Author's Note: Thank you, Annie. I love you. Always.
For the fiftieth time that year, Sherlock walked to school and sat in his first class of the day with fresh scars on his wrists and tired eyes which were half covered by his dark curls. He looked down at his phone, typing rapidly even though he wasn't talking to anyone in particular.
He looked up as Victor Trevor walked in and quickly turned his eyes back to his phone but not before he saw Victor raised an eyebrow. He owed him for last week. And the week before.
Too much.
Mycroft didn't give him that much and he couldn't afford it. He'd have to pay another way. He hated that way. He always felt so guilty. As if buying cocaine didn't make him guilty enough.
"Faggot," someone called from the back of the room.
Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and shook his head.
It's their fault I do this to myself. The drugs and the cutting. It's their fault.
He looked down at his wrists and quickly pulled his sleeves down again.
No. It's your fault. Still the addict.
"He thinks he's clever. He's just a freak."
"Idiot…"
"Who were you texting? It's not like you have friends."
He took a deep breath and heard Mycroft's voice. "Sherlock, you've always been so stupid."
And his father's. "You can't do anything right!"
Then from the right, a boy he's never even met, "No one even wants you around."
Why don't you just kill yourself? It's a lot less effort. No one wants you.
He sighed and looked up as the teacher came in. He put his phone in his pocket and kept his gaze down as the lesson began.
He hardly paid attention in class that day. Like most days.
A small piece of paper was placed on his desk and he looked up as a boy walked to the front of the class.
He unfolded the paper slowly, feeling everyone in the back watch him.
"It's going to be okay."
He read it over a few times as the boy left the room, flashing Sherlock a small smile. A genuine smile. He didn't get those often.
He looked at the note, examining the thin cursive, slanting to the right.
Doctor.
Sherlock got one last glance at him before the door closed after him.
John Watson.
He folded the paper again and held it in his hand. His heart broke as he thought of those words.
John Watson cared. He actually cared.
No drugs. Just end it.
Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and held the razor to his wrist as tears rolled down his cheeks. He sobbed loudly, choking every so often.
He dragged the blade along his arm and watched his blood flow out.
He looked to his door when he thought he heard Mycroft and something caught his eye. He put his blade down and reached over to his bedside table.
He gently twirled the paper in his fingers and opened it.
"It's going to be okay."
He swallowed hard and stood up. He wiped off his wrist and threw away every blade in his room before laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.
"It's going to be okay."
Why do I not believe you, John?
Even if Sherlock wasn't sure it was true, it was enough to get him through that night. That's all he needed.
