On the 18th of December you stand at the window, wondering what all these people on the streets are up to. You try the deducing thing, that Sherlock tried so desperately to teach you, but you fail miserably. Sherlock used to hide his face behind his hands, every time you deduced something terribly wrong. Now you don't spend much time together. He's away all the time, solving cases, stunning people, the usual things he can do with his master mind. It makes you sad, but he's happy so how could you ever blame him?
You are alone in the men's apartment, you love your place, even more after you made it look like it's actually yours, but there is something missing. It doesn't smell right. There's not a hint of John's after shave, there is no where the gross smell of fingers that were heated in the microwave. Nothing that make you feel completely at home. That's why you usually find yourself at 221B, the guys don't mind. They are actually quite happy, because with you, there's always something edible in the house.
Sherlock's got a call from Lestrade earlier today, and is now solving a case, where only toes got left behind, each one in a different alley all over London. You returned your thoughts to the world outside of the window, with the light curtains framing it. On the horizon you saw a black cab slowing down and turning to a halt in front of the house. A little man with blond hair, messed up by the cold wind and full of snowflakes in them, hands cash to the bold driver before reaching over to the passenger seat and taking two brown bags, caring them to the main door. You quickly run down the stairs and open the door, so John can walk in with his hands full with grocery bags. You closed the door after him. You bend down to carry the canned tomato soup, that slipped through his hands.
"Ehm, what are you doing?" you ask carefully as he placed the bags safely on the kitchen counter.
"Dinner. I'm making dinner for you, Sherlock.. and.. ," He mumbled the last part, and turned bright red, looking like the image on the tomato soup can.
You furrow your brow and demand:"Who?"
"Marry. Mary Morstan." John grumbled while stocking away the food.
You grin from one ear to the other:"Wow, I'm impressed, John. Never thought you were the romantic type"
"Need any help?" you add, as he just ignores you.
"No...no I'll be fine," John confirms, "just make sure Sherlock's here at 8 pm.. This time dressed properly!"
You smile at the memory, when John's sister was here for tea and cookies and Sherlock walked in with only his white bed sheet around his waist.
"Will do" you shout, already half inside your apartment waiting til it's time to call Sherlock to get his pretty ass home.
You make yourself comfy on the bed, building a nest with pillows and blankets you grab a book and start reading. You made it through one page, until you decide to look out the window and watch all the people living there life, without anxiety, disorders and suicidal thoughts. Fascinating how life can be when you don't hate yourself.
At Exactly 8:07 pm Sherlock enters the "dinning room"(which was just the living room with the table from the kitchen shoved into the middle. Whilst couch, TV and other stuff is pulled next to the walls) completely dressed and fully shaven. He sits opposite of you, next to John who only has eyes for Mary. She sits right next to you, lost in John's eyes. You raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, who then coughs uncomfortably, which actually gets them out of there trance. You hide a low chuckle by turning it into a cough and watch amused as the Doctor stands up and crashes against the edge of the table. With red cheeks he reenters the room and hands everyone a plate with rice and vegetables. As Sherlock recounts his case, which was extremely disgusting, you peck at your food not being able to shove it into your mouth. Your stomach was asking you for food for the whole week. But your head forbid it every time, you've only eaten little things, like apples and grapes. Even with just do little food you felt like shit, fat, stupid and unworthy.
Those thoughts follow you throughout the whole dinner. Now and then Sherlock shoots you worried glances, but your mind tells you that it's just because you behave even stranger than usual. He would never be worried about someone like you. I mean look at you stupid piece of shit. You breath in deep, trying to shut down the voices. The detective is about to say something to you as John carries in the dessert. You watch the plate carefully, you try to hardest to at least take one bite. You even promise to throw it up later, but you can't bring yourself to pull the spoon full of panna cotta into your mouth. You stand up quickly, and nearly bash down the chair. You mumble a hushed "Sorry", before you practically run down into your loo. Without a second thought you push your fingers into your mouth, and the gag reflex does the rest.
After you threw up, you try to catch your breath. Hot tears stream down your face as you lean your forehead against the toilet. Suddenly you hear a light knock outside the wooden door.
"Are you alright?" a familiar, low voice asks.
"Go away, Sherlock," you say, not being able to hide the sobs while talking. You bite your cheeks from the inside and curse at your disability.
You hear the rustling of clothes and wonder if he really leaves, but than you hear him leaning against the door with a sigh.
"Go to John and Mary. Leave me alone!" you yell as your voice breaks.
"No, I'm staying!" he yells back through the thin door.
Minutes pass by, your breathing gets slower, but the tears still flow down your cheeks and threaten to drown your bathroom. You slowly stand up, your legs are shaking, you grab for the razor you still hide behind the mirror and pull up your sleeve. Exposing your naked, scared skin. The bright light in the loo made the cuts look even worse. Without a second glance you put the blade on your skin. Press and then you drag it along your arm. Blood streams out immediately, and you breath in with a soft hiss. Sherlock hears it.
"Abby?" he asks worriedly,"Open the bloody door, or I'll kick it in! Do you hear me? Abby?!" he screams.
You don't really care anymore you move your other hand towards the lock and open it up and Sherlock stumbles inside only to see you lying on the floor surrounded by blood, puke and salty tears. He gasps and hurries next to you, you hand him a bandage you had grabbed earlier from the cupboard without realizing it. With steady hands he puts it around your bleeding wrists. Carefully he takes off your bloody shirt. He hands you your pj's and you put them on word- and emotionless.
You let him guide you into your bed and even tuck you in into the blankets. You don't protest as he slips into bed beside you. His heat his radiating from his body and warming you the whole night through.