It was not worth a fractured wrist.
It wasn't.
The phrase repeated itself in Sherlock's mind hollowly as he sat on the bed, staring down at the bruise's edge peering back at him from beneath the cast.
It was irritating and bulky, and just generally got in the way.
Perhaps he should have thought of that first.
John's accusations that Sherlock had done this to himself, just in order to get out, honestly stung.
It'd had nothing to do with getting out.
He shut his eyes and focussed on the dull ache, letting it wash over him like a painful caress. It took his focus in its clutches and held it, so that, for the moment, he no longer had to listen to the pleading of his body for the drugs he no longer had access to.
It calmed him, because he knew for a fact that they could not hurt him more than he could himself.
He was in perfect control.
It hurt, but that was a good thing.
Control was supposed to hurt.
Without a little punishment, how could you keep your transport in line? You'd forget that this wasn't supposed to be easy, and then you'd slack off.
But deep inside him he knew that he was incapable of 'slacking off.' His mind would not have let him. He would be controlled until the day he died.
And that was a good thing, too.
The bone had made a sound as it broke.
He remembered that clearly, if nothing else.
A sudden crack, and then molten hot pain had poured down his arm like magma, reaching his fingertips and sending stabbing chills back up them.
It was a wonder no one heard him, despite how careful he'd been.
Honestly, he hadn't set out to end up broken. It was just the bruises to begin with. The action of creating them was like a drug in itself, and served to distract from and relieve somewhat the pains and discomfort of withdrawals.
But like any other drug, you begin to crave more. And when you crave more pain, you hit harder, and when that happens...
Things break.
The same way his patience had broken, first. That last line between suffering in silence in this pitiful, boring institution, and taking out his frustrations on the corners of walls and the edges of bookshelves.
It wasn't self-harm, really.
Sherlock had gone over that definition, and come to his own conclusion that there was a difference. He was merely frustrated, trapped here, angry, separated from his addiction and suffering for it.
That wasn't a textbook reason, he decided, so it was different.
Meaning he didn't need to be ashamed of what he'd done.
Master of himself in every way.
And yet... He was hesitant to come out and say the truth, to anyone, let alone to John.
Yesterday, when John had come to see him, he had thought about it.
Thought about answering his questions truthfully, of telling him just where every bruise, break, and mark had come from-but then he'd seen that look in John's eye at the thought that all these might be self-inflicted... And he didn't want to tell him anymore.
At first John had just looked surprised at the realisation of the possibility, but then, as it set in, that had been mixed with worry, confusion, fear, pity, and, Sherlock guessed, a little disgust.
None of which Sherlock wanted to have heaped onto his shoulders.
The thought of being truly pitied, of having the wrong kind of attention-the kind that tried to focus in on and dissect the emotions he was always trying to keep in check, locked away in a box-was repulsive.
He would rather have the right kind-the kind that focussed on how clever he was, and stood only to reassure him and allowed his feelings to be ignored.
That felt nice.
Freeing.
Warm.
Confidence-building.
Regardless, Sherlock knew that he was stronger than other people. He would always win, because he required less than they did-less sleep, less food, less love...
And that was a good thing, too.