Author's note- thank you for all the continued support! Please leave a little review if you like it! I would have updated sooner with a longer chapter, but I had no access to my laptop or pen drive...

Disclaimer- I only own Lucy. As much as I wished I owned Sherlock, I don't.

Chapter 8

The pair walked to a secluded area in the park nearby Baker Street. It wasn't awfully busy there, so it gave a nice relaxing, peaceful atmosphere. They most likely wouldn't get disturbed here. Sherlock sat on the wooden bench in the clearing, staring at the trees around them; Lucy took a breath before sitting beside him. A gentle breeze whipped Sherlock's hair, the dark curls blowing in the wind; his eyes sparkled slightly as he looked out at the scenery of the park before him.

"Am I in trouble?" She asked quietly, breaking the silence. Sherlock turned his head to look at her.

"No." He answered, his voice even. There was a pause, "Lucy, I'm guessing you're happy to stay, am I correct?"

"Yes, if that's okay..." She frowned, wondering where this was going.

"Of course it's okay." Sherlock seemed to be thinking, "But a lot goes on around me. John's life has been put in danger because of me and what I do; I have been the subject of hate as you witnessed by my... colleagues. You do realise that you may be in danger because of me as well?"

"Danger does not concern me," Lucy smiled wryly, "Besides, I'm sure you'll protect me." Sherlock chuckled once.

"And if I were to say that you could be in danger right now because of the case I'm currently on, what would you say?"

"You mean the case with the cuts on the neck and wrists?"

"Yes," Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened, "Well that would explain how you knew about the cuts..." he added as an afterthought.

"Well in that case, I would say that I don't care," the teenager said, unfazed by the warning as she leaned back against the bench, keeping determined eye contact with the tall man.

"I can't tell if you're just brave or very stupid." Sherlock grinned sideways at her.

"A bit of both I think." There was silence, "So am I really in danger?"

"Maybe, I don't really know as of yet." He answered honestly.

"I'm not stupid Sherlock; I guessed that I wouldn't exactly be having a nice quiet normal life when I came here." She hesitated, "John did have a long chat with me before we came."

"You seem to trust John a lot considering you've only been here a day or so." He noted.

"I trust you as well." She told him. At this, he looked at her with an air of surprise. Lucy laughed, "I'm being serious Sherlock, you're my friend, of course I trust you."

"Friend..." he muttered to himself, the word seeming almost foreign. To think, a couple of years ago he didn't have any friends, mere acquaintances at the most. Now he had two. Ha. He actually had friends. John and Lucy. That was enough for him; two good friends that he could trust with his life.

Did he trust Lucy? Yes. He knew he shouldn't trust so quickly, but she was young, reliable, genuine, he could trust her. After all, he had trusted John as quickly. Sherlock Holmes looked down at the teenagers concealed arms, the skin beneath hidden by a layer or so of fabric. The blood on her hand had been washed, but there was still a little under her nails that she had missed. He thought back to earlier, when he first saw what lay underneath the clothes. The scars... the cuts. A lot had faded, into thin white lines that traced the pale skin of her arms, almost invisible. But it was the more recent ones that stood out. The angry colour of red glared up at him when he saw them, the freshest cuts even had small beads of blood breaking the surface from the friction of her clothing. They marked her arms, and he even wondered if they were scattered in other places. He wondered if her legs or stomach were littered with cuts or scratches. Sherlock sighed slightly heavily, he didn't really know what to say or do. What could one say to such a broken teenager who had lost their parents, their family? It will all be okay. Everything will be fine. No, those typical, predictable sentences full of nonsense were not fitting. Because he knew it wouldn't be 'fine' or 'okay' for her. And it wouldn't be that way for a while. But he knew that he couldn't just stand by and watch her shred her skin, he couldn't let her create more scars. Yes, he wasn't really much of a so called sociopath was he? Sherlock cared. Of course he did. But it is so much easier to say he doesn't than to face the pain and loss that caring can bring. Obviously John would want her to at least try and cut back on the self harming, he was a doctor after all, and he hated to see his friends like this.

"Lucy," Sherlock started again, "You know what John said earlier... about how if you ever feel the need to harm yourself, you were to come talk to one of us first?"

"Yeah..." she said uncertainly, knowing that the promise she made to do with that would inevitably be broken at some point, "What about it?"

"I agree with what he said to do." Sherlock paused, thinking what to say, "And I'm serious, please come talk to one of us. No matter what the problem is, we will be happy to talk. It doesn't matter what time either, you can come to me at two o'clock in the morning and I'd be happy to chat. And even if you think it's for something silly then come to us. And..." He took a breath, "And even if you want to... self harm... and you don't know or have a reason why, then come talk to us. It may help distract you from the need to do it." He gave her a warm smile, "No matter what Lucy, I'm here for you, so is John. Please, don't go through this alone. Talk to us." It was perhaps one of the deepest and moving things he'd ever said, but he was glad he said it. She gave him a small smile, speechless at his genuine kindness. Lucy appreciated all he said, and was quite frankly, touched by every word.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper, just loud enough so that he could hear it. The consulting detective smiled before standing up, pulling his coat around him.

"Let's get back home," he said.

Most of the day had already flown by, and by the time they got back it was evening. John had suggested ordering some Indian food, as he couldn't be bothered to cook, so Lucy and Sherlock ate a little bit. Lucy guessed that Sherlock must have told John what they had talked about while they were out, as the doctor never mentioned it, but she could see that he kept glancing at her as though he wanted to make sure that she was all right.

However, her flatmates and friends had noticed how quiet she was... maybe even distracted. It was worrying, and they both knew what she would do if she feeling down. And she was feeling down. Lucy couldn't describe it... the feeling had come on suddenly. Maybe it was just that she was still overwhelmed by all that had gone on that day, she didn't really know. But there was only one thing on her mind throughout the whole evening: and that was cutting.

And she had a problem. She didn't want to burden Sherlock or John by talking about it to them, she needed a release from it all, and she needed it now. She needed to feel the cool blade against her skin, the pain as it dug into her, and she needed to watch the blood drip out. It was calming. And she needed it. But they'd be disappointed in her. She would have completely ignored what they said, and she hated the disappointment she may face. So Lucy decided that she couldn't tell them, she couldn't let them know. She'd do it when she went to bed.

When she said goodnight to them, she hoped that Sherlock wouldn't realise how she actually went to bed earlier than she usually did. He may pick up on it... but hopefully he wouldn't get suspicious. But she missed the frown and the confused look he gave John as she left the room, in her pyjamas.

"John, she's going to bed earlier than usual," Sherlock murmured once she had left the room.

"Sherlock, Lucy may just be tired, it's been a long day for her I expect," John muttered back as he took a sip of his tea.

"You must have noticed how quiet she was all night." Sherlock hissed, "John... what if she's going to bed early to... get rid of the stress or whatever."

"You think she went early to self harm?" John frowned, the thought seemed odd... but not unheard of. And he felt a pang inside of him, at what she could be doing right now. Sherlock nodded his confirmation. "She said she'd come talk to us..." John seemed a little hurt.

"She has anxiety issues, maybe she was too nervous," Sherlock mused, "Or maybe she was afraid of the disappointment... or she didn't want us to be... burdened with her problems." He sat forward, "Which of course is rubbish. She wouldn't burden me," he murmured as an afterthought. They sat in silence, the idea of what Lucy could be doing making them worried and concerned.

"I'm going to go check on her," Sherlock suddenly announced as he stood up swiftly.

"Sherlock wait!" John said, "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I'm not taking the chance that she could really hurt herself," Sherlock told him before walking off towards the troubled teenager's bedroom, John was hot on his heels. Uncertainly, Sherlock paused outside the door; did he really want to risk seeing her doing it should he open the door now? He hesitated, but shook his head and grabbed the door handle.

He couldn't help the gasp that escaped him as he threw open the door.