Sherlock Holmes shivered as he sat on the roof. It was a chilly evening, but he had the funny feeling it wasn't the weather that was making him freeze.
Down below he heard Mummy calling him, but he made no move to reply. No doubt his father had already laid out the Thanksgiving meal, and they were still waiting on the youngest member of the family.
An overwhelming wave of sadness and loneliness washed over him. I tried, Redbeard. He thought. I dug and dug and dug...but it was too late. Then he chided himself for being so emotional. Why was he so upset over Redbeard's disappearance? He was just a dog, after all...
Something about that didn't seem quite right to him, but he refused to think about Redbeard. His mind simply didn't want to go there.
Sherlock looked out at the countryside, the beach up ahead. How would it be if he just took a boat and sailed...away? He didn't know where he'd go, he just had to get out. Someplace far, far away.
"Sherlock?" His dad came out onto the deck. "Dinner!"
Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to five, trying to push away the depression. He just needed to get through the next hour. After all, it was a time for thanks, not sorrow.
"Coming, father." Sherlock retraced the steps he had used to climb up there, slowly shimmying down the chimney and then landing in the flower bed with a soft fwump. One hour. Just an hour. He could do that, right?
ooOoo
Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly at the blood slowly leaking out of the gauze, the shining red knife still on the bathroom counter. What had he done?
The tears had came as usual. Sherlock always felt frustrated and alone, but it was worse during the night. Especially this night, the two-year anniversary of Redbeard's death.
He couldn't sleep. After he had cried himself out Sherlock strode over to his sock drawer and pulled out the blade from it's hiding spot. Normally he'd stare at it for a while, the put it back and return to sleep. But today had been different.
Just one cut. Sherlock had promised himself, but one cut became two, which became three and soon he couldn't stop himself until there was literally a running stream of scarlet coming from his arm and he felt like he was going to pass out.
Sherlock knew he had gone too far when it hadn't stopped bleeding after the first couple minutes. He'd used up all the gauze and bandages in the bathroom cupboard. He needed help, fast. But who? Not his parents. They'd have him in therapy and rehab faster than you could say 'Obviously'. That only left Mycroft.
Mycroft and him had a strained relationship. Ever since his dog died, the two seemed to drift apart. But they were still brothers, after all. He trusted Mycroft enough not to immediately turn him in to the officials, but could he keep his secret safe for a long time?
Sherlock would have to take the risk. Slowly, wrapping his arm in a towel so as not to splatter blood over the walls, he quietly walked down the hallway to his brother's room and pushed the door open.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered. "Wake up!"
Mycroft stirred and opened his eyes. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? It's 1am in the morning."
"I need help." Sherlock replied timidly.
"You always need help. Now go away." Mycroft turned to pull his blanket over him. Sherlock tried to yank it back, but he used his bad arm and cried out in pain.
"What have you done?" Mycroft sat up, alarmed. He took Sherlock's hand in his and carefully unwrapped the towel. His face paled and his voice became more urgent. "We need to stitch this up, fast." Mycroft reached for his bedside lamp.
"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You can't tell Mummy and Daddy! Please, Mycroft. I didn't mean to. It was an accident." He pleaded.
"How else are we going to get help?" Mycroft demanded. "I have to. You just tried to kill yourself."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's called self-harm. There's a difference. And anyways, I was hoping you could drive me. You're seventeen and Mummy always parks her car outside."
"Dammit, why me?" Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "Fine. But you're taking out the trash for the next two months."
"You got it." Sherlock replied, grateful.
Seventeen minutes later they were in their parent's car, racing towards the nearest clinic. Sherlock anxiously kept checking his phone, positive that his parents woud've heard them leave, but no calls or texts came.
Mycroft came to a screeching halt in front of the building. They both ran in.
"Hello, how may I help you?" A greeter at the desk asked.
"It's my cousin," Mycroft answered. They both agreed to use false identities to keep their names out of the record. "Bartholomew Cadwaller. He fell onto some broken glass."
Sherlock nodded solemnly. Despite the circumstances, he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning. Mycroft certainly had a way with coming up with weird names.
Almost as soon as they got there, Sherlock's arm was stitched up and they were free to go. He found himself climbing back into his bedroom window in no time at all.
"Don't do this ever again," Mycroft said sternly to him as Sherlock dismounted from the windowsill.
"I won't. I promise." Sherlock replied. Mycroft turned to go, but Sherlock suddenly called out, "Wait, Mycroft!"
He paused for a moment, then turned around. "Yes, brother dear?"
"Thank you." Sherlock couldn't see very well in the dark, but he swore he caught a smile on Mycroft's face. Then he was gone.
Author Note:
Wow that got real dark real fast...but I guess I'm just feeling a bit angsty right now :). This is still a work in progress, and I'll (hopefully) have more chapters tomorrow, so stay tuned! Thanks for reading!
-Irene xx
P.S. An error in this story was brought to my attention by a reader (I'm American, so sorry if I get some of the British components wrong :o). Thanks for letting me know.
