BBC Sherlock imagines

Never

A/N
A very long one for you here (I got a bit carried away-oops).

Also, a ⚠️warning⚠️
Self harm and eating disorders are repeatedly mentioned throughout this story. Although there is nothing graphic. Please feel free to talk to me about anything if you'd like to. Xx

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John was headed to the shops one afternoon, leaving Sherlock playing his violin at the windowsill of 221B Baker Street. It was a cold, November afternoon but he was a few streets away from the warmth of the supermarket. This was until the phone from one of London's famous phone boxes rang. He was more than used to his flat mate's brother's, Mycroft Holmes', methods by now- and besides he'd used this trick before. John smiled at the reminder of the day he'd first gone on a case with Sherlock, and stepped forward to answer the phone. Mycroft's voice came almost immediately, coldly and sternly as ever; "In the shop window opposite you, you will find the address of an abandoned factory not far from here. John, I want you to go there-and make sure you are not followed." And then the phone call was ended. John sighed loudly to himself-why couldn't Mycroft just ring him on his phone!? But he walked across to the correct shop and found the address Mycroft had referred to. He typed it into his phone's map and followed the directions- doing a loop at one point so no one was following him.

When he eventually reached the factory, he walked in,looking behind him every so often. When he finally reached the room Mycroft was in, he called out as he approached him; "Where was the car this time- my legs ache. And no assistant?" Mycroft waited until John was standing in front of him before replying, "John, no one can know about the conversation we are about to have. This must stay as a very private matter."
"Ok.." John said, puzzled. Normally matters with Mycroft were hush hush but this was an even more serious matter and that concerned John. Mycroft took a deep breath before continuing. "John, I am about to inform you of some of the events of Sherlock's teenage years and quite possibly one of the main reasons that he is today the way he is." John nodded. "You see, from the age of 11, Sherlock struggled with his mental health. He'd always been bullied, of course, because he was always cleverer than all his peers. They called him a freak. But high school was a lot worse. He also began to struggle to cope with his...gift, shall we say, particularly with all the new hormones and such. He once came to me, crying, asking me to make his mind shut up so he could sleep" Mycroft continued to explain. All John could manage was an "oh"-he could tell this story was not going well and he hated to know that his best friend had struggled so much. Mycroft took another deep breath but got on with his story. "He eventually found ways of coping. At first it started off with hitting and pinching himself, but eventually he discovered that blades seemed to work a lot better. Purging also quickly became a common practice. I couldn't tell you whether it was because he disliked his body image or because it was an easy way to hurt and punish himself for something. Either way, he grew so skinny due to it and his already very small diet that I actually feared for his life. He seemed to grow out of this-stage- by the time he reached twenty and as far as I can deduce has been clean, in that sense at least, for the entirety of his adult life." John blinked, completely astonished. This completely explained Sherlock's eating and sleeping habits to date, and why he never ate when he was upset. John gasped out loud-why he always wore long sleeves. Then a question popped into his head and he made no attempt to keep it in or think of a tactful way to word it. "Why are you telling me this now? I mean it's been years since I've known him and yet it's only important now?" he blurted out. Mycroft sighed loudly and the cold facade from his face slipped momentarily. "Because, John, he's shut me out over these past few months. Normally I'd say that that's completely normal but this time I think it is because he knew I'd deduce it" he explained; but not very well. John frowned quizzically, he didn't understand what Mycroft meant. Surely he wasn't implying... His thought train was cut off when Mycroft's voice came, "John, I believe he's slipped back into his old habits again. I cannot tell you why, but then again who can tell what's going on in his head, let alone his heart. All I can say is that you have to get through to him John. I was there before but he will not let me be again. It has to be you." John felt sick. It was bad enough that Sherlock did all those horrible things to himself before, let alone now-when John lived under the same roof as him. The colour from his face had been totally drained and his knees were wobbling as if they might give way any second. He thought about if Mycroft could be wrong-but Mycroft was never wrong. So many other thoughts splashed around his brain but he couldn't keep track of them all and none of them were clear. Mycroft was staring at him expectantly and John knew he had to say something, but what? He took a deep shaky breath before muttering out the words "of course" very quietly. "Thank you, John" Mycroft said gratefully, "there'll be a cab waiting outside in a few minutes for you" he said before walking off in the other direction after a quick nod to John.