A tumultuous, chaotic cyclone of thought.
That's what was going on in Sherlock's skull.
And yet none of it passed that iron barrier between inside and out; no whisper past his lips, not even a twitch of an emotion.
He couldn't let it.
It just wouldn't.
But he did feel it-and after a while the storm trapped inside begins to beat so hard against the walls of its human prison that it can feel as if your heart will stop, if it doesn't explode first.
That was a familiar feeling.
That was a reason for the scars.
Making them had helped to calm the mind, to quell the unending business of feeling. But now he regretted them more than he ever had before-because they meant something. They were visible, and anyone who saw them knew of his reasons, and the battles he fought.
But they didn't understand.
The scars meant he was weak. They showed that he was human.
Somehow that felt disgusting.
Disgusting because it made him feel... fear.
Fear because people didn't want to see him as a human being. That would mean he needed things, and people didn't like that from him. He was supposed to be completely self-sufficient, highly-functioning, better, an incredible, mechanised mind that people stood in awe of and otherwise ignored.
Not somebody they had to reassure, and believe they had to give all the same attentions to as they did everyone else in their lives.
He didn't want that.
Didn't need it.
It was best avoided.
So now, when Donovan-Donovan, of all people-had seen his scars, he could feel the cold wash of shame in the pit of his stomach.
With her, it was different. She disliked him, made it a point to insult him-and so naturally he had retaliated in kind.
And he had found that to be rather fun.
Because he had held a power over her: his skill, and with that his cold pride.
That same pride that he could probably never fully recover again, because when she looked at him now all she would see was human weakness.
That wasn't intimidating at all.
He shook his head to try to clear it, finally looking up to see where his steps had taken him.
The washroom?
Okay, he could work with that... He did feel a bit sick to his stomach, anyway.
He knew he wouldn't really vomit-it was just the adrenaline making him feel ill.
It would pass in a while.
Sherlock paused by the sinks for a long moment, staring down at his hands.
Stupid...
STUPID-
He tried to hold still for another second or so, before giving in and delivering a sharp kick to the baseboard.
Calm.
There was really no reason to feel like this.
It was all in his head.
He could work around it.
What did Donovan matter, anyway?
He took a soft breath, but he could feel that jagged chill creeping right back in, and that sick feeling taking hold again.
Inner calm didn't last long.
He stood there, and eventually rolled up one of his sleeves to look over the damage.
It was bad. He knew that. It was intrinsically bad, regardless of how many scars there were. Although there were, indeed, quite a few. And all he could think was that he wished he had chosen a more inconspicuous spot to do it, rather than his arms.
Granted, there had been times when the lines had migrated down across his ribs, hips, and legs, too, but the majority lay on his upper and forearms.
And they were't going away.
Ever.
Sherlock had made peace with them, except when it came to what they meant to other people. That was a whole different story.
He backed away from the sinks, straightening his collar and dropping his sleeve again.
They'd wonder where he was.
Sherlock avoided glancing in the mirrors as he crossed the room to the door. He had barely taken a few steps down the hall before he heard the horrible clack of those heels on the floor, and felt a light chill snake down his shoulders.
He was over-reacting, inwardly.
Wasn't he?
Of course, he would meet her in the hall. It would be her. Right now.
Because why the hell not?
"Hey."
He ignored her, and kept walking. Not interested in whatever it was she wanted to say.
"Hey, I'm talking to you! You don't have to be a dick. Hey! Frea-Sherlock!"
He stopped abruptly. "...Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That. Think you have to dance around gingerly. Just say it. I know whose bed you slept in last night-don't think I'll be holding back either."
Donovan hesitated, looking a little surprised.
She cleared her throat. "So you do, then? You... y'know..."
Something was screaming at him inside Sherlock's skull as her eyes went to his arms, but he just scoffed nonchalantly.
"I hardly think that's any of your business. Nor would it make any difference to you, as it's not illegal, and doesn't effect anyone close to you."
He would have said no.
He would have given anything to be able to deny it, but she'd already seen the evidence. More scars than Moriarty could have left. Older ones.
She already knew.
"Why?"
The simple little question caught him rather off guard, because all at once he wasn't sure. There wasn't any clear-cut reason he could give anymore, and even if there was he probably wouldn't have wanted to tell her.
"I..."
She was staring at him a little too interestedly. "Are you depressed or something?"
"No!" God, how he wished she'd back off... "Just stop talking, before you make yourself look like even more of an idiot."
Why wasn't it working?
She looked annoyed, yes, but still morbidly curious.
Why wouldn't she just go away...?
"So they're for attention, then. That's why people do it, right? Solving cases not enough for you anymore?"
Even the scream in his head was silenced.
...What?
Sherlock just stared at her, unable to come up with a reply suitably scathing enough to knock the stupid out of her.
Attention?
That was the absolute last thing he wanted.
How could she...?
She must be joking.
Must be...
"What did I say about talking?" He kept his voice even, and hoped she wouldn't notice the set of his jaw or the fact that he was hardly breathing.
He couldn't help it.
People like her roused a demon inside him, giving him reason to be furious, their words only throwing petrol on the flames.
This.
This was one emotion he did not have trouble showing.
Donovan frowned. "Sorry. I'm just curious. But don't you think it's a bit... well... selfish?"
"Oh please. As if you expected anything else."
"No, really. Do you just not give a damn about the people who care about you or something? Because that's kind of low, even for you."
Sherlock almost laughed out loud, harsh and humourless. "I would have. If those people existed."
"What about John?"
He paused.
Yes...
What about John...?