"Well if it isn't yours, how did it get here?" John had crossed his arms over his chest and was looking from the blade on the counter to Sherlock, and back again. "Are you going to tell me it just fell out of the ceiling or something?"

"While that may be plausible, considering some of the things I find myself doing when I'm so desperately bored, no. Which means there's only one other possibility."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" Sherlock turned to look at him, puzzled.

"That. That face. And talking like we both know what's happened."

The detective tilted his head and frowned, drawing the sheet tighter about his shoulders. "We do."

"No, you do. I have a feeling I'm not going to like this, either."

Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke with a forced slowness, and John knew he was mocking him but he decided to try to ignore it. "Obviously, somebody broke in and left this here. Why would anyone do that? Clearly not your run of the mill forced entry. Nothing stolen. So, motives; this was left here to tempt me, most likely. So it would have to be someone who knows about my little... hang up. Who does that leave? You, of course, my brother, Lestrade, and Moriarty. And out of those four, which do you think sounds like the most likely candidate? Ten points if you say Mycroft; I would too."

"You're joking."

"Yes, actually. Moriarty is far more likely—especially since we had that little heads up about his 'return to life' the other day."

Sherlock slipped a hand out from under his sheet and reached for the blade, but John quickly stepped over and got between him and the counter. For a moment the detective just stood there, frowning down at John, who remained stubborn and unmoving. Then he sighed in exasperation. "Relax, John, I wasn't about to slit my wrists. I was inspecting evidence. That's part of my job."

"Shut up." John set his jaw, trying to put on his best soldier face. "You can't make a joke out of this. Okay? That's not going to make it go away."

"And you being overly cautious isn't going to do that either."

"I'm just trying to be your friend. Let me do that. Stop pushing me away, because it's not helping."

Sherlock stared at him for several more seconds, and then stepped back. "Okay... But understand that you're being unreasonable. I'm going to have to touch a blade once in a while. That doesn't mean I'll automatically relapse."

"But do you think you will?"

"No, of course not." He shook his head decisively, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock."

"...Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that you can't just keep me in an empty room for the rest of my life. You can't protect me. I'm going to go out there and get hurt—that's what I do. It's what happens when you're me. It's unavoidable, and therefore there's no use in you worrying about it."

"You just don't get it, do you?! I can't help worrying! That's what I do! And if getting hurt is already unavoidable, then why do you think you have to do it to yourself, too?! Isn't it enough already?!"

Sherlock hesitated. "It's just... unavoidable."

"It's YOUR choice!"

"That I had to make. My choice."

"Why?!"

8th June 1986, 2:35 pm.

"No! Don't be stupid, Sherlock—mummy isn't going to let you go anywhere near the Yard! Sit down!"

Sherlock didn't answer, and kept pacing back and forth across the living room. Mycroft was watching him from the sofa, but Sherlock ignored him as best he could.

"You're twelve years old—they're not going to listen to you, obviously."

"But I'm right! Something's off—where were his shoes?! He cared about those shoes! He wouldn't have just thrown them out!"

"It doesn't matter if you're right. You aren't important enough to anyone to be a valid source for a case. Listen, Sherlock... you know this already. Nobody cares. Don't bother trying to make yourself heard if you can't prove anything. You know nobody listens to whiny little brats—they have to respect you first."

"I can't! I can never make them like me enough!"

"They don't have to like you. They can hate your guts and still respect you, so take advantage of that. Don't show any weakness, or it's over. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, finally pausing from his incessant pacing.

"Good." Mycroft settled back on the monstrous couch, his little feet just barely touching the floor. "I don't expect you to get it right the first time. You've always been a little... slow."

"No, I'm not!" Sherlock bit his cheek hard, and clenched his hands into fists. "I'm smart!"

"No, you aren't. You're little and stupid, and you haven't made any use of yourself in twelve years."

"I'm not stupid!"

"You are. Mummy and daddy are very disappointed, and so am I."

"No!" Sherlock's collar felt tight, and his ears were burning.

Not stupid...

Yes...

Mycroft slid off the couch and gave him a condescending look. "Look at you. You've proved you can't do this. Just now, you showed an incredible amount of weakness. If you can't stand up to me, how can you deal with anyone else? You're pathetic and whiny, and people don't like that."

"I..." Sherlock swallowed hard. "I'm not stupid..."

"Oh, forget that. It might be halfway true, but that's not what we're really talking about. Do try to keep up, please. The point is, you have to toughen up."

"...Yes..."

8th June 1986, 9:40 pm.

He wasn't a disappointment.

Sherlock stood alone in the middle of his room, shoulders hunched, glaring down at the floor.

He wasn't...

But...

Without warning he broke the silence and kicked a nearby shoe as hard as he could. He could feel the crunch of his bare toes against the heel, and for a moment everything was just a blinding, searing flash of pain—but then it slowly subsided again, and little Sherlock slid back into rational reality, cussing under his breath.

His toes weren't broken, he could tell that much. Just pain.

Oh...

As he sat on the bed, massaging his aching foot, he remembered what he'd been so upset about just a moment before.

He knew why it made him upset.

He was angry because it was true.

He wasn't as smart as Mycroft, he wasn't respectable, he wasn't mature, he wasn't liked, and he wasn't useful.

All because he was so stupid that he would let his emotions control him. He couldn't afford to do that. There had to be a way...

Sherlock's eyes fell on the shoe, now lying halfway across the room, and a realisation slowly took root in his young mind.

He was still angry.

He was still upset.

That didn't go away.

But it had to be contained.

And the only way to be able to keep it that way was to find a way to occasionally relieve the pressure, to lessen the ache, distract from the truth...

What didn't kill you made you stronger. That's what daddy always said.

And just a little bit of physical pain never killed anyone.

Right?

It started innocently enough.

When the frustration got to be too much, sometimes he would tug at his curls until he winced and hissed in through his teeth. Other times he would slap himself across the face a little bit, palm open, just to calm down—but that made a sound, so it was more difficult to hide.

Mycroft never said anything.

Scratches, he found, helped too. So, when he requested a dissection set for his thirteenth birthday, science was only half of the reason he wanted the scalpels.

It was a high-end set, and the blades were sharp.

The first thing he used them on did not turn out to be a frog or a mouse.

Mycroft never said anything.

Neither did Sherlock.

Nobody ever did.