Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 2

"First of all, why?" John asked impatiently. "Why the fuck would you take a goddamn blade to your own skin?"

"You don't understand-" Sherlock started.

"You're right. I don't understand. So start explaining."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looked down at the blood underneath his fingernails, and began. "When you cut, endorphins are released that put you in a better mood. I use it as a coping mechanism."

"I know the science behind it Sherlock," his voice softened. "I want to know why you would do something like that."

"You really want to know?" Sherlock asked, baffled as to why John would care at all.

"I do. Tell me. Please," he begged, his eyes glistening.

"As you wish. When I was young, perhaps ten years old, people would bully me for being so smart. I would come home every day to my secret stash of razors and cut until I became numb because I deserved it. Because I was stupid and ugly and worthless and people despised me.

"I started hearing voices telling me to kill myself and so I told Mycroft. I was put on medication and it helped the voices, but not anything else. And then I guess it became an addiction. Bad day = cut, good day = cut, it doesn't matter. I cut today for the exact same reasons I did back then." After a long moment of silence, Sherlock slowly raised his head to peer at John. His friend was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, and silent tears falling.

"Why haven't you told me any of this before?" John ventured. "Why keep it secret all this time?"

"I was afraid you'd think me stupid and petty."

"Jesus, Sherlock. I would never have judged you, never. You're my best friend and I don't ever want to lose you. I want to help," he paused, uncertain how to phrase the next sentence. "Have you ever, and this is just a suggestion, have you ever considered, I don't know, counselling?" He had barely finished before Sherlock sprang out of his chair, his face a mix of anger and deep, deep sadness.

"You think I need to be fixed!" he whispered harshly. "Of fucking course you do. You're just like the rest of them, I don't know why I thought you'd be any different." John shrunk back, his eyes showing how hurt he was at Sherlock's last comment.

"No Sherl, of course not. But one day you're going to make a mistake and cut too deep and I'm going to find you half dead on the floor. Do you have any idea what that would to do me?" he squeaked, "Any at all?" John couldn't keep his voice from wobbling, remembering all too well the two years he was left suicidal after Sherlock faked his death.

"If I wanted to kill myself, don't you think I would have done it already? I know the angle to cut, how deep to go and the time it would take. I wouldn't make a petty half arsed attempt at it, I assure you. Or do you think me too stupid to know such things?"

With that, Sherlock stormed downtstairs. John walked to the window and watched his distraught flatmate try to hail a cab. He couldn't help but notice that they both angrily swiped at their tears at the same time.

He staggered away from the window, thoughts of - Sherlock dying for real, cutting his arms while John slept, breaking down at how much he hated himself - repeating in his head. He sunk into his armchair at a loss as to how he was to tell Sherlock about his own secret.