Lost and Found - SEQUEL TO SHERLOCK'S SECRET

CHAPTER 3

A/N: Relatively graphic description of self harm in this chapter. Read at your own risk.

Sherlock's POV

The couple had arrived home from the art gallery content and at peace. John had, anyway. As soon as Sherlock had one foot in their apartment, he spouted off some lie about being hungry, despite the fact that they had eaten only an hour ago. John, being the ever caring man he is, offered to make them dinner.

"Pasta sound okay?" he asked cheerfully.

"Sure," Sherlock paused. "And, er, how long do you think it will take?" he winced, waiting for his awkward tone of voice to be picked up on.

"About an hour, I'd say. You have time to shower, if that's what you were thinking."

"Oh, yes, shower. That's what I wanted to do. I'll be out later, just shout when it's ready." Scurrying off to the bathroom before John had time to question Sherlock's strange tone of voice, he whispered a quiet thank you that he could carry on with what he had planned on doing ever since he had walked out of that gallery.

Closing the bathroom door behind him, Sherlock mentally blocked out the noises John made in the kitchen - the clanging of pans, the occasional curse, the adorable sound of John humming along with whatever crass song was playing on the radio - and tried to focus on the task at hand. Kneeling down, he opened the vanity cupboard and reached through to the very back left hand corner, where the chipboard had started peeling away. Sherlock gently lifted the blade up and out of the cupboard, bringing it out under the fluorescent light of the cramped bathroom. Cursing softly, he noticed the edge of the blade had started to rust from the moisture. Straight away he knew this posed a risk. It was entirely possible that the rust would cause an infection, leading inevitably to John finding out about his relapse. Sherlock had been clean for nearly two months. He didn't care if he got sick - he had stopped caring about himself long ago - but it would kill John.

The desire to feel the pain, though, was overwhelming. His hands trembled - not with fear, but eager anticipation as he pressed the tip of the blade into the fleshy part of his wrist, smiling as it cut effortlessly through the skin. The blade was still beautifully sharp.

Sherlock's fate was sealed.

As he made that first incision, it was like his mind had shut off. The movement became a matter of mechanics, nothing else. It gave him relief, a sweet reprieve from the thoughts that were tangling up inside his head making everyday living a near impossible feat.

After some time had passed - minutes or hours, Sherlock did not know - he looked down, sighed happily at his masterpiece and closed his eyes with content. Once the blood had stopped flowing, he cleaned up, bandaged up and stood up, walking into the kitchen with a smile on his face.

"Just in time," John chirped, upon catching sight of him.

"Mmh, smells delicious," Sherlock purred, hugging John from behind.

Like nothing had ever happened.