt the pressure to not disappoint people. So, he would keep it a secret from Lestrade.

John, of course, never knew about any of this. He had sworn Lestrade to secrecy. In fact the only person who had known about the self harm was Lestrade, and even he only ever knew about the cutting from the few scars that he had caught a glimpse of. It was relatively common knowledge that Sherlock used drugs recreationally and abused substances, but that was a rarity. Sherlock peeped over at John who was sat in his armchair holding a large newspaper; he was so oblivious to Sherlock's vicious habit of harming himself.

'No,' he warned himself, 'No! No! No! Don't be stupid, Sherlock.' He was considering it. What John didn't know couldn't hurt him… Not that Sherlock cared about hurting people; he continued to tell himself that.

"Date?" Sherlock questioned his blogger.

"Erm…" John flipped the newspaper to the cover, "23rd of Mar-"

"No, tonight. Date? Have you got a date?"

"Oh right," John said, "Yeah. I'm meeting with Mary later; we're going out for a meal. That's a couple of hours away though, I'll get ready later."

"Hm, don't make it too late."

"Sorry?"

"Mary is used to nice smells and relatively pricy perfumes, so you don't want to smell bad so I suggest using a less expensive aftershave because the more expensive ones which you own tend to be more pungent… You don't want to suffocate your girlfriend. Also, take a… long shower," Sherlock explained while flaring his nostrils and visibly cringing.

"Thanks. I feel all the better. You are a reassuring sod sometimes, you know, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply smirked.

John left Sherlock lying on the sofa for a little over an hour. He took a long shower and tried to make himself seem presentable, probably overdoing it, Sherlock assumed. Mary really wasn't interested in John being overly smart, but John tended to do too much of everything unimportant when he was attempting to impress someone who didn't need impressing.

John came back down to Sherlock, grabbed his coat, said farewell extremely swiftly before dashing out to make sure that he would be early.

When Sherlock was certain that John would not be returning he stood up hurriedly causing his vision to blur and flash. He stumbled over to the window to make sure that he was correct in his deduction about John. He was.

He leisurely strolled towards his room and pulled his sock drawer completely out of the cupboard that it rested inside. In the back of the drawer, hidden from an ordinary person's eyes, was a small compartment with a box inside, within the box was a white tissue and secreted in the tissue was a smooth razor blade. Sherlock decided that razor blades were commonly sharper than pencil sharpener blades because children were less unlikely to use a treacherous razor. So this made the affair easier, quicker and generally safer.

He grabbed the blades carefully and brought them with him into his private bathroom and locked the door behind them. Sherlock held his blades; 'Alone at last,' He thought to himself.