A/N: Here's chapter three. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own this show it its characters.
Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt off. He was observing his scars and how skinny he was. His ribs were very much prominent, making his scars more obvious and noticeable. He exits the bathroom, laying down on the couch. He double checks that the flat door is locked (he's kept it like that since his kidnapping, especially when home alone), and glances at the clock.
Four thirty. An hour until John got home. He unrolls his sleeve, observing his scars. This made him smile, but it wasn't because he had hurt himself. No, it was because he had had control over this. Because he had been able to do this all on his own.
Sherlock woke up, body aching and . He looks at his surroundings, them very good. He was tied down to a table, only in his underwear. Violent shivers run through his body as he begins to realize that the room is about twenty degrees Fahrenheit. The door swings open and Moriarty strolls in.
He goes over to the detective and rubs his curls. Sherlock pulls away, anger in his eyes. The consulting criminal raises an eyebrow, snapping his fingers. A large man comes in, wheeling a small table. On it were several items, all of them not pleasant. Knives, syringes, scissors, bottles of odd substances of a wide variation of colors, and bunch of other torture tools layed on it.
"Ready to play?" Moriarty coos, picking up a large knife with a thin, sharp tip. His assistant shoves a cloth into Sherlock's mouth and the psychopath traces the knife against Sherlock's pale chest. "What shall I start with?" He shrugs. "It 't matter to me!" He sings playfully.
Sherlock screams as the knife digs into him.
Sherlock wakes up, panting and sweating. Just another nightmare. He sits up, thin legs hanging over the side of the bed. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He gets up, stumbling into the bathroom. He leans over the toilet, vomiting. The detective finishes and then turns on the shower, needing to cool down.
He gets undressed, stepping in. He let's the cool water run over his body, washing away the stress and nightmares. After a few minutes though he begins to shiver so he turns off the water, getting out. He slides into his clothes, surprised by how large they were.
Sherlock stares at himself, absolutely disgusted by what he saw. He was so ugly and despicable. He was skinny, weak, and ugly. He hated everything about himself, including his personality. He was mean, spiteful, stubborn, and just a plain jerk. Moriarty was right, he was nothing.
The angry detective grabs his razor, rolling his sleeve up. He begins to cut, watching the blood fall. He loves everything. The blood, the pain, the power. The power that he could kill himself so easily. He stops eventually, not wanting to bleed out. He begins to count his self-inflicted scars, just out of curiosity.
Thirty six.
Thirty six scars and he had done them all on his own. He washes off his razor, putting the towels and such up also. He slips back into his room, laying under his covers. He falls asleep, stroking his scars.
John gets up that morning, still wasn't up. He shrugs, allowing his friend the extra needed rest. He makes tea, sitting down and reading the newspaper. Around late morning his friend gets up, waving to him and then heading for the bathroom. The doctor jumps when a loud crash comes from there, causing his heart to skip a beat.
He runs into the bathroom, swinging the door open. Sherlock layed on the floor, passed out. He runs to his friend's side, checking for a pulse. It was there, but weak. The panicking blond pulls Sherlock up, dragging him into the living room. The detective was alarmingly light, but John ignored that for the time being.
He puts his friend on the couch, trying to shake him awake. Then he grabs a cup full of cold water, throwing it onto his friend. Sherlock sits up, gasping and eyes big with panic. He begins to yell and thrash, punching John across the face.
Sherlock must have thought he was with Moriarty again because he was yelling for someone to stop. The older man tries to stop the yelling and thrashing, bus his attempts were fruitless. He tries to hold his friend's thin arms down and even muffle his mouth with his hand, but the hysterical man just gets worse.
John gets up, running to the fridge. He searched through it until he found the vial containing the sedative. He pours the liquid down his friend's throat. Sherlock tries to fight it, but after a few minutes his eyes roll back into his head and he is dead asleep. John lets out a relieved sigh, throwing the bottle onto the floor.
He begins to observe his friend, trying to figure out why he had passed out in the first place. He notices Sherlock's vitals are way off and his blood sugar was dangerously low. It was as of he hadn't eaten in days, but that was impossible. He had made Sherlock eat everyday before work and when it was dinner time.
Now that he thought about it, Sherlock has spent an awful a lot of time in the bathroom.
No, Sherlock wouldn't do those types of things, right? Or would he? John shakes his head, thinking he was insane or maybe he wasn't. He bites his lip, trying to decide what to do here. Better to be safe than sorry. He unbuttons his friend's shirt, hating how lose it was on him. He is shocked by what he sees. Besides the endless scars (including the one that says FREAK) he notices how predominate the younger man's ribs were.
John closes his eyes, knowing that his worst fears had came true. Sherlock was starving himself to deal with the pain and hurt. The upset doctor fixes his friend's shirt, noticing a piece of his sleeve was rolled up. He double checks that Sherlock was still asleep before he rolled up his sleeve.
His heart drops to his stomach.
Sherlock's arms were covered with scars, all selfinclicted. He rolls the sleeve down, putting his head in his hands. He had failed as a doctor and best friend. John sits like this for a while, unable to cope. Soon enough though and he feels tears in his eyes.
Well that hurt to write. Review and make me happy!