A/N: Okay so I am going to write this fanfiction with my good friend, who I absolutely adore. Her pen name is "RainyDays-and-DayDreams". She is a fantastic author so check out her stories, please! I will write the odd chapters and she will write the even ones. The story and all of its chapters will be on both of our accounts, so you have no need to worry!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its fantastic characters.

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He lies on the couch, rolling his sleeve up. He jabs the syringe into his arm, feeling the drug enter his system. He lets out a satisfied sigh, loving the feeling if he drug running through his system and washing all if his worries away. Calming his body. Taking away the pain and numbness, leaving numbness and happiness.

He calculates how long it would be until John got home before he begins his plans, double checking he'll have enough time for his desires. He gets up, strolling into the bathroom. His head was a bit fuzzy, but he could still make it to the toilet. He shoves his fingers down his throat, causing his breakfast to come up. He watches as the once clear water changes to a chunky brown color.

The only reason he had eaten that bloody oatmeal was because John had forced him to. Oh well, it was all gone now. Sherlock stands up, grabbing his razor. He takes the blade off, holding it between his two shaking fingers. He hated it all, but this was the only way. The only way to stop the pain and the hurt and everything.

Obviously he wasn't going to kill himself. Well, not yet at least. He reopens some of the old scars, and even creates some new ones. The drug makes it so it doesn't hurt as much, which is nice. Later when it wares off he would either reopen some scars or make more. He never told John any of the things he did because he wouldn't understand.

Their was no way John could know what kind of pain and hurt he had gone through. Ever. Even if he gave his friend every God damn detail of what he's been through, he still wouldn't understand. Nobody could, except Sherlock. He was all alone in this situation. That was the thing that hurt him the most out of everything.

Young Sherlock Holmes runs down the stairs, the loud noise waking him up. He sees his Mother locking the door, fear in her eyes. Sherlock deduced that someone had been outside, she had threatened then, and finally she ran inside once they started to chase her. Who had been chasing her, Sherlock had no idea.

"Mummy, who's after you?" He asks, making the paranoid woman jump.

"I don't know, honey. Where's your brother?"

"He isn't in his room. Must have snuck out with his girlfriend." She nods, running over to her son.

"Well, we just have to hope he'll be alright. Now, Sherlock dear, I want you to go upstairs into your bedroom and lock the door, turn off the lights, and be very quiet. Got it?"

"But what about you?"

"I'll be fine, just do as I ask." She says, her voice shaking slightly. Sherlock nods, running up the stairs. He locks the door, putting a chair in front of it for good measure. He then turns off the light, sitting on his bed. He stares at the door, heart pounding. He hears the front door slam open, his Mother screaming.

Heavy footsteps and her light one's run across the floor. He hears a deep male voice teasing her. He listens as he hits her and throws her on the floor. She cries, begging him to spare her life. It takes everything Sherlock has to not get up and help her. He listens as the man rapes her.

She cries and begs for him to stop, but he doesn't. Then he finishes, but the torture doesn't end. He brings down his axe, butchering her body slowly. She dies slowly and the boy has to listen to every second of it. It seems to go on and on, never-ending. Eventually it does.

Then suddenly, everything is silent.

Sherlock begins to relax, thinking the psychopath is gone. Then he hears the axe scraping the stairwell. The man was walking up the stairs slowly, almost teasing Sherlock. He hears the man reach the second floor, scraping the walls now.

"Come out, come out where ever you are!" He yells in a low, spine chilling voice. Sherlock slides under the bed, trying to stay completely silent. "I know you're up here!" The footsteps stop outside the door, tapping it. The murder was humming cheerfully and Sherlock could almost see his smirk through the white wood.

The doorknob begins to turn and Sherlock closes his eyes, waiting for death to come. Then he hears it outside. Sirens of a police car, coming to save him! The man swears, letting go of the door and running down stairs. Sherlock remains under the bed, too scared to move. He hears the cops run in, yelling orders.

Gun shots ring out and a body falls. Footsteps run up the stairs and his bedroom door swings open. A flashlight shines into his eyes and the officer smiles at him gently. Sherlock scrambles out from under the bed, the cop patting his back.

"Good job hiding like that. Smart move. What's your name, son?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He whispers, shivering. Numbly he's led downstairs. He is placed in the back of an ambulance, an orange blanket draped around his thin shoulders. He looks away when they bring his Mother's body out on the gurney, the white sheet covered in red now. He doesn't cry, he just stares. Blocking out everything and slipping into his mind palace. The police question him and he answers, hardly paying attention.

He didn't want to. He made a note to delete the memory later, not wanting to ever think or see it again. Too bad he forgot to.

Don't forget to review and chapter two will be soon! XD