You spend the night turning from one side to another, eventually you fall asleep but only to wake up 30minutes later, sweating and heart racing because of terribly cruel nightmares. At 5 a.m. You decide that you have had enough, and throw the blankets on the floor, you nearly fall down on the ground with your beige sheets. In the very last moment your hands grip the fabric of the sofa, your inner arm presses against the hard leather, and a burning sensation runs through your arm. The sudden contact makes the cuts on your arm, feel like it is on fire, it feels like you have been blood poisoned. You actually bite into the sofa to keep you from screaming out loud in utter pain.
However your feet smash to the wooden floor with a loud thump.
"Fuck" you whisper to yourself and desperately hope you didn't wake anyone up.
You try to stand up, but before you can sit up from your half lying half sitting position, a naked Sherlock comes rushing into the living room. His eyes are wide open in fear, leaving no sign of sleepiness.
"I'm sorry" you say a little louder than before, "I kinda fell outta bed".
You are still trying to get up properly, but your feet entangle even more with the blankets, and you fall completely, face forward on the floor. With a deep red face, you look up at Sherlock who's still standing in the door frame, in his birthday suit. You quickly return your face towards the floor and with your hand you search for a pillow. When you finally found one, you throw it in the vague direction Sherlock was standing, and he catches it confidently. He just shrugs his shoulders as he watches you trying to get out of the blankets, with your blushed face. After a while he starts laughing at you, and you feel even more stupid and once more wish to just disappear into sweet nothingness. You look up to him, into his bright eyes and can do nothing else but laugh with him. His laughter sounds a hundred times better than elves playing the harp. The sound is even brighter and clearer in the early morning, when everything is still silent and peaceful.
He eventually walks back into his room, puts on some black, tight pants and kneels down next to you to help you. He was still giggling, but you didn't mind, because you enjoy hearing him laughing, it makes everything so much better. He shuffles closer to you and helps you to pull away the blankets. Together you work on your feet until your sleeve falls down, and all the cuts, which are not hiding under the bandage, are showing. You only realize what happened, when Sherlock stops his motions and stares emotionless on you wrist. There aren't many he could see, but the ones who are visible are one of the worst and deepest. A fat, dark red line was horizontal over your pulse, a scar from your first suicide attempt nearly a year ago. You quickly pull your sleeve back down, but it was to late, he has already seen everything you wanted so desperately to hide.