Starving; A Sherlock Fanfic

Past Mistakes

Sherlock's POV

WARNING: This chapter could possibly contain more triggering content than previous chapters for some readers (details in relation to suicide, depression, self harm, abuse and violence). This chapter isn't necessary to the overall story and just provides backstory on Sherlock's past attempts and relationships

I let the water run down my back as I thought. So stupid. He found the blade didn't he? So stupid. I shouldn't have... It didn't matter now I suppose.
I had to find it though. My "collection" had begun to grow since Mycroft had thrown my last one away when he found me after... After my attempt, well two of them actually. John knows of one, but I attempted three times. 

The first time, I was fifteen and took a bottle of pills. I wrote a note that I had with me, but sent a different one to my boyfriend, David, via text. I underestimated how long it would take for him to read, he got off of work early. He drove over and the ambulances met him there.

I spent four days in the hospital. Mycroft and David were the first two people I saw. They both had the same look of sadness, pain, and disappointment on their faces. I still remember Mycroft fighting to keep his voice steady as he asked me why, and how David just cried and begged me never to do it again. He also promised to take better care of me if I promised to never attempt again. Three months later David died in a car accident.

I kept my promise for two years, even though his death hurt me more than anything in the world. I attempted again at seventeen. I had started dating someone else, and it was nice for about four months. After four months he got... violent. The first time I got too drunk at a party and he thought I was flirting with another boy there. We went home and he beat me until I passed out. I woke up the next morning with a swollen face and bruises everywhere.

This continued for months, I slowly went out less and less for fear of someone getting suspicious. I most certainly didn't talk to Mycroft, but he assumed I had fallen into a reclusive episode again and let me be. Finally I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want anyone knowing and thinking I was weak for not standing up to him or leaving. However, the thought of another person being lured into his trap and ending up where I had been terrified me. So I got ready, wrote a note, and called Mycroft.

I told him everything. About how he seemed nice at first, the night it started, the times he nearly killed me, how I felt weak for not leaving, how I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take it anymore. I told him I was sorry but I couldn't live anymore. I hung up the phone while he protested. I slit my wrists three times on each arm and watched the world drift away.

Even then Mycroft had power in the government and was able to make it to where I was with ambulances and police in tow. He was the first to find me on the floor of the closet in the master bedroom. Pale, unconscious and half dead.

This time when I woke up it was just Mycroft. His cheeks were tear stained but his voice steady and calm. He told me he was sorry that he didn't see what was happening to me and that he didn't put a stop to it. His eyes had pain and sadness, but also a cold glint to them. The day before I got out of the hospital, my abuser was found dead in an ally. The case still isn't solved, but I had my suspicions.

The third time was, like I said, a month and a half before I met John. I was tired and angry and felt like a failure. Like a disappointment and a disgrace, like I was useless. I wondered if my so-called intelligence was even real, if I had been tricking myself into thing it was. I still think all of those things but back then I didn't have anyone to distract me from those thoughts. I had no friends and no one I considered family. Mycroft and I had drifted apart after the previous incident. I had no one. I had no distraction except for my addictions and disorders. I felt as though I couldn't love or trust anyone since my last relationship had gone so badly. I had no purpose. I slit my wrists vertically this time, something I had failed to do last time. No note this time. No call. No last minute regrets. Nothing but the relief of knowing it was over. It was finally over. Or so I thought.

What I didn't know was that Mycroft had been keeping track of me. He had seen me buy the blades. He had seen me slowly getting worse. He tracked my schedule and the second I was late for my trip down to the morgue. He went over to my flat, I lived alone at the time, and found me again. When I woke up he said he was sending me to an inpatient facility to try and help me get better.

The program was supposed to include daily therapy sessions to help with many things, including drug addiction and suicidal thoughts. I begged him not to send me, but the second I was out I was put in a car and sent three hours away to the institution.
Mycroft would visit me three times a week, but for the first two weeks I wouldn't see him. After that I started to get lonely. The plain white of the walls began to drive me insane and I craved something, anything, that was familiar.

He warned me when he said I knew what would happen if it continued, and I did. I can't go back there, anything but that, I can't go back to that place. I had blocked out most of the memories and people there but I knew that it was hell for me. A knock at the door brought me out of the past suddenly, making me jump and almost slip.

"Sherlock you've been in there an hour already!" John shouted from the other side of the door.

"Right, sorry." I grumbled and shut off the water.
I won't go back.
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Hi! Kinda pointless filler chapter but I had this whole thing floating around in my head for a while and I needed to update again. Speaking of updates, I'm going to put out one at the same time as this one so please read on to that because this chapter is long enough (1160 words). Thank you guys so much for reading and sticking with me! XOXO