Everyone Has Their Breaking Point

Chapter 3- Household Violence

Happy Reading :3

His eyes slid open and he grabbed one of the items he had stored: his old notebook. On the front, embossed in metal, was one word...

"Sherlock?!" 

 

"Sherlock?!"

 

Sherlock was abruptly pulled out of his memories by a shout. He jumped up out of his chair and as a protective reflex brought his arm up and swung his fist right into the offender's nose. "What the FUCK Sherlock?!" John barked from his new position on the floor, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nostrils.

"John?"

John pulled himself up from the floor whilst glaring at his roommate. "Yes it's John you complete idiot! What the hell were you doing? You HIT me!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning his back walking towards the kitchen. He pulled a mug from the sink and flicked on the kettle. "Yes Dr Watson I am very aware of that fact, I am a detective after all." Sherlock teased bitterly. "I am making a cup of tea would you like one?"

"Hmm? Oh, tea...yes please." John stuttered out of surprise, Sherlock never made him tea. He decided against bringing it up as if he did the consulting detective would never do it again. He threw his coat onto the desk in the living room before sinking  into his arm chair. He touched his nose, sighing at relief when feeling the dried blood. The wound had only been superficial. He checked for anymore damage and came to the conclusion that it was only bruising.

Sitting down, Sherlock passed John his tea whilst taking a sip from his own. The silence went on for a while, John hesitant to start conversation. Sherlock was evaluating his hypothesis on how human skin reacts with different acids when he was interrupted by John.

"So what were you doing when I returned home Sherlock?"

Sherlock sipped his tea, contemplating whether to answer. "I was in my mind palace."

John fiddled with his fingers before returning with "Is everything okay? It's just, I had to call your name a few times before you gave me a knock round the head."

"Yes John I am perfectly fine." Sherlock announced tilting his head.

"Are you sure you are okay? You...you were  shaking Sherlock."

"Yes John I am fine! The real question is are YOU fine?"

"Pardon...?"

"Bad date hey? You were picked up 2 hours ago by your date, the car horn was that of a fiat 500, 2009 model. You returned home in a black cab. You could have just been being a gentleman and offered to make your own way home, but you slammed the taxi door a little too hard."

"Sherlock stop..."

"Fumbling with the keys at the door, swearing under your breath ; both of these are signs of annoyance."

"Stop..."

"Miss Hudson asked you how your date was, you pretended not to hear her why means you are incredibly upset and/or angry..."

"SHUT THE FUCK UP SHERLOCK!" John stood up and walked to the stairs leading to his room. "You really are a machine. I'm sick of being treated like this. When you become less of freak come and talk to me."

Sherlock sat still for around 40 minutes after John left. When he finally concluded that he wasn't returning downstairs he stood up and took calculating steps towards his bedroom. Kicking the door open and shut he then collapsed onto his bed. His mind was busy analysing his and John's argument. He hadn't meant to be mean to John, he was just put on the defence when asked about why he was shaking.

He rotated and stuffed his head deep within the downy pillow. John couldn't know about his decline and flashbacks he was freakish enough without his flatmate knowing about his past. Sherlock fought the suffocation of his pillow for as long as possible before grasping it and throwing it against his back wall. The urge to scream built up inside him but that would cause unwanted attention.

When he was younger he always had Mycroft to run to and talk to. He never hated his brother but when Mycroft left for boarding school Sherlock felt betrayed, he was being left alone with his parents. His parents were very loving and he loved them to pieces, but they never understood him like his brother did. The present rivalry between the siblings was unwanted but Sherlock had never been any good at building bridges.

The urges had been getting stronger lately. He had been clean (on and off) for around 5 years but that was starting to become meaningless. Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined his bedroom within his head. His real bedroom was very minimalistic but the one within his palace was almost a tip. He scouted around in the inside his head before they snapped open. He had found what he had been looking for.  

He jumped off from his bed and walked over to his bathroom. Crouching down under the sink he removed one of the tiles from the wall. Sherlock's hand skirted round in the hollow wall but stopped as his hands came into contact with his familiar wooden box. Replacing the tile, hugging the box to his chest he then returned to his bedroom and plonked himself down onto his bed.

He lowered his shoulders dropping his jacket off behind him onto the duvet. Moving onto his sleeves he fumbled whilst trying to undo the buttons the moved onto the front. Managing to undo half of them Sherlock gave up and slid the garment off his head.

Taking one deep breath he undid the clasp flicked back the lid...