12 August 2001, 4:45 pm.
A lot had changed in sixteen years.
Sherlock had grown taller, more outwardly confident, and, most importantly, he'd managed to find an in with Scotland Yard's fairly new DI, Detective Inspector Lestrade.
He wasn't really a friend, obviously, but he was slowly becoming more dependant on Sherlock Holmes and his incredible deduction skills to solve the Yard's more difficult cases. Under the radar, of course, because that technically wasn't police protocol.
But Sherlock didn't care.
He didn't need recognition; he was having fun, doing what he was good at, and people liked it. If the Yard couldn't give him a position, he would make his own.
Consulting Detective.
That sounded right.
It felt good on his lips, and gave him a warm, heady feeling that he vaguely acknowledged as pride. A pleasant, fleeting feeling.
He still had those.
Feelings.
But now they were kept buried deep below the surface, enclosed in a thick glass shell. Keeping them contained had become an exact science, a second nature, and by this time it would probably have been difficult for him to be open with anyone even if he wanted to be.
His personality was set.
Twenty-seven years old, and Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what he wanted.
Distractions.
Busy was good, bored was bad. Bored was uncomfortable. Bored was painful.
Because when you were bored you thought about things, and when you thought about things you felt them, and when you felt them...
That, and the fact that it was just so mind-numbingly dull.
It was so much easier to fill the void with adrenaline, or even cocaine—to keep the brilliant mind working hard so the neglected heart could be ignored.
Somewhere between fifteen and twenty he had graduated from just hurting himself and moved on to drugs. It had been in an effort to keep that void filled, to keep the blood pumping and the brain sparking.
No down-time.
But that didn't mean the first need was gone.
It got under his skin sometimes, and called to him when the pressure was high, and the frustration higher.
When he wasn't making any headway.
When he failed.
That's when the need was the strongest.
He'd had half a mind to try to avoid doing it again, and yet he kept a few supplies on hand anyway—blades, antiseptic, bandages—just for emergencies.
Emergencies like this one.
He hadn't been able to figure it out—the latest case Lestrade had asked him for help on had proved difficult even for him. An unsolved murder always weighed heavily on him, like an anvil of dissatisfaction that pressed down on his chest and made his heartbeat skip.
He failed.
He wasn't good enough.
He'd never know the answer, and he'd never be perfect.
And that hurt.
It bothered him enough that after he'd returned home he'd taken a long, cold shower, and after that he'd sought out his emergency kit. He'd laid everything out on the bedspread, looking it over first, reflecting slowly.
A detective's entire purpose was to solve.
Key word, solve.
And he couldn't even do that right.
The only thing in the world that he was good at, and he'd screwed it up.
He still needed that rush.
He gritted his teeth and pushed his sleeve up, nails digging into his pale skin.
He could still see all the little white lines there, up and down, likely permanent reminders that he'd been weak before and couldn't afford to be again. It only sent another wave of anger and frustration crashing down over him, and he quickly selected one of the blades and set it against his arm.
Cold.
Sharp.
Stinging.
Like an exhale; it made it so much better, like nothing else ever could.
Frigid steel relief.
12 August 2001, 6:18 pm.
"Sherlock? Are you in there?" Greg Lestrade rapped again on the Consulting Detective's door, but again received no answer.
Sherlock had gone home earlier, leaving Greg with a suggestion that he come by and let him know if any more information presented itself regarding the current case.
The now cold case.
But perhaps now...
Greg had called first, of course, but nobody had picked up the phone.
He knocked again, harder this time. "Hey! I don't have all day! Do you want this information or not?!"
Only silence came back to him, and Greg began to wonder.
He wondered what on earth was taking the detective so goddamn long.
He wondered why he was starting to feel uneasy.
This was interesting stuff. Sherlock should be jumping at the renewed chance to solve this thing—shouldn't he?
He was almost completely certain Sherlock would have gone directly home. He didn't have any friends he hung out with anywhere, no other cases to work on, and he'd looked tired when he'd left.
He had to be here.
Asleep?
No, it was only six in the afternoon, and the man was like a personification of London itself, running on all cylinders day and night, never stopping.
Something didn't feel right.
"If you don't open this door in the next four minutes, I'm coming in, got it?" Greg ignored the hoarseness in his voice from yelling all day, clearing his throat and willing himself to hold still.
One.
Two.
Three…
Fuck it.
The door was unlocked, and welcomed him in with a low groan of its cheap hinges. The front room was just… chaotic. That's all Greg could describe it as.
He'd met the detective's older brother before and knew that the Holmes family was generally fairly well to do—so why Sherlock was living in a dump of an apartment like this was anybody's guess.
The tang of harsh chemicals assaulted his nostrils as he passed the 'kitchen,' side-stepping all sorts of random knick-knacks and boxes of papers and who knew what else. He kept a lookout for the detective as he moved through the apartment, calling out uncertainly.
Around the corner, in the hall.
That's where he found him.
Sherlock was sprawled on the dusty carpet, very white in the gloom. As Greg knelt beside him he could make out a dark stain on his sleeve, against his skin, and on the carpet beneath him. Even in the murky hallway, Greg Lestrade recognised blood when he saw it.
It wasn't an incredibly huge amount, but it was more than he had expected to see.
And it still scared him.
"Sherlock? What the hell happened?" He scrambled for a light switch on the wall—somewhere—but when he finally found it and flicked it on, the difference was only minimal.
Sherlock was stirring by the time he had hurried back over, and blinked groggily and tried to sit up. Greg gingerly pushed him back down, still not sure exactly what was wrong.
"No, stay down. Can you talk to me? What happened?"
Sherlock swallowed and turned his head, clearly drowsy and slightly dazed.
"Sherlock? Talk." Greg had begun to look him over, searching for the injury. He quickly found that most of the blood was soaking into his left sleeve, and very, very carefully attempted to pull it up a bit.
What he found made him cringe.
Slice after slice after slice, deep and cruel, carved into the detective's skin. He immediately tried to think of possible explanations—a fall, maybe, or an accident with a knife, or…
They were all straight and even.
In a line.
A perfect row.
Too many for an accident.
Greg swallowed hard. "Hang on. I'm going to call you a doctor, okay?"