Note: TW Drug mention, Self Harm. Again, I don't own anything from Sherlock. This is pure fiction that I wrote in attempt to heal my own horrible soul, but anyway...
Chapter 2
"What do you want John?" Sherlock snapped, keeping the door open to a width of a centimetre. John had been too shocked by the appearance of his friend to articulate his concerns.
John cleared his throat. "I want to talk to you," he stated matter-of-factly.
"No. Busy." With those blunt words, Sherlock closed the door on John's face and clicked the lock again. John pressed the bridge of his nose. How on earth would he get Sherlock to open up to him? Something was clearly wrong, but there was no way he could help him if he wouldn't even talk to him!
John walked into the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. He wasn't sure what to do. He could keep pressuring Sherlock, or he could just let it go... Obviously, he wasn't going to let it go, he mentally told himself off for even thinking that. But he knew that pestering Sherlock for answers wouldn't help at all. It would only make things worse. His friend would snap and lash out, but if he didn't want to talk, there was no way John could make him talk.
The only other person who may have had an idea as to what was happening was Mycroft. But John wasn't that desperate.
Meanwhile, Sherlock had collapsed backwards onto his bed, laying sprawled out on the sheets. He simply stared up at the ceiling and blinked, a thousand thoughts passing through his mind in a second.
He hates you.
Of course he hates you. All you ever do is annoy him.
Why are you always making life hard for everyone, Sherlock?
He shook his head to clear his mind. These thoughts were irrational. They made no sense. There were no facts to back them up. Or maybe there were facts.
He thought back to last week when John had been angry because Sherlock hadn't eaten anything all day. John had been out running errands, and left Sherlock at home because the younger man said he was too busy to go anywhere. He instructed Sherlock to eat properly, and even made him some toast for breakfast before he left, but Sherlock did not eat it. He sat on the couch, in his robe, and watched time tick by on the clock.
Yes. John was mad at him. And there were facts to support his hypothesis.
He could feel tears brimming in his eyes.
Stop crying you idiot. Why are you like this?
He could imagine Mycroft standing in front of him, in a suit, leaning on his umbrella. He was scolding him, just like he did when he first found out his brother was a drug addict.
"Sherlock! I thought you were better than this! I didn't know you were so pathetic that you had to resort to this... this kind of behaviour! What would Mummy say?"
Sherlock rolled over and buried his head in his pillow, trying to drown out the disappointed voice. But it was no use.
He knew it was coming. He had started paying more attention to where the drug dealers were lurking in the city nowadays. Obviously things had changed in the last ten years. He had seen one near Trafalgar Square, a few out near Victoria Station, and one only a street away from Baker Street.
He scrolled up his sleeves. There were still some faint marks from when he was at his peak of using. He shuddered. He genuinely didn't want to relapse, but it felt almost inevitable now.
Unless... Unless he resorted to something else. Something far messier. Something that no one knew he used to do. He could go back to hurting himself. He used to hurt himself a long time ago. Before he used drugs. It was a secret of his that Mycroft had never been able to uncover. He started doing it after Mycroft had moved out, and continued for his first year of university.
Mycroft wouldn't suspect a thing. And John? John was mad at him so he wouldn't care.
It was a perfect idea. He almost smiled.
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