Time Makes it Harder (JohnLock)

I'm a Broken Man

(A/N Trigger warning: Self harm, flashbacks)

 Sherlock's POV

I sit on the bed staring out the window. Why can't he be here? I think to myself. My hands are folded in my lap and I close my eyes, bringing my hands to my chin and trying to go to my mind palace.

Gunshots echo through my head, bombs explode in my ears and the screams of my friends fill the room. I try to think of John, but the only thing I manage to see is John turning around, dressed in one of the army suits, only to smile at me before being blown away by a grenade.

"John!" I try to scream. "John!" I can't hear my own voice, only my thoughts. I feel myself land on the floor, hard.

I can't get away from my thoughts. "John! John!"

They overwhelm me, and I lay on the ground like a child, covering my ears until they are all gone and the only thing left is the echo in the room from my screams and the ringing in my ears from the dreams.

Picking myself up I crawl to the bathroom. Sitting on the hard linoleum floor I dig in the bottom of the drawer and uncover the facecloth that is so carefully wrapped up. Unfolding the cloth, I reveal a shiny, new blade. Smiling I pick it up in my pale fingers, flipping it around in between them. The blade isn't cold. Not even close.

Taking it in my right thumb and forefinger, I bend my left wrist backwards to reveal the pale skin.

I can still hear the bombs, the guns, and see John's face replacing one of the soldiers. Every time I close my eyes he gets blasted away, or shot.

Taking a deep breath I know this will help. I drag the blade across once, not pushing down, but it's so sharp it still draws 2 perfect domes of blood on either side of the cut. They just sit there, still and calm.

The voices and screams still echo in my head, so I drag the blade across my skin again, pushing down more, drawing more blood. Closing my eyes I slash wildly at my skin until I can feel the blood rush down into the palm of my hand and the echoes cease.

Opening my eyes I take a deep breath. Glancing down at my wrist the cuts run all along my forearm. Blood drips into my hand and off my fingers, the floor slowly becoming red.

Standing up I run water over the wounds, wrapping them tight with bandages, then sinking back against the sink.

I can see my reflection in the shower door.

"I'm sorry John." I whisper. "I'm a broken man."