TW Self harm, reference to past suicide attempt
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, and all situations are purely fictional. If you are triggered by any of the above listed things, I strongly recommend you do not read this chapter. If you're still here, I hope you enjoy! :)
Sitting up in bed, Sherlock waited, hugging his knees to his chest, glaring at the clock on his bedside table. It was almost midnight. At that point it would be safe to walk around the apartment without waking John. He would be in a deep stage of sleep, Sherlock calculated, and hence would not be able to disturb him on his journey to the bathroom.
As soon as the minute and hour hands met at twelve, he was up. He strode to the bathroom and locked the door. He didn't turn on the light. He figured he had all the time in the world to sit and savour the experience. He didn't have to start straight away, he could sit on the floor and take it all in.
That was why he leaned back on the door and slumped down to the ground. He threaded his fingers through his dark curls, and pulled on them slightly. He felt like pulling harder, actually ripping his hair out. But he wouldn't do that. He was not unstable. At least not that unstable just yet.
According to him, he had a great sense of self-control. He must have had though, otherwise he would have succumbed to the thoughts floating around in his mind a very long time ago.
The more he thought of this, the worse things were becoming. He found himself feeling cold, and worried that for some irrational reason, John would wake up and find him about to hurt himself. This was not the Sherlock Holmes he was supposed to be. This was not the Sherlock Holmes he had made himself. This was the same stupid teenager who had fallen so deep into depression that he could not see any other way out.
He pulled up his other sleeve. Not the one with the needle marks, but the left side. The one that told a far more horrific story. The marks were faint. It had been years since he had created the most recent one. The good thing was that no one would be able to see them unless they knew specifically what they were looking for. And luckily, he was the only person who knew they existed.
He brushed his fingers over the skin in that area, feeling the small, almost imperceptible, raised bumps. Maybe he was imagining them? It was too dark to see. And thank god for that. Because he was already so overwhelmed.
He did not know the exact words to describe what he was going through, but it was some sort of sensory overload. Whenever he sat down like this, it was bound to happen. His heart would start pumping harder, the sound of his blood rushing though his body echoing in his ears. From there he would feel the chills. Goosebumps and sudden waves of cold which would fluctuate to hot. It was like some sort of strange fever, but not what one would traditionally call a 'fever'. If the lights had been on, he would have been fixated on his scars, unable to look away. Instead, he dug his nails into his forearm, trying to focus his attention on the specific pain rather than the overload.
It wasn't working. He scrambled around desperately in the darkness, feeling for the handle of the cupboard under the sink. He yanked it open, making a louder noise than he anticipated. This was not good. This was really not good. He tried to feel for his blade underneath the paraphernalia in the cupboard. Swearing under his breath, he turned around and switched on the light. In the dim brightness, he noticed the glint of metal underneath a towel.
Pulling out the small razor blade, he stared with hatred at his arm and made a slash.
Instantly, he felt the sting. He cringed a little at the unexpected level of pain, but it soon turned into a twisted smile. This was perfect. One turned into two, and two into four, and so on. Before long, blood was dripping onto the tiles, and no matter how many tissues he used to wipe it away, more just kept on coming. He sighed and stood up.
To his surprise, his knees almost buckled. He hadn't lost that much blood, surely.
He placed his wounded forearm under the sink and turned on the tap. Flinching at the sting of the cuts as they made contact with water, he washed away the dried up blood and let some of it run down the sink.
Wrapping up his arm in a hand towel, he left the bathroom to go to the laundry.
Time for some late-night cleaning.
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