A/N: So sorry that it took so long to update, I've had so little time, but here it is, chapter 3, Enjoy!

Trigger warnings: suicide and self-harm.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any format.

You could say I was hesitant in the first few weeks of our relationship, ok you could also say I was scared. I had never been in this kind of relationship before, one that involved touching, going out, and expressing your feelings. It wasn't something I was used to or comfortable with, but I was trying, I wanted to make Molly happy. I didn't think she'd leave but I saw that little sad look she got when I pulled my sleeves down around her, when I told her I was fine, and I was so scared that she would leave if I didn't let her in. By the fourth week I was so worried she'd leave that all I would do while she was out was sit at the door, waiting to hear her key in the lock. So scared that I would sit awake all night listening to her breathing through the wall, waiting for when the day would come that I'd hear the door open and she would be gone.

We had only kissed three times since that first kiss. Mostly because physical contact of any kind made me freak out, and all physical contact in my early life had been harsh, a cruel hand that left both physical and mental scars long after the owners had been banished from my life. Molly didn't understand my aversion to being touched, but she respected my wishes, only kissing me when I initiated it, hugging me and holding my hand as long as I was okay with it. The first time she had tried to hug me from behind I had gone mental on her, running away and hiding in my wardrobe as I'd done as a child, waiting for the punishment that always followed. It took her a while to convince me she wasn't going to hurt me, then another while for her to get me out of the wardrobe. She hadn't asked me about it but I saw the questions in her eyes, how she always told me what she was going to do before she did it.

It was Wednesday of the fifth week when it happened. The worry had eventually driven me to the last two blades, the sweet relief of dragging them across my skin in the privacy of the locked ensuite, watching the red swirl down the drain, mixing with the water. I had started again the week prior, hoping to find some solace in my old friend. She was already forty-five minutes late, this must have been it, the time when she would leave and not come back. In my haste I had forgotten to lock the door to my ensuite, to sure she wouldn't come back to worry about locking the door. I'd already made the first three slices when the door swung open revealing my stoic faced brother and a horrified Molly, the latter of which proceeded to snatch the blade out of my hand while I was still frozen on the spot. The crimson liquid continued to drip down my arm and onto the white porcelain of the sink, left unattended while both parties tried to get over the shock enough to take the appropriate action.

After five minutes of standing in shocked silence we had eventually come to our senses, Molly had bandaged my arms and Mycroft had made tea. We all sat around Molly's coffee table, me staring at the tea in my hands, feeling the heat leach into my skin as it cooled, all of the cups liquid remaining untouched. Inevitably the silence was broken,

"I think I'll leave you two to talk about this later," Mycroft said, gesturing to my arms, "but I did come here for a reason." He added.

Most of the time Mycroft only visited if it was completely necessary, preferring to work and interact only with his colleagues. It was no surprise that this visit was no exception, he had a purpose, I hadn't yet figured out what it was yet.

"I want you to meet John," he told me in a rush, "tell him your alive, and talk to him." He continued, his speech slightly slower.

My jaw clenched involuntarily, my nails curling in to dig into my palms; this couldn't happen, he would hate me. He would think I was weak if I told him the truth, he would think I didn't care at all if I didn't. I'd already decided it would be best for both parties if I just stayed out of Johns life for good, to not burden the world with my presence again, to just stay dead.

"No," I whispered softly in reply.

The debate about whether or not I would meet with John continued for a full half an hour, only ending when Molly threatened to invite him over if I didn't meet with him, so agreed to meet him only so that it would be on my terms. So finally Mycroft left, with my word that I would 'talk' to John, and Molly and I sat in the awkward silence that followed his departure. I could tell by her nervous glances towards my covered arms that she wanted to talk about the state she found me in, but she was obviously worried that bringing it up would make it worse. Not that I minded, she could take all the time in the world before talking to me. Right now I just wanted to sit next to her, take in the fact that she really was still here, still with me. Without thinking I reached out across the space between us and grabbed her hand tightly, afraid that if I let go she might vanish. Her eyes quickly flickered up to where our hands intertwined, her eyes wide, I hardly ever sought human contact, but right now I needed it. Her hand tightened infinitesimally around mine in a reassuring squeeze; this was all so different to me, but for once the contact made me feel safer, actually reassured me.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?" she asked me, well more told but ended on a question.

She was giving me the option, making sure it was okay, checking that I wasn't going to break if she did. I was weak and she knew it, she had to make sure everything was 'fine' with me; she couldn't even touch me without me getting flashbacks. Why would she want someone so broken?

"Hey, look at me." She told me, forcing my chin up so I had to meet her gaze, "I'll never think any less of you, because of any of this. I promise." She added smiling at me.

I returned her smile with a small one, noting how she could read me like I could read everyone.

The next morning Molly came into my room, it was early but I hadn't slept again so I was up. She frowned as soon as she saw me, sitting up, and the circles under my eyes getting darker and darker. She didn't say anything though, just came and sat at the end of my bed, studying me.

"Why did you start again?" she started, still looking at me in concern.

"I… umm, I was scared." I told her, my eyes looking everywhere in a desperate attempt to avoid her gaze.

"What were you afraid of, Sherlock?" she continued, her inquisitive gaze burning a hole in my head.

"That you'd…that you'd leave me." I admitted, my voice hovering between a whisper and a murmur.

Her deep sigh had my eyes turning towards her; she was shaking her head at me, it was almost in a sad manner but it held a sense of humor.

"For a genius you really are stupid," she informed me, "how many times do I have to tell you I'm not going anywhere for you to believe me?"

"I'm sorry." I muttered, ashamed that she thought I was stupid; being clever was the only thing I was good at.

"Don't be, just start believing." Molly whispered, curling into me and softly resting her head on my chest, slowly as if she was trying not to startle and animal.

So that's how we spent the morning, curled up in each other's arms.

4 days later

Molly had eventually forced me out of the house and into a cab, telling the driver John's new address where he lived with his girlfriend, and strict instructions not to let me out until I got there. Which was how I found myself outside Johns house, hand hovering over the door bell, attempting to delay the inevitable as long as possible. I'd already decided on the cab ride over not to tell him the truth, it would make him think I was weak, it would make him hate me. I had decided upon telling him I'd faked it like I would have if I wasn't crazy, just a trick to save their lives. He would believe it, there was nothing to suggest otherwise, and life would go on. My sleeves were tugged down as far as they would go, securely buttoned and pulled slightly over my hands by my fingers. The only evidence of my injuries was the small scar above my brow, the other much larger scars, covered by my clothes, the one on the back of my head by my hair. Taking one deep breath I straightened my spine, and then I pressed the bell.

We both stood in the doorway for a time that neither of us could recall, both staring at each other in dead silence. I took him in all over again, this person who had saved me all of those years ago. He had changed in the time I had been away, he looked older, and he had grown a moustache, but I could still see the ex-army doctor in there, the one who couldn't resist a chase.

"Hello," I managed, trying desperately to regain my composure.

"But…but you're dead." He said, the bewildered expression remaining on his face.

"I… I faked it, I had to, to save you." I told him, the lie tasting bitter in my mouth, but this was necessary.

"It's been two years," he said, his voice rising, "what could have possibly taken you ten years?"

By the end of his sentence his voice had risen to almost a shout, which was completely justified. Now though I had to think quick, I hadn't thought of an excuse for this, come on, work stupid brain. Fortunately, it was at that moment his girlfriend decided to investigate the shouting.

After she calmed John down a bit, giving me time to make up an excuse to answer his question, she invited me in. So now all three of us were in their living room, Mary, as I learned was his girl friends name, sitting next to John on the settee, and me in the armchair.

"So, are you going to explain to me, why you've been playing dead for the last two years?" John questioned, his voice was calm but I heard the undercurrent of well-hidden anger in his tone.

"I had to destroy Moriartys' web," I informed him, sounding factual and serious, just as I had intended the lie to sound.

"You could have phoned," he told me, his voice rising slightly once again.

"I couldn't, it was to risky," I told him, it was a poor excuse for a lie, but I couldn't exactly tell him Mycroft had took all phones so I couldn't call him, apparently because he wasn't sure how it would effect my mental well being.

"No, you don't get to feed me that bull crap," he told me, the anger more pronounced, "you could have called, but you didn't. Now you don't get to come here and expect everything to be the same." He continued, his voice remaining steady and angry.

I needed to get out of here, I could feel the urge, and the ever present itch becoming more pronounced.

"I'm sorry," I informed him, my voice sounding slightly hoarse, even to my own ears, "I'll go then."

I started walking towards the door, my shoulders stiff, and my steps precise. I was almost at the door, and then he grabbed my arm, pushing my sleeve up in the process, leaving my scars, all in various stages of healing, some red and still not healed, other purple and just starting to scar, and millions of bright white lined exposed. Well, shit.

A/N: as payment for me not updating, you can ask me any question you want and I will answer, either via PM or in the next chapter. Also I feel the need to inform you that I was going to write, when he met he was talking to John on his own, 'the bewildered expression, not dissimilar to that of a startled hedgehogs, remaining on his face.' But I felt it would have ruined the atmosphere.

Please review! until next time!