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Disclaimer- *Shuffles important looking documents and clears throat.* Well apparently I own nothing according to my fan fiction contract.

Chapter 6

All in all Sherlock was satisfied with the results he got from the mortuary. Now Lestrade was thoroughly convinced it was a murder, which made co-operation with the police a lot easier for the detective as they now both agreed on the crime that had been committed. But now they were left to wait, they still had nothing much to go on, however Greg had sent his team out to the scenes of the murder to look for any kind of serrated knife that could have killed them. If they were lucky enough to come up with matching knives, they could possibly get a fingerprint analysis. Sherlock knew that wouldn't happen though. The murderer had been far too clever so far, and he wasn't about to make a simple slip up of leaving fingerprints lying around the place. No, he wasn't making this easy; he knew how to play this game well- very well in fact. But Sherlock would not let him win.

"I'm hungry." John decided to announce when they left St Bart's.

"I'm Lucy," the young teen quipped quickly, earning a snicker from the two men walking beside her.

"Hilarious," John rolled his eyes good-naturedly, "Where should we get food?"

"Wherever, I'm not hungry," Sherlock muttered, wrapping his scarf around his neck tighter. John sighed heavily:

"You need to eat Sherlock, and don't give me crap about your body just being transport. I'm ordering you."

"Fine." Sherlock groaned, not wanting an argument over the matter.

"Any preferences?" John asked Lucy.

"Nope, I'm not too hungry myself to be honest," she replied.

"You haven't eaten much recently," John frowned, concerned, "You're feeling okay?

"I'm feeling fine, yes," Lucy said robotically.

They ended up going into a small cafe only a few streets away from Baker street. Sherlock ordered a sandwich, John ordered a jacket potato, and Lucy ordered a small salad.

"You need to eat more than a salad you know Lucy," John told her.

"I said I wasn't hungry," she muttered lightly, "I'll be fine."

"Lucy I know..."

"No John, you don't know," the teenager suddenly snapped without thinking, the past couple of day's stress catching up with her, "You don't really know me, neither does Sherlock. And yet, I'm suddenly living with you two in your flat. You don't know my eating habits; you don't know anything about me. So just leave me alone!" At this point, at the mention of 'you don't know anything about me,' Sherlock decided to voice his deductions of the teenager to prove otherwise. Timing really wasn't his strong point.

"You're a teenager, age fifteen, and have been living rough for around six months. You don't have any friends or family, as they would have realised your living conditions and would have intervened. You have a fair amount of money judging by the state of your clothes, as some of them seem new and are in brilliant condition. No one has given them to you as you don't have anyone to give you things, so your parents were well off. You have anxiety issues, the way your eyes darted about uncertainly and the way you wrung your hands when you first came into our flat were clear signs of that. Your anxiety is also part of the reason why you never went to an adoption or fostering agency or got help, you were too scared or nervous about what would happen. You also have a form of depression evident by the way you smile- as your smile doesn't reach your eyes and sometimes you just seem empty. Also judging by everything you've been through you most likely have depression." Sherlock took a breath, not even pausing despite John's glare and Lucy's obvious upset, "You're slim, incredibly so. You had plenty of money to eat but you didn't. Perhaps this could be down to the depression and the lack of appetite. But judging by how skinny you are and by how little you eat, you most likely have an undiagnosed eating disorder of some kind..." He trailed off as Lucy suddenly stood up and walked out of the cafe without so much as a backwards glance.

"Way to go Sherlock." John muttered sarcastically.

"Don't go after her," Sherlock told him before the doctor had a chance to stand up, "She needs some time on her own to get her head straight. She's been through a lot these past few days."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"I wanted to prove that we did know her a little." The detective defended himself.

"By rattling off her life story? Telling us personal things like that?"

"In hindsight I do realise I probably shouldn't have gone as far as I did, but timing isn't my forte."

"The least you could do is apologise."

"I doubt she'll want to be anywhere near me, like all the rest. But you started it."

"Yes, I know, and I will apologise, I shouldn't have assumed that I could tell her about her eating when we don't know each other too well."

"Hurry up and eat so we can get back to the flat," Sherlock told John, not wanting the conversation to carry on further.

Lucy had stormed off, fuming. But soon, her anger dissipated into just pure sadness. She felt like she's known John and Sherlock for months, although it had only been a day. It was strange. However she wasn't appreciative of John trying to be like a parent and telling her what to do. She winced slightly, and brushed away a stray tear as she opened the door to 221B Baker Street with the key she had been given yesterday. She'd missed the peace of being on her own, so the quiet of the flat was more than welcome as she immediately escaped into her bedroom. It already felt like home, she thought as she glanced around the room. But she didn't feel like sitting doing nothing; she couldn't. All the emotions were building again, and she just couldn't cope. Besides, it was a habit, and it wasn't one she was willing to break. Not when it worked so well for her unlike any other coping mechanism. So with tears beginning to sting her eyes again, she reached into her bag to withdraw the box that contained the one thing that kept her sane.

The metal glinted, and the coolness of it felt relaxing. Lucy sighed appreciatively as she felt it in her hand, running her finger along the sharp edge that was slightly crusting with dried blood. To many it would be considered sickening, which is why she couldn't let John or Sherlock find out. She couldn't bear to see what sort of reaction they would give, John may be a doctor, but even he would be shocked. Perhaps even disgusted. As for Sherlock... well there was no telling with him was there? And if they did find out, they may kick her out, back onto the street without caring. So she wasn't about to risk that chance.

She rolled up her sleeves. The numerous scars and red cuts glared up at her with accusation, accusing her of being so pathetic, worthless. But she did it anyway. Cut after cut, the blade went deeper and deeper. Blood flowed down her arm but she blotted it and prevented it from dripping onto the bed with a white tissue. She felt numb. Everything felt numb. It was like she wasn't even alive. Placing the blade back into her bag, she just sat there and looked at her work. The cuts and scars made her feel so much better, and the buzz the self harm gave her made everything bearable for a while. Time passed without her realising, and she suddenly heard the door to the flat shut and footsteps on the stairs- signalling her flatmates and friends arrival.

"Shit." She mumbled to herself. She didn't have time to go clean her arms- which were covered in dried blood- so she simply pulled down her sleeves, praying to god that Sherlock wouldn't deduce her secret.

"Lucy?" She heard John call out. The teenager winced at his worried but gentle voice and immediately regretted what she had said to him and Sherlock. She shouldn't have had a go at John, or at Sherlock for that matter, she only hoped that they would forgive her. "Lucy?" He called out again, this time his voice sounded closer.

Running a hand through her dark hair, Lucy decided to just go into the living room and face them. As she entered, John turned to her.

"Thank God Lucy, I was worried," John breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her sitting down on the couch.

"Sorry." She mumbled, unsure what to say, "I shouldn't have said that to you."

"Hey now, its okay, no need to apologise." John smiled reassuringly, "And I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have said what I did."

"Its fine," Lucy whispered. She sighed, but said: "I just felt like you were saying something my parents would have said, and... I donno..."

"I understand," John said, saving her from trying to explain. At that point, Sherlock immerged from the kitchen after taking off his coat. He eyed the teenager with his sharp blue-green eyes, a momentary flash of concern showed on his face before he quickly hid it.

"What happened?" He suddenly asked her.

"Huh?" She said, slightly taken aback by his first words.

"You heard what I said," he frowned, hating having to repeat himself, "There's blood on your hand. What happened?" He gestured to her hands which were- as he correctly noted- had some dried blood still on them.

"Shit." She whispered, low enough for them not to hear, but her lack of response concerned them both.

"Lucy," John stepped forward, "Where has that blood come from?"