I Am Sher-Locked Up

All Hell

Sherlock

It's been two weeks, two days, thirteen hours, and--Sherlock checks his watch--nine minutes since the John discovered him in the bathroom puking his guts up. Sherlock had been able to avoid further discussions about food by eating in John's presence, and leaving the house a few minutes later and vomiting in the alleyway. Sherlock knew for a fact that John knew what he was doing, and he knew that John would bring it up again, but not right now.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!" John's voice cuts through his thoughts. Sherlock snaps to attention and tries to look indifferent, despite his mounting anxiety. "What?" he says, rather irritably. 

John briefly looks hurt, which sends an unwelcome jab of guilt through Sherlock. 

"Well...I was just saying that I know what you've been doing every time you leave after you eat. You've been making yourself sick. Now--don't interrupt me Sherlock or I swear to God I'll kill you," he adds with venom when Sherlock's mouth opens to argue. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that if you don't start eating, I'm...I'm going to tell Mycroft." He finishes with a forced finality. 

Sherlock feels nothing for a moment. Then, rage edged with fear fills him. 

"No, John, you can't. You can't tell Mycroft. He won't understand, he'll just lock me up again, I can't do that, I physically can't--"

"What do you mean, 'again'?" John interrupts, looking hard at Sherlock. 

Sherlock freezes, realizing his mistake. As he tries to backpedal, John throws his hands up. 

"Right, well I'm off to find Mycroft, you stay here and don't burn the house down."

"No, John, you can't--" 

"Yes, Sherlock, I can! And I bloody well will! I can't have you do this to yourself, you mean too much to me." John says, looking at the floor when he said the last bit. 

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asks suspiciously. 

"Nothing. See you later Sherl." John turns and leaves, and this time Sherlock lets him.

*

John's been gone for an hour.
This is bad, this is so so BAD... Sherlock paces the flat, vaguely wondering if there was a path forming from his shoes treading the carpet so often.
Finally, Sherlock can't take it anymore. He strides over to his bedroom and throws the door open, stooping to pick up the gray cardboard box stowed under his bed, and locks himself in his bathroom. The voices in his head scream at him that John will find out, John will lock him up, this is the exact reason he should be locked up, he was crazy, he was downright certifiable--shutupshutupshutupSHUT UP Sherlock screams at them internally. His fingers shake as he opens the Ziplock bag of assorted razor blades, pulled from pencil sharpeners, shaving razors, and replacement Xacto knife blade packets.

Sherlock pauses as he picks up a yellow box cutter. He debates whether to cut a little or a lot. A little would be less noticeable, but a lot would feel better...hell, it might even kill him, if he were lucky. 

Sherlock decides 'to hell with it' and starts carving.
His skin is so marked that he doesn't even bother finding a clean spot and he goes to town on his arm.
One cut after another , blood running down his arms, congealing and clotting into strings hanging from his forearm. Somewhere along the way he got the wonderful idea to just...let go. End it all. Cut too deep. 

So he did.
He places the blade on the slightly pulsing vein standing out against his pale skin. The veins were easy to find since he drank so much water instead of eating, so they stuck up and presented themselves for the taking.
He breathed in once...exhaled...and...

"Sherlock!" Sherlock hears his name being called by John.

"Sherlock!" And Mycroft. Great. 

Sherlock is caught in a moment of indecision. Should he do it? They might find him. They might lock him away forever.
This is the very definition of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, Sherlock thinks.
He hears footsteps pounding down the hallway toward his bedroom and makes a split second decision: he is not going back to Riverside.
He makes the cut as the door bursts open. He turns to face the panic-stricken and horrified faces of Mycroft and John, the latter almost breaking his heart. There wasn't much left to break at this point. 

"Sherlock!" His name reverberates inside his skull for what may be the last time as he closes his eyes.

***

A/N

Okay I'm sooo sorry for the hiatus, I just had a bit of writer's block. This is the fic I put the least effort into, and funnily enough it's the one that's getting the most attention xD

-Hannah