Starving; A Sherlock Fanfic

Emptiness

TRIGGER WARNING: REFERENCE TO SELF HARM AND SUICIDE

     I sighed and close my laptop a bit too harshly, as I threw myself down onto my bed. More comments. All about the exact same thing. Never any comments about how brilliant the writing was or how odd the case was. No, no, nothing like that, just a constant stream of teenage fangirls. It's absolutely ridiculous.
     It used be people obsessed with crimes, famous serial killers, detectives, things like that. But now its people obsessed with gossip and celebrity drama. And of course, their latest fascination is with the "greatest detective of the century" and, of course, his "loyal sidekick".
   I couldn't type anymore, not right then. I can't​ go on and on about how brilliant and wonderful Sherlock Holmes is when in reality, he's really rather the opposite the majority of the time.
Sure, I thought, as I stared at the ceiling, Sherlock is of course intelligent and observant, more so than most people, but it only gets him so far. He can only rely on logic for so long. He's human, although he acts more like a machine at times, he is still human, and other humans, other people don't understand the way his brain works. He'll have to learn how to at least ACT human. Eventually, he will have to realize it, and he will... One day... Eventually...
     I tossed and turned for hours, and still I couldn't sleep. So finally, when it was well after midnight, I decided to go down and get a cup of tea.
    I moved around the kitchen, trying to be silent as to not wake Sherlock. Just as I put the kettle on the stove, I heard footsteps shuffling down the hall behind me, I turned just to see the bathroom door close behind, who I assumed was Sherlock. I roll my eyes and turn back around.
I didn't really know why I'm so bothered by him, I knew I probably shouldn't have been, but I was. I was sick of him being distant, acting inhuman and just, in general, like an ass. He expects everyone, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, me, to just be there for him whenever he wants us to be. Never giving anything back, treating us like idiots, like we're just creatures that don't understand anything. Sometimes I think he's right, and maybe he is.
     Maybe we are all just idiots, and he's just above all of us. But why I'm I still around him, then? Why would he keep me around, of all people. Everyone else I understand, they're all useful to him. Lestrade feeds him cases, Molly gives him access to the morgue and everything, Mrs. Hudson gives him a place to live and makes him tea. But me, I serve no real purpose in his life really and truly, I'm just there. And it's only a matter of time before one of us decides I should leave.
     Finally, the kettles ready, I take it off the stove and finish making my tea. Before I can do anything else, it occurs to me how long Sherlocks been in the bathroom for, almost half an hour. I didn't hear the bath running, so he's got to be doing something else. Oh God, I swear if he's got his hands on anymore bloody drugs.
     "Sherlock," I knock on the door, "Sherlock, are you still in there?"
     A second later the door swings open to reveal Sherlock standing in the doorway. His eyes are puffy, like he's been crying.
     "Oh, hello, John." He said wearily as he pulled his arm behind his back, "If you'll excuse me..." He moved to step past me but I blocked his way.
     "What were you doing?"
     "I..." He started and sighed, "Nothing."
     "Nothing? Really?"
     "Nothing, now excuse me." He stepped sideways and brushed past me. I grabbed his arm, he winces and tries to pull it back, but I keep hold of it which seems to cause him more pain. He whimpers and let's his arm go limp.
     "Let go, John." He whispers.
     "Tell me what you were doing and I will."
     "No, John."
     I tighten my grip on his arm. "Now, Sherlock."
     "Please, just let me go. Why do you even want to know? " He lowers his head and closes his eyes. My heart drops, he doesn't act like this. Ever. Something is definitely going on.
     "Because, Sherlock, I need to know."
     "I... Can't..." He says through clenched teeth.
     "Fine." I sighed, "I'll have to see for myself." I reach for his sleeve, but before I could pull it up, he grabbed my wrist with his free hand.
     "Please, just... Don't..." He whispered.
     "Sherlock, you know I have to."
     We stand there, frozen, for at least another five minutes. Finally, he sighs, closes his eyes and lets go of my wrist. I reach for his sleeve and tug it up to his elbow. Turning his arm over, I see a layer of bandages. When I unwrap the bandages, my heart falls to the floor at the sight of dozens of cuts and scars.
     Fresh cuts were layered over old pale scars. Some were darker and others you could tell were deeper. But most disturbing of all, were the thick, faded scars that ran vertical down his arm. A suicide attempt. A very old one, but an attempt.
     "Oh Sherlock..." I whispered.
     "Just... please... Let me go..." He said in an equally quiet voice. I looked up at him to see tears in his eyes.
     "Sherlock... I," I sighed, "Why?"
     "John... Let me go..."
     "Sherlock why would you do his to yourself?"
     "John, let me go." He said as steadily as he could, though his voice shook still.
     "I don't... You should've told me... I would've... I..." I mumbled.
     "I need to go..." He gently pulled his arm away from my grasp. I didn't move, I just stood there looking at the floor, waiting. Waiting for things to seem real again, for any thought or emotion to come to me, but no. I felt nothing, thought nothing, said nothing, heard nothing besides the front door slam closed and utter silence fill the flat.