Inside My Head

The Feeling.

He never understood these days. The days where the world seemed to stop or function in slow motion. Which contrasted heavily with his mind that was usually bouncing from idea to idea. But not today.
Today Sherlock sat on the cold white tile of his bathroom, leaning against the wall. He heard nothing but the light patter of the rain against the glass of the window. He stared straight ahead, venturing forth into the abyss of his mind. Empty.
Sherlock couldn't describe the sensation even with the help of his extensive vocabulary. He felt nothing but empty, cold and hollow. He felt lonely. Sherlock was never alone, he could never escape the racing of his thoughts. But today his mind ceased to comfort him.
Today Sherlock sat on the floor with a bottle of liquor to his left, and a shrapnel of metal with a touch like ice to his right. His sleeves were rolled up to the crooks of his elbows.
Sherlock sat like this for a seemingly very long time. He finally reached out to grab the bottle, his fingers searching for the coolness of the glass. Bringing it to his lips he felt a liquid fire flow down his throat that left what felt like a trail of scorched tissue.
He hated drinking. It burned and the sharp smell was enough to make his stomach turn. But he liked to be drunk. He liked the warm fuzzy feeling he got in his body when the bottle slipped from his grasp, empty. The idea was to drink the loneliness away, and the warmth of the alcohol was just enough to do that. The alcohol made him physically feel less empty, but his mind was still a chasm of nothingness.
But the void of Sherlock's mind popped like a bubble when he pressed the cool metal to his skin. A shiver of anticipation crossed over him as he waited to decide his next move. Would he slide the blade across his skin? Or would he put it down, get up, and find something else to do?Coming to the conclusion of the former, he pressed hard with the blade and cleanly sliced across his arm. He sucked in his breath ever so slightly and reveled at the explosion of pain.
Crimson beads pooled out of his arm, sliding over rows of pinkish lines that mixed grotesquely with white ones. New and old scars. His arms were once a fresh, pale canvas but were now littered with mutilation. Cuts, scars, burns, and track marks that heavily marred the once clean skin.
The high of the pain quickly dissipated which left Sherlock wanting more. Two. Three. Four. Six. Eleven. Nineteen. Crimson rivers flowed freely down his arm dropping in perfect beads in contrast to the tile.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of blood droplets hitting the tile fell almost in sync with that of the rain.
After what felt like hours Sherlock finally stood up. The world spun before him either from the blood loss, the alcohol, or a combination of both.
He headed for the sink to rinse off his skin, watching the water become tinged pink with his blood. He tried to think when John would be returning home but his mind wasn't functioning properly and his thoughts made little sense. I'll clean up the mess later. He thought.
Sherlock dried off his skin and unrolled the sleeves of his thin dress shirt. I wonder what John would think of my vices. Sherlock thought to himself. Would he be angry? Disappointed? He let out a laugh that sounded hysterical and strained. He'll never know.
Stumbling out of the bathroom, Sherlock made his way down the stairs to the outside world. The streets of London were crowded with people, nobody would notice the tall drunken man. Sherlock hated people. They were annoying and unclean, carried sickness and lacked any great scale of intelligence. People were useless. But currently, Sherlock really needed a smoke and couldn't smoke inside because the smell would no doubt give him up.
Sparking a match he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. Exhaling as he lifted his head up to the sky and closed his eyes. Tiny raindrops began to pelt his face lightly. Sherlock's gaze descended slowly and he pinched the cigarette between his fingers and his thumb and brought it close down to his hand. Exhaling calmly, he pushed the lit end to his skin and felt it scream, begging for mercy from the assault. Feeling pleased with the agony he returned the cigarette to his lips took one more gulp of smoke and flicked it to the ground.
Sherlock turned sharply on his heels and quickly wished he didn't, the world nearly slipped beneath him. Stabilizing himself he opened the door to 221B and made his way up the stairs.
In his drunken stupor, the world began to spin rapidly before him and he lost his footing. Sherlock fell with a loud bang and hit his head on the step. His body completely immobilized, he opened his eyes trying to blink away the haze that clouded his mind. The edges of his vision were blurry and a wave of drowsiness washed over him. The world began to fade and blacken.

Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sherlock awoke to an incredibly obnoxious beeping sound. His head was pounding and nausea flooded his body.
Panic hit him immediately and he tried to blink the world back into place. His vision was slowly coming back and could make out the white walls of a room and a man--no not just any man--but John, hovering above him trying to calm him down.
"Wh-where am I John?" Sherlock said with a heaving chest.
"You're in the hospital Sherlock, you uh-fell," he replied clearly in a awkward position.
Sherlock fully woke up and suddenly became aware of his bandaged arm and hand where he mutilated his body. He let a big sigh.
"You can say what you're thinking John," Sherlock paused, "you clearly know."
Sherlock refused to look into John's eyes, wondering what he would see in them. Anger? Hatred? Pity?
John took a long breath as if looking for the correct wording, he opened his mouth but no words came out. A long moment of silence passed before he could speak his thoughts.
"How long have you...done this to yourself?"
It was Sherlock's turn to take a moment of silence.
"Since I was sixteen, John," he said with a hint of lingering sadness dripping from his voice.
"W-why?" John's voice had a slight crack in it.
Ah. So he chooses to pity me. Sherlock's inner voice stated.
"I-I don't know," Sherlock stared hard at the wall in front of him, "I don't know".