Pick Your Poison {Mystrade}

Scars

[[TRIGGER WARNING]]

The next night, when the moon was full and shining brightly, Mycroft was sitting in bed, running his fingers over the scars. He bit his lip anxiously. They were still pinkish-red. He knew the exact spot where Lestrade's tears hit.

He'd gotten more hateful messages from Lestrade, but not only him. Mycroft had gotten hateful messages from Sally and Anderson, too. All of them said similar things: Faggot, homo, queer, revolting, etcetera.

Mycroft bit his lip hard, causing it to bleed. He reached for the whiskey, only to find it not on his nightstand. He cursed and remembered he'd finished that bottle. He grabbed the liquor cabinet key and went downstairs, grabbed more whiskey, and went back up to his bed.

He popped the bottle open and began to chug, instantly feeling numb. He grinned tipsily and grabbed the razor blade from his bedside drawer. His hands were shaking. He pressed the blade to his arm and moved it slowly, pressing down hard. He did this at least ten times. Soon, his arm was covered in blood. He quickly took a roll of toilet paper and wrapped his arm in it.

He sighed. He always regretted it immediately. But there was no undoing it. He wanted to feel a physical pain, not emotional. Physical was better because it went away. Emotional pain lingered and stayed with him for days and he couldn't stand it. Every day, he trudged on, wanting to die, but knowing he couldn't, for Lestrade's sake.