So I've decided that I might as well write this all down, preserving the person that I once was, as I am slowly losing him. My mind once full of possibility and potential, now bored of everything of school, of life, of the everyday. The everyday something that once held potential and enjoyment in the many people, their lives, and thoughts that I can read in an instant. But what is the point if there is no purpose for it, all it does is create more pain, more distance.

School, it was once a good distraction, it once kept my brain occupied. But the ability to learn the whole textbook and more in less than a day, is apparently not what teachers or any of the idiots in my class, wanted. It became too easy, too boring. Giving my brain too much time, to be bored. Not just the nothing to do type of bored. But the type of bored that takes over your brain, over your life. When you begin to be bored of the everyday, of your life. Everything you've ever known.

I need something, some sort of relief, something just to stop this all consuming boredom. I need something to keep my brain occupied. Something, just something to stop this. What is the point of being able to tell someone their whole life story, what they did today, its still a bit hit and miss, I haven't perfected the art. But what is the point in being able to do that, if there is no purpose. It's pointless, it all is.

I don't have anyone, anymore. My older brother, Mycroft, the only person close to understanding me. He taught me lots. Motivated me to learn, he couldn't be better than me, that is what has kept me going for the last few years. Me and him deducing the lives of everyone. Our favourite activity, finding a spot in the busyness, and sitting, watching, observing. Learning everything we could about the people displaying their hearts, their lives, their thoughts. It was good.

But then he vanished off to university. Studying. As much as he comes back in the holidays and the odd weekend here and there. But it's not the same, half the time he is buried within a heap of textbooks and essays. The fun, the time spent together it has faded.

My parents they are great, both geniuses. But they don't understand. They are content with where they are, what they are doing. I'm not. I'm stuck. Trapped. Stuck. I'm trying to escape, yet there isn't a way out. I can't just leave. I wish I could, yet I couldn't do that to the few people who still care. I have to pretend I am okay, that I am still Sherlock Holmes. Not the broken shell of who he once was. I am fed up of pretending. Lying to everyone. There isn't any point anymore. I will shut them all out, everyone, drift through everyday. Just to stop myself from hurting them. Because I know how capable of destruction I am. I have to stop it from being unleashed.

So today is yet another day. yet another same boring day. The same. I want something more. I long to have a purpose. I long for my place, in this crazy chaotic noisy place.

So I managed to survive. Just one more day. Sliding down the school corridors. Being practically invisible, seemingly wrapped up in my own little world. While secretly observing everyone. Gathering information. Just keeping myself occupied enough, to keep myself here. I need something, or someone. Just anything that understands. I don't think it will find me. I'll look for it then.

I found it. While attempting to sleep last night. The compass. The one I had chucked on the floor. I was bored of my maths homework. I didn't care, it wasn't important. I get good grades in everything without trying. It's not likely that doing the homework will get me anything better than the 100% I've got in every test. Trying to explain that to teachers, only gets you sent to detention, and then the head teacher. I did that last time. I've learnt, there is not any point anymore, in arguing, it only creates attention. Unwanted attention.

But the compass. It was once a stupid piece of metal, some sort of thing that only maths teachers could love. But it's something I too could also love.

The rush, the purity, the perfection. The clean perfect line. The moment. Its mine no one can steal this from me.

It may be small, but it needs hiding. If Mum spots it, she will ask questions. Ones I don't want to answer. Ones I can't answer even if i wanted to. A small bracelet, a woven one, the one my brother gave me last year. It will do. Covering the small scratch perfectly.

Okay I haven't written anything for a few days. But my solution is working. Its keeping me here. It may be creating a deeper divide between me and the rest of the world. But that's what they want. It also seems to be what I want. At least alone, no one can hurt me, no one can stop me. I will be happy again one day, the day I find someone who wants me, and sees my potential. But now they only see the annoying irritating person, who is above all of them. But I don't want to be part of it anymore. It's of no interest to me.

They are getting deeper. Today after school, I dropped by Boots, Plasters. I need them, if I am to carry on like this. I need to carry on like this. I need it to stay here. I will stay here. I believe that one day someone will want me, someone will see potential in me, I will find my purpose.

Just thankful that it is autumn, nearly winter. Meaning that there is no reason for my arms to be shown. Therefore meaning my secret is safe. My brain my future, it will be intact. I know it is destroying me. But there is no way back, it's the only way to stay alive.

Sitting, observing. This cafe, in my spot. The table in the corner, on the balcony of the shopping centre. The place Mycroft and I found was best to keep ourselves entertained when Mum dragged us out shopping.

The women I was watching, she stops, why? ah a text. But from who? A small smile. Therefore likely to be a boyfriend or close family member. Ah she replies. She's still typing. A long text. Therefore, recipient is probably female. Her sister, her mother wouldn't expect a reply so quickly. She's in a hurry. How do I know this? The work clothes, Lunch break then? How do I know she needs to get back soon? The sandwich wrapper? No? Ah the lanyard around her neck, they only have their lunch break 12-1. Its almost 1.

I play this game a little longer. Its almost enough to keep my brain from imploding on me. But it doesn't cover up the aching inside of me. I know I am choosing to be alone, choosing to isolate myself, but I didn't really have a choice. No one wanted me. So I am protecting myself. But also protecting my Mum, I'm out with friends, seeing a film. I don't like lying to her. But it needs to be done, it would hurt her more if I left.

It's been too long, I need it again. I reach into my pocket, the cold comforting metal meeting my warm hands. My pulse racing. Not here, I can't. Too many people. So I find myself the quietest place I know. The safest place. Locking the toilet door behind me. Pulling my plasters out of my pocket. My fingers wrapping around my blade. I hold it up to the light, watching the light dance off the blade. Caught in a trance. The carefully folded tissue waiting. Ready. Carefully pushing my jumper sleeve up to my elbow. Making sure it doesn't catch on the plasters from last night. The blank perfectly pale and undamaged skin. The blade. Across my skin. Burning. Relief. A pause. The small beads of glistening blood. Catching them. Staining the tissue. Red. Release. Perfection. Tearing the plaster packet open while holding the tissue to my arm. Its an interesting process of contortionism. The plaster. On. I'm ready to go face the world again. Imperfections all contained and hidden under yet other strip. One more lie. But one more day still alive.

Later that night, laptop open, reading a small murder case of slight interest. It was pretty obvious though. I solved it in under 5 minutes. Mum knocks gently on my door. Quickly shutting the laptop. The phone, it's for me. She's been crying. Why? My brothers voice. Ah his fault? what now?

"Yes Mycroft. What would you like."

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave my studies unfinished, but a case of great need appeared, I'm on the plane to..."

Shock, loss, rejection. "No why now, what if I need you here?"

"As I was saying, Russia, probably a year long mission, fieldwork, they need me, I'm sorry Sherlock."

I stared at the wall, hoping it would give me some kind of hint that this wasn't real. But everything was in place. When I'm dreaming something is always slightly out of place in the chaotic organisation of my bedroom. I could think of nothing to say, pure anger and hate. So I let my barrier down one last time, I shouted, swore, argued, until Mum came in. So I stopped for her sake.

Mycroft silent through my torrent of abuse, when I finally paused. Said softly "Goodbye, little brother"

I couldn't deal with it. He couldn't leave. Why Russia. Why did he have to prove himself. To god knows who. I didn't care, I wanted him to come back. He wasn't going to, not yet, hopefully one day. He was the only person in the world who understood anything, and even he couldn't stay. What had I done that was so bad.

Blades. Over. And over, legs this time, my arms were healing, but no space, not enough. This offered some relief. But as I tried to sleep, the phone call, playing over and over. I couldn't deal with it anymore. I needed something else.

Mycroft's room. I knew he always had some stashed away where Mum wouldn't look. Not that she ever searched. She believed we were both still innocent, still perfect. The box on the shelf, mixed in with bank statements and letters from his high school and university. The prize. A half empty packet of cigarettes. And the blue lighter he nicked from the cornershop, with his mates, being 'cool'. Yes, even Mycroft when trying to escape this world, engaged in social activities once or twice. However he always hung around in the wrong crowd as Mum would say. The right crowd though if you longed for the adrenaline rush, the quick and clever thinking, dancing on the wrong side of the law, but that was the thrill of it all. Or that's what he always said. He didn't need them once he started university, that was enough to keep his brain occupied or so he said. He had lied. This was what the fieldwork was about, not that I could really care. He no longer cared about me.

I shoved the packet and lighter up my pyjama sleeve, forgetting the recent cuts, wincing as the edge of the plaster peeled up.

Tiptoed back into my room. Window open, the cold of the night creeping in. Offering further comfort. I opened the packet, took a couple out and hid the rest for later. The flicker of the flame dancing for a second. Then the harsh smoke, filling my lungs. But offering the most beautiful thing to my broken self. A pause. A stop. Not as pure and real as the blade. But longer lasting. The beauty watching the smoke spiral out of the window into the sky, taking me with it. I don't want to be Sherlock anymore.

The next morning, Dad was making jokes at the breakfast table, trying to cover up the gap Mycroft had left in us all. I ate my toast, I had burnt it slightly, but what was the acrid taste when I mentally ached all over. I escaped as quickly as possible from the house. Recklessly cycling through the early morning traffic, the cold wind burning my face and my hands, breathing in the fumes of London. I got to school, early as normal, avoided being killed by 2 buses. LT61 AHT. BN61 MXK. There is no point in reporting them, no one cares, or does anything. I'm a cyclist, a traffic light jumping idiot as far as anyone else is concerned. Wandered over to my locker, inside, warmth, finally. Shove the armful of books into my locker, twisting and turning them so they all fit. Why are the lockers so small? Apparently not everyone brings as much as I do to school.

I don't really care anymore about school, all I have to do to keep everyone happy is keep my mouth shut, and keep getting good grades. Slipping through their stupid systems.

PE, something to everyone's surprise, I really love. Rugby, Football, Cricket, Athletics. I love them all. They are all good. The adrenaline rush. The sweat pouring down my brow. Not a pretty sight. But also beautiful, the cold air meaning trails of our breath is left. Distracting me from the pain within. Analysing who is on the other team, the ones sir shoved us in. His voice rising above the general chatter. The slightly wet grass was going to make it slippy, something that is a pain for rugby. However I would much rather be outside in the cold, than inside, where wearing long sleeves is much more obvious, outside we all do, other than the few hardcore idiots trying to prove something. Not sure what, social status probably, that's all everyone seems to care about.

The whistle. The beginning. The charge the rush. The pain as we slammed into each other. Taking him down to the ground. An sprint. Adrenaline. Rushing. Legs burning. The end. Yes.

Again and again, we scored, they scored. We were pretty even.

The whistle, back inside to the hustle and bustle of the changing rooms, carefully getting changed to avoid scraping my arms, or giving anything away.

Waiting for the bell to go. I really couldn't be bothered with chemistry. The effort, of sitting there and paying attention. Not letting my mind wonder into benzene rings or anything more interesting. The pain, the energy it takes is unbelievable.

Finally, lunchtime. A pause in the unrelenting waves of hurt, pain, and sadness. Escaping, away from the people. I didn't care anymore. Over and over again. Gritting my teeth to stop me from crying out in pain. But then relaxing, allowing the physical pain to be traded for the mental pain. Its not logical. Not rational. But I don't care. They are apparently emotions. Chemicals. I don't get them. I don't understand them. I can read them in someone else in an instant. But in me. They spiral uncontrollably, never pausing, never ceasing. I don't want them anymore, they are what has created this mess. I need them to go away. So yet again, cutting, slashing. Trying to make it fade. I know they won't. But this means they pause, they stop for a moment. When I am fully in control of them, then I am free.