A/N: Sorry it took this long to update! I went on a camping trip and didn't have time to update before I left. Then we came home and my dog was missing. We finally found her but she's not doing so well. This is honestly super stressful so I haven't been in the mood to write at all. Thank you all so much for your patience and sticking with the story. Happy readings!

Warnings: New self harm. Read with caution.

Chapter Thirty Four: Just a Dash of Optimism

"John's dead."

"Don't say that Sherlock. Why would Moriarty take John and just kill him?"

Lestrade hated to say that. It was almost worse if Moriarty had taken John again and not killed him. Torture, pain, he would endure them all again if he hadn't died by now. Chewing his lip he looked up at the detective. He lie sprawled out on the couch, facing the ceiling. His hands positioned underneath his chin.

"You and I both know why Lestrade. If not, you're a lot more dumb than I had originally thought. I thought you just a bit smarter than the rest of the dull minded humans."

If the situation wasn't so dire Lestrade felt that could have been a complement. But he knew at this moment, it was nothing close to praise.

"Well maybe we should be a little optimistic Sherlock. John's a soldier, he'll fight through this. Plus look on the bright side, he's got you looking for him." Lestrade chided in a happy tone, though he felt no glee present inside.

"Not that i'm of help. My homeless network was a bust!"

"Just give it some more time. Then maybe they'll have some information on John. Meanwhile play your violin or something."

Sherlock snarled at this. "How am I supposed to ignore that fact my best friend has once again been taken from me!? How am I supposed to sit back and relax knowing he could be dead, or maybe even worse. He could be beaten, and bruised, sitting on a cold brick floor, blood matted onto his violated body! All. Because. Of. Me!"

Sherlock had removed himself from the couch and was now towering Lestrade. The man's chest was pumping air in rapidly.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean…"

"Ohhhh… of course you didn't mean," he sneered.

"I think you should sit down."

Lestrade placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Sherlock sunk beneath his touch leaning into the cushions. The man looked spent; dangerously more so than normal. Purple bags practically engulfed Sherlock's lower eye sand cheeks. His hair was matted down and greasy. Sweat had glossed over his face. Usually he prided himself in being physically clean. Lestrade hardly saw him dirty, or with a speck of facial hair. What had the detective been up to while MIA?

"Just, please rest up a bit. It's what John would want. Then how about you can come down to the station and we'll look through security footage."

Lestrade and Sherlock both knew there was nothing on the footage of help. Mycroft and his men had already been through it searching tooth and nail. But he found the detective nodding his head in agreement.

"Alright. I'll see you in a bit, take care Sherlock." The DI got up and began to make his way out of baker street.

"Why should there be optimism?" Sherlock whispered in a small voice, the words unintentional .

Lestrade halted from inside the doorway. His hand tightened at Sherlock's words. If he'd been any farther out the door he wouldn't have heard them. Turning his head he looked at the sulking brunette. The man was almost like a son to him and It hurt his heart seeing him like this. He looked so… broken.

"Because," whispered Lestrade. "With no hope, what's left for people like us?"

Releasing the door frame he left feeling all the more grave. He just hoped Sherlock would be alright.

The need had replenished itself.

He needed a fix.

He needed a distraction.

The demand for release was stronger than it had ever been. He couldn't think with all the emotions clouding his head. It made him feel sluggish. Each time he went to go find a blade he thought better.

John wouldn't like that.

He didn't was to displease his doctor. If he ever got him back he didn't want John finding out he'd done it again. What if he'd decided that enough was enough, and that Sherlock really was a freak.

Look at him, mauling his body. What a freak.

He remembered what all his school kids had said to him. The vile sentences tearing the detective down to what he was today.

Weak.

Helpless.

Alone.

Even Mycroft had taken part in their banter. Only making the words sting and hit home all the more.

Murderer.

Freak.

His hands trembled in his lap. He needed… release. Letting out a shaky breath he pulled himself up from the couch.

If he couldn't cut, or use narcotics, he'd find another way.

Bustling into the kitchen Sherlock searched for something, anything. Pulling out his Bunsen burner he started it; the blue flame kissed the cool air of the kitchen. Most of the drawers had been emptied due to his previous frenzy. Gauging the objects scattered on the cluttered ground, Sherlock took hold of a long metal serving spoon. Rolling up his sleeves so his track marks lie exposed, Sherlock lunged the spoon in the flames.

All of Sherlock's thought's began to suppress themselves at the awaiting deliverance. As the handle began to sting his palm he slowly withdrew it from the fire. Exhaling softly he placed the spoon against his track marks.

Pain radiated through him. The feeling was pure ecstasy. The bustling thoughts simmered down the a small hum. His skin felt as if it was melting, melting away all his problems. Pealing the spoon from his arm it hovered over his other arm. A sudden urge to keep his previous track marks surged through him. Keeping them was like a reminder. How bad life had gotten, how he had let it get that far; how he wouldn't let anything escalate that badly again. He set the spoon in the sink so he could wash it of evidence. Clicking off the burner he let his head loll back.

Burning wasn't the same as a blade, but for now it would have to do. Sighing softly he slumped into a chair finally enjoying his much longed for respite.