Final Chapter!

Mike had thought it would be easier after that. He had thought that having resisted the urge to cut after the whole mess with Jessica that he had therefore conquered his problem with self-harm; that he was now well on the road to recovery, and could now deal with his issues in a far more healthy (and let's face it, he thought, a normal) way.

But he was wrong.

Two weeks after the confrontation with Jessica (for which he had to practically beg Harvey to leave alone, because the last thing he needed was someone fighting his battles for him and making him look even weaker than he already was), Mike had been sitting on his couch watching TV after a long day at work. It had been something that someone on a show had said, which had then been followed by another character commenting in reply, making a benign reference to cutting.

It had been benign.

And yet for Mike, it was anything but.

Before he even realised what he was doing, he found himself getting up and walking into the kitchen. His hand had grasped the handle of a knife from the drawer and he was making his way back to the couch where he had been sitting. A voice in the back of his mind told him not to do this, told him that he had come too far to go back, that he shouldn't even be thinking of this, that there was no reason to be doing thing – but he didn't listen. Because it had been far too long since Mike last had cut, and all he could think about was the sweet sting of the blade as it bit into his skin, as the blood pooled in the crook of his arm, and the feelings of peacefulness and bliss that washed over him afterward, because this was familiar – because this made him feel good.

Rather than making it easier, the fact that he hadn't cut in over two weeks proved only to make him want it more. And so almost as soon as he sat down, Mike sat the edge of the blade on his wrist – clean, a clean wrist, an unscarred wrist, too clean, too unscarred – and pulled it across the skin.

It was an achingly familiar feeling, the grip of the serrated blade pulling against his skin, tearing the blood out; it hurt only for a moment, but if Mike was honest, he knew that this pain was far better than any feeling of comfort he'd ever had.

Mike cut five more times after that. After the first couple times he found he simply couldn't stop, and before he knew it, more bleeding, soon-to-be scars had been made fresh above the old; above the scars that were supposed to have been his last, that were supposed to be fading away into memory, not making room for more.

A wave of guilt washed over him at that moment and his hand stilled. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. He was supposed to be calling Harvey or Donna when something bad happened, when something happened that could trigger his need to cut.

Except nothing had happened. He'd just been sitting here, watching TV, not doing anything – he hadn't done anything, nothing had been done to him – but here he was, sitting in a pool of his own blood, with six new scars bleeding across his arm. With a small jolt, Mike suddenly realised that it wasn't something bad having happened to him that he had started cutting, that he was cutting. He was cutting because he could. He was cutting because it made him feel good.

And as Mike stared at a spot on his arm that was free of any recent scars or blood, he realised – he didn't want to stop.

And so he placed the knife on his arm once more, and pulled.

Harvey barely glanced up as Mike walked into the room before turning back to the file on his desk.

"Guiness cancelled the meeting, so we're not talking to him until tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime I need you to go to the file room and find whatever you can on his business and its history; we can't afford to be caught off guard with this one."

"All right," Mike replied, sounding tired but ready like he always did on a Monday morning, but something in his voice made Harvey pause, and he looked up.

Harvey may not be a master at reading people in the way that Donna was, but he'd spent enough years in the legal profession to know when someone was keeping something from him or trying to hide something important. He frowned slightly, trying to read Mike's face, but before he could scrutinize him further the younger man had turned around and was heading for the door. Just as he started to pull the handle, Harvey said, "Mike, wait."

Mike stopped, but his posture became rigid and his grip on the door handle tightened. And that was all the proof Harvey needed.

Harvey wanted to feel nothing but compassion, he really did, but at the moment all he could feel was a rising anger burning in his chest, because damn it, he thought they were through this! Things had been going great for the past two weeks; whenever Mike felt like cutting he'd call either him or Donna and they'd talk him down from it; they'd pick up food and go over to his place, or invite him over to theirs. They'd sit and eat and talk and laugh and Mike wouldn't cut and everything was good. They were doing everything they were supposed to, they were doing everything right, everything had been going so good – so why?

"Harvey, I –."

"What happened?"

"It's nothing –," Mike tried to say, but Harvey cut him off.

"That's bullshit, Mike. Now tell me what happened. Did you run into someone? Did Jessica talk to you again? Did –."

"Nothing happened!" Mike nearly shouted. Why was he so upset? Harvey knew he cut, Donna knew he cut, they all knew – so why was he feeling so embarrassed?

"Obviously something happened, Mike, or else –."

"No, you don't get it!" Mike interrupted, finally turning around. "Nothing happened. Nothing. No one said anything, no one got angry with me – I didn't even talk to anyone at all last night! All I was doing was watching TV, and – and then I was –." Mike's voice faltered and he swallowed, not wanting to say it, to admit to himself out loud what he already knew: that cutting was no longer just a way to deal with his problems, it had become something so much more, even if he wasn't entirely sure yet what that was.

Harvey stared at him for a long moment, whether in ire or sympathy, Mike couldn't tell, until he finally motioned towards Mike. "Let me see," he said.

"No," Mike quickly replied, his hand unconsciously moving to cover his arm.

"Yes, Mike."

"No! You don't have to, there's no reason to. I cut, okay? I cut, there are scars, I know, it's fine, you don't have to look to prove it to anyone, I –."

"Mike."

Mike started at the unexpected voice, and turned around to see Donna standing behind him, a disgusting look of sympathy on her face as she peered up at him. Mike suddenly felt like a cornered animal, and the urge to run away grew stronger.

"No, Donna, it's fine – I admit that I cut last night, so why do you guys need to see it? There's no reason for you to have to see it."

Donna glanced at Harvey and the two shared a look that Mike couldn't see, before Donna turned her eyes back to him.

"You're right," she said calmly, and a bit of the tenseness in Mike's shoulders eased, but not by much. "We're sorry. You don't have to show us anything you don't want to. But can you at least tell us what happened? We just want to help."

Mike stared at her for a moment, biting his lip, his grip on his arm never weakening.

"I just… I was just watching TV and I… it mentioned something about c… cutting, and I… I just felt like cutting, and so I did."

Harvey frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Donna cut him off. "Why didn't you call one of us? You know you can call us Mike, no matter what time it is."

"I wasn't expecting it. I wasn't expecting to… and then I guess… I hadn't in so long, and…" Mike trailed off, suddenly feeling both tired and annoyed at the whole interrogation, because he was a grown man, damn it, and he shouldn't have to –.

"Sit down, Mike," Donna said, gently touching his shoulder and leading him towards the couch. Mike sat.

Mike took a breath, suddenly feeling the need to defend himself against Harvey and Donna's stares, against their judgements. But while he felt the need to lash out and get upset, the rational, logical part of him wouldn't let him, because it knew that his cutting hadn't been a good thing, and that they were only trying to help him, help that he had been wanting and accepting until last night….

"I know… I know that I shouldn't have cut, that I shouldn't want to cut. I know that. But then another part of me just doesn't care. It just wants to cut and I – I don't know how –."

"You don't know how to stop it," Donna finished. Mike didn't say anything, his silence affirmation enough. They sat in silence for a long moment, before Donna started to speak. "No one said this was going to be easy, Mike. And if either of us implied that, we're sorry. We shouldn't have given the impression that you were expected to just up and quit, that there wouldn't be any relapses, that you just simply wouldn't cut again. Because that's not how this works. That's not how addictions work; if addictions were that easy to quit, they wouldn't be a problem to begin with."

Mike frowned. "This isn't an addiction, Donna," he said. "People get addicted to alcohol, to drugs – they don't get addicted to cutt–."

"Yes, they do, Mike," Donna interrupted. "Cutting can start off as a way to deal with your issues, but it can easily become an addictive behaviour that's as difficult to quit as any other addiction."

"And how do you know this?" Mike asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He wasn't addicted; he wasn't.

"What, you think that when my friend is going through something like this, that I'm going to try helping them by going in blind?" Her lips pulled up into a small grin. "I don't just live to help Harvey and all of his problems, you know."

Mike managed a small smile in return, but it quickly faded away. They were silent for a moment, before he began to speak.

"It's like… it's like there's an itch, beneath my skin. I try to ignore it, but that only makes it worse. And the only way to scratch it is to… is to cut. And when I see the skin and there's nothing there, it's like…" Mike swallowed, trying to force the words out, to force himself to be honest, because he'd kept this a secret for far too long already. "It's like a blank canvas, and that only makes the itch worse, and I can't… it feels… it feels good, to cut. And last night I thought… I thought, I hadn't cut in so long, and… and I just wanted to feel it again." Mike looked up, expecting to see disgust on his friends' faces, but instead seeing only their steady gaze. "My head knows that it's wrong; logically and rationally I know that I have to stop. But my… my heart, it wants to do it. It doesn't care about logic or rationality, it just wants, so I… so I cut. And I can't say that I don't want to do it again."

Donna was silent, thinking over her words, but before she could say anything, Harvey spoke. "Then you try. You try your damndest not to do it, and if you fail – well… then you get up and try again. And we'll be with you every step of the way, Mike. We won't leave you to do this on your own."

Mike had once thought that after his grandmother had died, that he was now truly on his own in the world; that he didn't have anyone left who would look out for him, whether he needed it or not. He was just finally realising how wrong he was.

"Mike," Donna began after a moment, "this is just a thought, but… what if… what if you moved in with Harvey?"

Mike made a face, and expected Harvey to make one too, but surprisingly he hadn't. "What?" Mike said. "I don't need someone monitoring me 24/7; I'm not some patient in a psych ward –."

"It's not about that, Mike," Harvey interceded. Clearly he and Donna had discussed this before. "It's about a friend helping out a friend. That's all."

Mike took a deep breath to help calm himself down. It might not be so bad, he thought; if he was really serious about stopping, about breaking this… addiction, then….

"I'll think about it," he said finally. Harvey nodded.

"Good. Now go to the file room; I need those briefs by this afternoon."

He resisted going to Harvey's, at first, but after two more nights of cutting throughout the next two weeks, he decided to go. It would only be temporary, he thought as he packed his clothes into a suitcase and zipped it up. It was just meant to help him, that was all.

He stayed with Harvey for four months. At first he'd been resistant, but after a while living with a roommate became routine. Harvey was the one sacrificing the most, the older lawyer insisted, having given up his solitude and ability to have women over whenever he wanted, which spurred a few near walk-outs by Mike, but both men quickly made amends and soon living with Harvey became… almost normal. Almost, Mike dared to say, fun.

He'd finally managed to convince Harvey to watch Netflix, and soon they were having marathon nights filled with all the TV shows that Mike insisted Harvey watch, and a few that Harvey managed to suggest as well. They would order-in pizza or Chinese, or even – despite Harvey's initial protests – basic fast-food, and suddenly Mike felt like he was nineteen again, living with his best friend, making crap-money at a crap-job (except this time it was phenomenal money at a job he'd always dreamed of doing), and having the time of his life.

But nothing is perfect.

Mike ended up cutting again, despite Harvey's close proximity, despite his desire to help. Harvey found him in the bathroom, got mad at him, then proceeded to help clean him up. It happened more times after that than Mike cared to admit, but each and every time Harvey or Donna were there to help him, and for the first time in a very long time – Mike didn't feel alone.

Eventually Harvey and Donna convinced him to talk to a therapist, which Mike had at first fervently refused to see, but as he went to the sessions – albeit begrudgingly – he started to find that they actually helped. The exercises and methods the woman had given him to help avoid cutting had actually, to Mike's great surprise, worked. She gave him a squeeze-ball that she instructed he use whenever he had the desire to cut, and soon Mike was using the squeeze-ball wherever he went, squeezing and tossing it around as he animatedly discussed a case with Harvey, or as he sat behind his desk researching for an upcoming trial. It became something he never left home without.

But despite all of the progress he made and continued to make, Mike still stumbled, and sometimes he fell – hard. But the length of time between cuts became greater and greater, and soon it had been six months since a blade had last touched his wrist. It wasn't easy; he still felt the urge to cut himself whenever something particularly bad happened, or if he'd been in a particularly distressing yelling match with Harvey or Jessica, or another lawyer. Sometimes the urge was strong, sometimes it wasn't, but each and every time Mike was able to resist. He would call Harvey or Donna if he felt he needed their help, and soon that small group of friends extended to include people like Rachael, who came into the situation with such a quiet gentleness that could only leave Mike in admiration and wonder.

Cutting would always be a shadow in his life, a presence that lived on the outskirts, always ready to reappear when Mike least wanted it to. But Mike was determined; and no matter how many times he cut, no matter how many times he failed – he would always get back up, because he refused to go back to where he'd been – to hiding his grief, his anger, and his turmoil and taking it out instead on himself. He'd come too far to go back, and he knew that with Harvey and Donna by his side – with his friends – he could make it in the end.

We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road,

progress means doing an about-turn and walking back

to the right road...

Failures, repeated failures, are finger-posts on the road

to achievement.

- C.S. Lewis

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