Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 18

Sherlock's POV

They were actually going to do it. John and Mycroft, possibly the two people he trusted most in this world, were going to lock him up in a psych ward.

But maybe you deserve it...

The voice made sure Sherlock saw things as they really were. Maybe he did deserve it. Maybe he really was crazy. 

"Oh god..." Sherlock pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as he really processed the way others saw him.

John, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone, they all saw him as insane. If not for the cutting, then for his 'gifts'. They all secretly hated him they merely put up with him his very presence in a room was enough to piss them off god oh god why was he still alive?

Taking deep breaths to calm himself, he glanced down at his aching wrists. Sherlock was sick and tired of these bandages; of what they represented. He tore frantically at them, ignoring the throb of pain that ensued. His trembling, blood covered fingers ripped at his stitches, reveling at the sound of tearing skin.

Finally satisfied, he laid back, and laughed. This is what he had come to. A scar-covered, starving, suicidal man with nothing left to offer the world. Everything he touched was brought to ruins by the insanity inside of him.

The sharp pang of addiction struck him. He needed to cut. He looked around the room, desperately trying to find something to hurt himself with.

Sherlock's eyes locked on his phone, resting by his bedside. He smiled as he pulled the back of it away, the metal glinting as the brand new blade fell into his palm.

Rolling up his sleeves, his eyes roam the hills and valleys of his arms, the contours that define him; the very embodiment of his depression. Sherlock's gaze locks on a small scar-covered patch below the line of his wrist and in line with his thumb. Underneath the skin, he catches glimpses of blue that he knows he will cut into. The vein throbs, like it knows what's coming as he rests the edge of the blade in a spot that he has assaulted too many times to count; so many beautiful, beautiful times that the entire area was permanently numb.

Leaning over the railing of his bed, he makes the first incision, ensuring all blood drips onto the linoleum floor. When the pain recedes, he keeps going, deeper and deeper until he hits the vein, blood spurting up like a little red fountain.

Relaxing, he sits back, careful to keep his arm away from the bed, and sighs contentedly to himself.

After watching his blood peacefully drain for five minutes, he clamps his hand firmly over the wound until it stops bleeding. If he lost any more blood, the doctors would surely notice. Gently wrapping the bandage around his wrist, he grabs a pile of tissues and paper towels, and begins to mop up his masterpiece on the floor.

Flushing the tissues down the toilet in the small room adjoined to his, Sherlock quickly surveys the scene to make sure no evidence of what he had just done lay in sight. Confident no one would find out, he returned to his bed, and fell asleep, dreaming peacefully.