Sherlock preferences

They find out you self-harmed

A/n - trigger warning guys... Sorry for all the heavy chapters recently. I promise I'll do a happy one next! This chapter is kind of a oneshot which is unrelated to any other previous chapters. remember, if you ever feel like self harming, ask yourself; do I have a house? Am I warm? Do I have family? Do I have food? Do I go to school? If the answer is yes to any of those things, you have more than most people do... Be grateful and please, don't hurt yourself, you are also hurting the ones you love... ❤️
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Sherlock-
You tugged your black sleeve down over your wrist as you exited the bathroom. The concealment you held beneath the fabric was delicate and painful, a mark of your instability. Recently, you had managed to do it quickly. Bathroom, slice, slice, slice, bandage, flush toilet, sleeve down, done. Nobody would ever know...
This particular Sunday, Sherlock was not perched on his chair like he usually was. Instead, he was ferociously tapping on his laptop keyboard, eyes sparkling with the glow from the screen. The light cast striking shadows across his face, his mysterious cheekbones plunged out from the darkness into the white sheen. You were baking in the kitchen, raspberry tarts to be exact. You were half way through chopping the fleshy fruits when you got the urge and disappeared. Sherlock barely stirred... Does he even care?...
You returned to your station and finished lacerating the pink berries before tipping them into a bowl and rolling out the pastry. The percussive background tapping ceased for a few moments and you were startled as Sherlock appeared suddenly at your side.
"Geez Sherlock! What are you doing?" You placed your hand on your chest, noting the whirr of your pulse elevate. He looked into your face while reaching up to retrieve a mug from the top cabinet,
"Tea?" He inquired
"Oh, yes, thank you." You grinned, placing the rolling utensil to one side.
Sherlock suddenly caught a glimpse of a red liquid leeching into your hand.
"Oh well done clumsy! You've gone and got raspberry juice all over your hands. Here, I'll get it." Before you had time to react, he gently grabbed your wrist. You had no choice but to wince at his touch; gritting your teeth and inhaling sharply.
"(Y/n)?..." Sherlock pried "are you alright?
You bit your lip and nodded unconvincingly as white-hot tears framed your wide, wild eyes. You tried to withdraw your wrist but Sherlock held on.
"(Y/n)... I can't believe I'm saying this but... Show me your arm"

"What?"

"Show it to me"

"I'm fine, really!"

"That's not what I asked is it?... I asked you to show me your arm."

...

"(Y/n)... Please..."

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten like a vice and your throat close like a zip. Your body stiffened with fear.
Slowly and with a shudder of timid apprehension, you reached your right hand across and began to lift up your baggy, black sleeve. Your bandage had soaked completely through. The game was up. You had been too careless... Now he knew. Sherlock could do nothing but stare. He raised his hands up and dragged them through his messy curls before gently cradling your forearm and unraveling the bandage. Three, crimson scores stood out on a plane of smudged, half dry blood. They were the freshest in a graveyard of others. Twenty, thirty, maybe even more stood in a regimental line, all gained from fear. Sherlock's breathing shallowed as he looked up into your eyes, still holding your damaged appendage like an antique vase or crystal ornament.
"(Y/n)... How?..." He sniffed, eyes reddening like a poker in a fire "how did this happen...? I thought you were happy..."
You took back your arm, holding it tight against your own chest and choking as you spied Sherlock's hands now, too, blood-soaked.
"I can't trust anyone..." You whispered, hoping he wouldn't hear.
"What do you mean?"