Sherlock's Daughter

Drunk High Smoking...Oh My

When Lestrade, Sherlock, John, and even Mycroft look up, John and Sherlock sprint over to my drunk body where I wave happily.

"Where The HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?" Sherlock yells at me. Sherlock never raises his voice at me unless I interrupt him while he is in his mind palace.

"With friends." I say trying to sound as sober as possible, which is VERY hard considering the world is spinning and I'm so happy right now due to the cocaine.

"What is this?" John grabs the cigarette out of my hand. Damn, I forgot about that! I tell at myself.

"Um, a joint. What do you think? It's a cigarette." I laugh, I slowly give up on trying to sound sober because all my words are slurred together into one pot of mumbo jumbo. Lestrade walks over.

"Boys, can I talk to Sophie for a moment?" Lestrade asks. After a short moment of silence, My dad reluctantly nods yes. Lestrade grabs my by the forearm and drags me to a corner.

"What the 'ell do you think your doin?" Lestrade asks in his accent that is very sexy at the moment, probably because I'm plastered and high.

"What do you mean?" I say, the high wearing off, I desperately want more.

"You're high, drunk and god knows what else?" Lestrade, "And smoking a cigarette. I could arrest you and you would never see the light of day. "

"Okay, I know your not going to. You are my Godfather and you aren't going to do that to my dad, not Sherlock, cause it's not like he cares, but John. " I say with so much sass I think I could puke-wait a second-that's not from the sass. Before I could hold my stomach to keep it in, I sprint to the nearest corner and puke my guts.

"FUCK! Those were new" I whine as Lestrade guides me to the door of 221B where I hear the sound of an arguement, Sherlock peeks his head out of the living room.

"There she is. My junkie daughter." Sherlock fakes a smile and I shrug him off as he gives me a sarcastic hug.

"Go fuck yourself." I tell him, while keeping eye contact, then break the cot act and stomp upstairs. I look downstairs and find Sherlock very befuddled and confused. Lestrade is saying something about it to him.

"Language!" Sherlock turns around and says.

"Whatever. It's not like to ever going to give a fucking shit." I decide that sense Sherlock doesn't want me cussing, I most definitely will curse. When I arrive up the stair a red-puffy eyed John embraces me in a hug.

"Do you know where we though you were? WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD." John begins to cry and hugs me so tight my diaphragm begins to have trouble functioning. I roll my eyes. I actually understand where he is coming from though. Normal parents say that shit because they have to, but in my world the possibilty that I could be captured and killed is a high probability.

"Yes dad, because I'm that dumb. I live with Sherlock. Much better, I am half of Sherlock. Remember...the whole chromosomes, DNA crap?" I sass off.

"Don't ever talk to me that way again." John raises his voice as I walk to my room that is covered with posters of Gerard Way (Solo Project), Bring Me The Horizon, Sleeping With Sirens, Bastille, Pierce The Veil, Of Mice & Men, My Chemical Romance (R. I. P.), Fall Out Boy, and Panic! At The Disco. I plug in my phone and play Dollhouse by Melanie Martinez, Sometimes after I land after being high, reality hits me, and I feel like shit. I don't think my parents really mind because I mean, Sherlock has his addiction. I'm just like him except I have 2 addictions. Drugs and Blades. When the cruel reality slaps me across the face I turn to the blade and do the deed.

--- (29 Minutes Later) ---

I went too deep. I realise as my gash is still bleeding after almost 30 minutes. I creep downstairs holding a rag in my blood covered hand. I sneak to the first aid kit that my dad keeps in the cabinet. I take the kit upstairs in my room and lock my door. First, I sterilize all the tools and poor the alcohol on my gash. I bite on my shirt to keep from yelping. Then, I stitch myself up, biting tightly on the shirt to keep from screaming. After about 30 minutes of excurciating pain, I poor the rest of the alcohol on my newly doctored gash. Next, I dry the swollen area off and wrap it gauze. I place the tools in the sink, too lazy to get them at the moment (Niether of my parents are going to talk to me for a while because of tonight so it doesn't matter.). I keep back into my bed and grab The Illiad. I hear a knock, it is nothing like John's gentle knock...it's Sherlock. Weird...why would he need to come up here?

"Sophie? It's Sherlock." Sherlock asks to come it. I stand straight up realizing that I had stitches in my arm, bloody tools in my sink, a blade, and a bloody shirt

"Yeah, Sherlock, I'm not feeling well, could you come back later?" I beg, slipping on a new long-sleeved shirt and shoving the tools under the sink, knowing Sherlock is going to come in anyway. Sherlock breaks open the door by slamming his shoulder into it.

"Hey Sherlock. "I say calmly as possible , trying to keep my breathing slow and hiding my swollen, stitched up arm away from him. Sherlock sat on the end of the bed as I lay up at the top leaning on my head board.

"Sophie," Sherlock begins to say, "What's wrong?" 

I stare at him blankly, I should've known that he'd find out. "Nothing." I lie.

"No, something is wrong. Do not lie to me. I can always tell." Sherlock stares me in the eye. "Three months ago you would've never done any of the stuff you came home doing.

I roll my eyes, "Can you just leave please."

"Okay...but uh...if you want to talk to anyone...I...uh...John is here." that last bit hurt a little. I thought for a minute he was going to say I could talk to him, but what am I thinking? This is Sherlock Holmes, who only ever shows emotions towards my dad.