Sorry I haven't written in so long! I've had maaaaajor writer's block and I hadn't a clue what to write. I've got some ideas now though so just bare with me please! Reviews would be much appreciated; they give me the motivation to write:)
-Chloe

He was anxious to leave and even more anxious to come face to face with the only man besides John who knew his secret. The thought made his skin itch with anger; he didn't know whether or not this man had killed those teenagers, but at this moment he didn't care. He wanted him dead...

"According to the map the grid reference is… the London Eye." John Watson looked up at Sherlock from where he was sat on the pavement, a map sprawled open in front of him and a confused look on his face.
"I thought so." Sherlock muttered, his hands coming together and touching his chin with his fingertips; he almost looked like he was praying.
"Hold on." John demanded. "You had me sit outside on the street looking through a map for fifteen minutes when you already knew where the grid reference was?"
"It would appear so." Sherlock replied calmly.
"You're impossible. Can you help me up?" John clasped onto Sherlock's arm and pulled himself up, he noticed Sherlock's wince as he did and looked down guilty, muttering an apology as he did. John still couldn't get over the fact that his best friend self harmed. He felt somehow responsible for not noticing sooner, not questioning things. He had often seen Sherlock come out of the bathroom or bedroom looking ghostly white with his hand on his stomach or leg. He had mostly put it down to a cold or an injury on a case. It killed him that he now knew that just before he'd seen him on these occasions he'd been slicing his own skin, enjoying the pain. In a way John Watson was disgusted and saddened that Sherlock thought so little of himself, but he did understand. He understood why he had become addicted. After Afghanistan John had often thought of hurting himself, just so that he could get his mind on something else instead of flashbacks of the people he'd killed. He soon found help and got better though. Sherlock had been a big part of that; he'd helped him forget.
Sherlock's muttering brought John out of his thoughts.
"…Can't think of who it would be… Who could know? Why would they kill them? What would it prove?" John let the detective whisper to himself for a few more minutes. From experience he knew Sherlock needed a few minutes silence to himself to fully process the situation. He was taking a noticeably longer time trying to understand this than usual though. That worried John.
"Sherlock?" he asked tentatively, not wanting to startle him out of his trance. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly and when he reopened them, he had his composure back. The emotional barrier he'd kept up for so long was now back and stronger than ever; he wasn't going to show anybody but himself his weaknesses tonight. Quickly, he looked at his watch and began walking.
"Come, John." He called behind him, waving his hand in the direction in which he was walking, his long legs taking him much further than John's could, who struggled to keep up. The walk to the London Eye was long. Especially because Sherlock had become extremely mistrustful of cab drivers; he'd become convinced the person who knew his secret was a taxi driver. Perhaps they had seen blood on his shirt or him clutching at his body when he climbed inside the car, Sherlock didn't know which it could be, only that he couldn't take that chance again. Of course, John understood why he was suddenly so suspicious, past experiences had helped with that paranoia.
"What do you think will happen when we get there?" John asked tentatively, feeling almost childlike next to the tall detective but not really expecting an answer.
"I'm not sure… perhaps there'll be bombs thrown left, right and centre. Or maybe there'll be a duel." Sherlock was being sarcastic, this only ever happened when he was stuck with a case, which worried John too. Sherlock had never really needed help on a case before, and this was the most important case he'd been on so far. This case could determine if he still had a career, a reputation, a life. He would have none of that if his secret got out. He'd be known as a freak, and not just by Donovan. Scotland Yard would make him go to rehab; the newspapers would be all over it. He could see the headline now: 'Sherlock Holmes: Genius or Insane?' He felt himself begin to tremble at the thought. He looked over at John suddenly, who was silent, staring at the floor as he walked. The colour drained from Sherlock's face and his hands balled into fists. Thoughts of having nobody filled his mind and he could tell he was losing control of himself, fast. The emotional wall he'd put up was slowly but surely coming down and he knew what he needed to do. Sherlock shoved his hands in his coat pockets looking for the object he needed but the movement made John's head snap up. He questioned Sherlock with his eyes.
"Cold." was the reply to the silent question. He rummaged around in his pocket until he found what he wanted. "Is there a toilet round here somewhere?"
"There's probably one in this pub." John replied, and Sherlock hurriedly followed him in.

Sherlock was forced to buy something by the bartender if he wanted to use the toilet. He was tempted to just deduce the bartender to confuse him, so Sherlock could slide past, but he felt too weak-kneed to do that. He bought a single shot of vodka and hurried to the toilet, locking himself in the larger disabled cubicle. He slid down the door and sighed, putting the shot next to him and pulling the item out of his pocket. He was feeling more and more out of control, more frantic. Quickly shrugging his coat off, he looked at the object in his hand: the long, sharp scalpel gleamed in the fluorescent bathroom light. He'd stolen the blade before John had come to the hospital to collect him. He thought of John and was suddenly conflicted.

John would be so disappointed…

John wouldn't find out. No one would.

He rolled his sleeve shirt up to his shoulder and admired the many small scars scattered around the inside of his upper arm. He touched them lightly, basking in the memory of the pain it brought him. Still half in memory, half aware, he pressed the blade against his snow white skin and dragged it slowly down. The pain made him gasp and the crimson blood poured from his arm, dripping onto the floor and pooling near his legs. He sighed in happiness as waves of pain came over him. He lifted the blade from his skin and stared at the mark he'd made. At about 5 inches long, this was one of the bigger cuts on his body and Sherlock was almost proud of it. Suddenly, remembering the shot he'd bought, he poured it over the gash slowly. Searing pain. His whole mind went blank and he felt nothing but the pain in his arm. His vision blurred as he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was astounded at the amount of pain the alcohol produced but finally, he felt calm. He felt better.

Loud beating on the door broke him from his cloud of pain and euphoria.
"Sherlock! You better not be doing what I think you're doing!" John's voice went through a series of emotions; anger, hurt, disappointment, concern, fright. Sherlock quickly picked himself up, wrapped his cut in toilet paper, cleaned up the blood and put his coat back on. He opened the door and looked down at John who was staring right back at him.
"What were you doing Sherlock?" His voice was accusatory.
"Nothing, I was just nervous, trying to get some Dutch courage, isn't that what people say?" He let himself half-smile and held the shot glass up, his fingers shaking slightly, not that John noticed. Sherlock felt slightly guilty for lying to his best friend, but after seeing John's look of relief, the guilt disappeared and they walked together out of the pub. The London Eye was only a few hundred yards away and Sherlock had noticeably picked up his speed, John having to keep up by running. Sherlock was unbelievably anxious to see who knew his secret and why, how they could possibly know.

The pods of the observation wheel were dark as they came closer and Sherlock wondered if perhaps this was a joke. A practical joke gone too far… He started to turn away when a familiar voice caught his attention.
"Ah, Sherlock, it's been a long time since we've seen each other." The voice was cold and deep, dragging out the words in a decidedly unpleasant way.
Sherlock spun back around and a man stood near the bottom of the eye.
"…Dad?"