And All We Need of Hell

Chapter 3

With nightfall came the silence, terrible silence that awoke the darkest corners of Sherlock's mind. He sat alone in his room trying to control the chaos in his head. It had been a little over a year now since the ordeal ended, but he was still haunted by it every night. The rumpled bed sheets under his fingers felt as soft as the rumpled bed sheets he had laid on facedown, a strong hand on the back of his head pressing his face into the pillow as he struggled to breathe, fighting against the handcuffs shackling his wrists to the bed. Everything was rough hands and cigarette smoke and pain and terror.

A cool breeze drifted in from the open window, stirring him from his waking nightmare if only for just a moment. He climbed out onto the roof and stepped onto the ledge. Partly out of habit, he stretched out his arms and took a deep breath. He felt the push tonight, the great ball of tension in his chest goading him forward, daring him to take the leap. Still, something was holding him back. He thought about it for a minute, but he couldn't figure out what it was.

When Sherlock clambered back inside, his heart was still hammering against his ribs. He felt the room spinning, and he needed to make it stop. Sherlock reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a razor. The clean, sharp metal glinted in the lamplight.

The chemistry was simple enough. As he pushed the corner of blade against his skin and pressed down, he felt a rush of endorphins, endogenous morphine, not quite as powerful as the drugs that he used to inject into his arm, but enough to give him a sense of calm. Each stroke of the razor drew blood, and he indulged in his vice as much as he could without going too deep, meaning not as much as he wanted to. After making four cuts, he put the blade away, and he did so just in time.

Sherlock heard footsteps in the hallway and managed to pull his sleeve back up right before the door opened and Mycroft stepped inside.

"Do you not understand the concept of knocking?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"Nice to see you again too, little brother," Mycroft responded, leaning his black umbrella against the wall. "I'll be staying for a few weeks while Mummy and Daddy are away."

"For goodness sake, I'm seventeen years old. I don't need a babysitter."

"You are aware by now that I always keep an eye on you, even when I'm not home."

"Yes, it's rather annoying. Plus it seems a bit unnecessary in addition to forcing me to take a drug test every six weeks."

"I wouldn't have to do either of those things if you would simply talk me, give me some insight about what's going on with you. I need to know that you're not a danger to yourself."

"I'm fine," Sherlock spat. He gripped the hem of his sleeve and hoped that the blood spilling from his arm wouldn't drip through the material of his shirt and soak into the sheets.

Mycroft studied him silently for a moment. "Have the nightmares stopped?'

Sherlock didn't answer. Even if he said yes, it was unlikely that Mycroft would believe him. "You had no right finding out about it in the first place."

"It would have been difficult to remain ignorant about what happened to you once the police got involved. Of course after they screwed up and let the man get away I had to take matters into my own hands."

"You could have handed him back over to the police. You didn't have to have him killed." There were still so many things that Mycroft didn't know. The man whose execution he'd ordered wasn't the only one who had hurt Sherlock, and he wasn't the one Sherlock wanted dead.

"You underestimate, little brother, how dangerous I can be when someone threatens your safety."

Sherlock's heart was pounding again, and he would need to make another cut if this conversation didn't end soon. "I'm tired. You can leave my room now. I don't have any drugs stashed under my bed."