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Disclaimer- I wish I owned Sherlock... but guess what? I don't...
Chapter 7
"Lucy," John stepped forward, "Where has that blood come from?"
She froze.
Attempting to compose her face as quickly as possible, she took a step back away from John. But her scared look hadn't gone unnoticed by Sherlock or John for that matter. Dammit! She growled to herself. Now what was she to do? It was imperative that they didn't find out, they would make her stop, they may send her to therapy, and she couldn't do it! She couldn't do it! It was all too much. But her prolonged silence and apparent inability to speak had piqued both their concern. Now she was screwed. What could she tell them? They'd be suspicious if she tried to shrug it off after her frightened mute moment.
"Lucy?" John prompted as he took another step towards the seemingly scared teenager. She took another step back- much to John's concern- and ended up backing against the wall. Feeling trapped, she felt her breath quicken as her anxiety started to get the better of her. Her eyes darted around the room, looking desperately for a way out of her situation. Sherlock watched her with steady eyes, unsure what to make of everything, but it was obvious that his mind was beginning to come to its own conclusions. Before either had a chance to say anything, Lucy finally spoke up; although her shaky voice was riddled with anxiety:
"It's nothing," she winced at her obvious choice of idiotic words, "I mean, I must have just caught it or something..."
"There are no cuts on your hand to have been caught." Sherlock stated, "You've handled blood, but the source wasn't from your hands." Damn him for being so clever.
To say John was worried was to say the absolute least. Hell, he was more than worried. Part of it was from his doctor side, but a great deal was from his own genuine concern for his flatmate. No, she was more than a flatmate. She was a friend. As strange as it was, he already considered her a friend. They got on well in general, and the age difference didn't matter- he still saw her as a friend. As did Sherlock apparently; much to everyone's complete surprise. But as to the matter at hand, John himself wasn't too sure how she had acquired the dried blood on her hands. There wasn't a lot of it mind, but it was a concern as to what the origins of it were. She could have caught herself, and wiped it off with her hand- but that seemed a little unlikely.
"Lucy, have you hurt yourself?" John asked innocently.
"What?" Her eyes widened.
"Have you caught yourself by accident?"
"Oh," she appeared to relax some, "Uh... yeah." Her response was uncertain, and wasn't really what John would have liked to hear, as he wasn't sure how honest she was being.
"Let me take a look," John said, coming closer to her.
"No!" She practically yelled, "I mean... its fine."
"No Lucy, I want to make sure it doesn't get infected." John told her firmly. Sherlock had been quietly listening throughout their exchange, and he scanned her clothing silently. Her jeans were clean, but the sleeves of her arm appeared to have what looked like small stain patches on the faded black fabric. Blood most likely. Does that mean her arms were injured? He frowned.
Lucy was helpless to resist as John reached out to take her arm. She couldn't help the flinch that wracked her body as he touched the recent cuts- most likely opening them up some more. He gave her a concerned glance, but wordlessly led her over to the couch- where she sat down.
"Just leave me alone." She said, a little harshly to him.
"I need to make sure you're going to be okay." John told her gently, giving her a reassuring smile at her terrified face. But he frowned: "...Or is there something you're not telling me?"
"Uh... I... uh," Lucy stammered, hating herself to the point where she would happily curl up and die. She fiddled with the sleeves of her top unconsciously, and yanked them down past her hands a bit. John's intentions were good, she knew that, he meant well- but she didn't want her secret revealed. No. It couldn't happen. Feeling tears prickle her eyes, she silently cursed as a lone one trailed down her cheek. She felt betrayed by the tears, and it didn't help ease John's concern.
"Roll up your sleeves please," he ordered softly. By now, Sherlock had moved closer to the pair. His eyes were wide with realisation. He deduced everything that was impossible, and now, what remained, must be the truth. And he couldn't quite believe it. He only needed to see her arms to confirm his suspicions.
"No." Lucy said defiantly.
"Lucy, either you do it yourself, or I'll do it for you," the doctor said, now worried at what he may find. The teenager hesitated long enough for John to know that she wasn't going to move.
"John," Sherlock suddenly spoke up, making both the doctor and the young girl jump, "Uh, should I get a first aid kit?"
"Um... sure?" John frowned. How did Sherlock know she'd need treatment? Or had it figured out what was wrong himself? Knowing Sherlock, he probably had figured it out. The consulting detective returned not a moment later after dashing up to John's room to get the first aid kit, to find the two flatmates in the same position as before. He handed the box to John, and ended up taking the seat next to Lucy.
"Lucy..." He started, "Please roll up your sleeves." The teenager turned to look at him with such a pitiful gaze, that it made Sherlock almost feel bad for her and what she may have to go through- should his deductions be correct. But he let no emotion show on his steadily calm face, as he patiently waited.
"Is there any way I can get out of it?" She asked after a pause. Her voice sounded quiet and defeated. Both the doctor and the detective shook their heads. Although Lucy hated what was happening, she had to admit that she was rather touched by their apparent concern for her. With shaking hands she started to roll her faded black sleeves up. Her head was kept down, staring at the sleeves as she couldn't bring herself to look them in the eye; afraid of the judgement, of the disappointment.
The skin of her arms were presented to the two men she had come to call friends. The contrast of her pale skin against the red of the cuts was agonising to look at given the current situation. She hated herself. She heard the sharp intake of breath from both Sherlock and John as they finally saw what was held underneath the layers of clothing. They were met with rows upon rows of scars- some were white, others were pink. Sherlock and John's eyes trailed over the most recent cuts; some of which had a few beads of bright red blood breaking through. Their depth varied from deep to shallow scratches. But all of them were a shock to the men. Sherlock had been right. Lucy self harmed.
"Lucy..." John breathed, speechless. His heart broke at the sight as he realised just how upset Lucy must be to do this to herself. The teenager took a deep breath, and finally looked up to meet their gazes. John looked torn, shocked at what he saw. Whereas Sherlock didn't look as shocked (Lucy presumed he had made a deduction of some kind) but yet, the slight worried and sadness were evident in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Lucy mumbled, hating the long silence of disbelief.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," John told her with compassion laced in his calm voice. His doctor instincts quickly kicked in, and he immediately began tending to the most recent cuts. Sherlock admittedly couldn't quite understand why someone would feel the need to do this; that fact was probably down to his sociopathic tendencies. But even Sherlock knew, deep down, that he wasn't a sociopath. He had feelings. He did care. And he didn't like seeing his new friend like this. But even so, he didn't really know what to do or say; he hadn't got much experience in the area.
"If you don't want me to stay here anymore then I understand," The troubled teen whispered.
"What?" John hadn't expected her to say that. "Why on earth would we want you to leave?"
"Look at me John, I'm a mess. A problem. You shouldn't have to deal with me. Don't feel you are obliged to."
"Neither of us feel obliged," Sherlock spoke for the first time since she unveiled her secret, "Lucy, I don't have much experience with this sort of thing- but this doesn't change our opinion of you."
"You don't hate me?" She frowned, confused.
"We couldn't hate you for this," John looked up at her with such gentleness in his eyes, that it almost made the teen burst into tears again.
"I'm not going to judge you," Sherlock told her, "You never judged me when Anderson told you those things about me did you? You decided to form your own opinions. Well, this isn't going to change my opinion, and I'm not going to judge you from this. It's not a weakness Lucy. It's a coping mechanism isn't it? I've read a bit about self injury, and I know how easily it can be to fall into an addiction." Sherlock shifted to place an arm around her shoulder, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. She leaned into his warm body as John finished tending and bandaging her wrists and arms. The doctor looked up at Sherlock with slight disbelief.
"That's the most emotional thing you've ever said." John said, in an attempt to lighten the mood and relax Lucy. The teenager couldn't help but laugh a little, and the deep grumble from Sherlock just made her laugh more.
"So you're not mad?" She asked, just to be sure.
"Of course not," John told her with a small smile. He still looked concerned though. "Look Lucy, it's hard to stop an addiction. And I'm guessing it's been going on for some time judging by the scars; so I won't tell you to stop- or make you stop. But... please Lucy, in future, come talk to one of us first if you ever feel like this again okay? We will be happy to talk to you. Can you promise that?"
"I'll try," Lucy murmured, "It'll be hard, but I'll do my best..."
"Thank you," John seemed happy at this. "I'll go make us a hot drink." He moved off to go make them all a coffee.
It was a very surreal moment for Lucy. She hadn't expected things to go that well at all. She had expected shouting, hurtful words, and for them to kick her out. But no, this was the exact opposite. She smiled to herself. Having them know was actually quite a relief; now she wouldn't have to hide her secret anymore. In all honesty, she was still half expecting either John or Sherlock to have a go at her, perhaps with another life story deduction thrown into the equation, resulting with her on the streets. She couldn't quite believe their reaction; especially Sherlock's.
For a while they sat, watching the TV as they drank their drinks, having a laugh. It was clear how much Sherlock detested daytime telly, by the way he constantly shouted about how wrong and stupid they all were on a rerun of a popular soap. But it was funny, and it made Lucy feel so much better. Sherlock still hadn't moved from his position, his arm was still around Lucy's shoulder- but neither of them minded.
"Hey Lucy," Sherlock spoke up after the soap had finished. "Can we take a walk for a bit?"
"Uh, of course," she said uncertainly.
"John, we won't be long, twenty minutes at the most, but more likely fifteen minutes."
"Oh, okay," The doctor said, surprised.
"I just want to have a chat somewhere private," Sherlock informed them as he noticed Lucy's worried look. "You're not in troubled," he smiled as he put on his coat again, "I just feel like going for a little walk."
"Okay." Lucy said, standing up as she waved goodbye to John before following the consulting detective into the unusually quiet London street.
