Sherlock sighed as he let himself fall onto his oversized bed. He hated being home, he hated spending time around his family. He always felt so alone. How he hated feeling alone. His head started to pound. 'Shit,' Sherlock thought to himself as he felt the darkness surround him yet again. He stared blankly at the ceiling as all the cruel words ever spoken to him seeped back into his mind. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eye sockets. 'Stop, stop this,' he ordered himself. His hands creeped to the back of his neck and he dig his nails into his skin. Only slight bliss. He began to slowly claw at his neck, leaving long red marks. Still, it only slightly relive his pain. He then moved to his arms, clawing at them for dear life. Even that didn't help. 'Blood, all I want to see is blood,' Sherlock thought in desperation. The young man launched himself from the bed and looked around his room. 'Scissors,' he noticed sitting on his desk. He grabbed them and put one point to his wrist. He paused for a moment, considering for a moment what he was about to do. That was until the thoughts crept back to him. The thoughts of feeling rejected, unloved, hated. He hated himself. Clumsily he made one slash at his wrist, then he realized what had happened. He, in his emotional uproar, had cut into his artery. Blood flowed out of his wrist almost frequently. Sherlock felt his head spin as he slumped to the ground. He saw a figure standing in the doorway that belonged to his brother. "My...croft," Sherlock croaked before he finally blacked out.
When Sherlock awoke, he felt the irritation of hospital bed sheets and the uncomfortable iv drip stuck in the crook of his elbow. His head was still fuzzy, but he could hear two voices right outside his room.
"We have to put your brother onto our 72 hour waiting period to make sure he doesn't harm himself any further. He has fresh scratch marks along his arms and his neck. We just want to make sure he is okay," Sherlock heard the man in white say. The other man, Sherlock's brother, replied.
"I understand, can I go into see him now?"
Sherlock groaned as the doctor nodded and pushed open the door to Sherlock's hospital room. Mycroft had a sympathetic small smile on his face as he saw his brother looking absolutely miserable in that bed.
"I don't need your sympathy, Mycroft. I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock snarled at his brother.
"Yes, nearly bleeding out on your bedroom floor is 'perfectly fine', brother," Mycroft snapped at Sherlock. Sherlock did not reply, but just turned his attention to the window, and the raindrops collecting on it.
"I told mummy that it was an experiment that exploded. The doctors are going along with it. But they do need to keep you here for another two days," Mycroft calmly explained, waking over to the window to block Sherlock's view.
"Boring," Sherlock muttered as her unread away from his brother yet again. Mycroft signed as he began to make his way toward the door.
"I'm sure I can find something at home that might interest you for the next two days. I'll bring them over to you later," Mycroft says as he opened the door to leave. "I will be back, Sherlock. I'll see you soon," Mycroft said as he left, swinging his infamous umbrella as he walked out into the hall.