It's perfectly natural, John

by FandomP0wer

Sherlock moves from 221B baker street... straight into his new boyfriends house. One thing leads to another, and before he knows it Sherlock has been entangled into an abusive relationship. When Lestrade calls Sherlock and John about a case, will the truth come to light? Will Anderson and Donavan care about the truth? Will Sherlock be able to come to terms with what has happened?

18. Chapter 18

I stumble into the bathroom, tripping due to my clumsiness and haste to retrieve what I'm in search for.

Where is it?

I scan the cabinets, in search of what I seek.

Where, where, where?

I open the cabinet below the sink.

There.

I pull out the first aid kit that Jake keeps in here.

What I seek is small, metal, and, hopefully, in this little bag meant for healing.

rummaging through the kit, I find alcohol wipes, bandages, and the item I seek.

Hello, hello, why didn't I think of this sooner.

Carefully, I place it and the other items I retrieved on the counter, next I put the first aid kit back where it came from.

No use in making a mess.

Taking everything I found, I go to my room. Closing and locking the door behind me.

Closing door=bad, locking door=really bad.

In this situation, I think Allan would understand.

I hop onto my bed, and lay the items out before me.

Bandages, alcohol wipes, and a razor blade.

If no one will keep me in line, I'll have to do it myself.

I role my sleeves up, and wipe my arm with the alcohol.

No use in getting an infection.

Slowly, I draw the razor blade over left my wrist.

I hiss in pain, but keep going.

I have to keep myself in line.

Once again, I draw it over my wrist.

Mesmerized by the blood coming to the surface of my skin, I continue.

My feelings quiet down, and I take a deep breath. I feel better.

Endorphins are released when you are hurt, my brain is telling my body to release endorphins.

A smile forms on my face, and as I draw the blade over, and over, and over, again.

Switching hands, I continue on my right wrist.

Blood drips down my arm, but I don't make a move to clean it. Instead, I watch it.

It drips down onto my pants, yet still I do nothing. Watching myself bleed makes me feel... better. I've paid the price for everything I've done wrong, and I can keep myself in line.

After I, finally, cleaned myself up, I start cleaning the flat.

Old habits die-hard.

Starting in the kitchen today instead of the living room, I wash the dishes and clean the corners. Next, I move to the living room, I put wood in the fire, then clean the living room.

Room after room, I clean, dust, and sweep.

Last thing, I mop.

Then, as I have done before, I cook.

Things are going to be alright. Allan would be proud of me. I'm following the rules, and paying the price for breaking them.