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As far as Sherlock could remember, he had always been bored. It sounded harmless, to the idiots he had tried to explain it to, compared to pain and suffering, but being bored was worse than any pain Sherlock could imagine. It made him desperate, drove him to stupid decisions, all to feel something other than that terrible dusty thing, which seemed to ooze out of and cling to him like sweat.
It had made him try smoking, when he was thirteen. He remembered it well, that day stored safely in his mind palace. His brother hadn't been home, away at uni, probably meddling in some government affair or another, and gone with him was the possibility of being discovered, read like only Mycroft could. So he had swung himself out his window and climbed down the drain in the middle of the night. He'd known it wasn't necessary. He could have easily gone sometime during the day, nobody would have noticed, but back then, the simple thrill of doing something during nighttime, when he was the only one awake, were able to help with his life's tedium, excite him like later only far more dangerous things could. So as he was listening for any noise with the hoodie pulled over his head, sneaking away from the house over the massive lawn, he could already feel the adrenaline cursing through him. This was going to be something new, he had grinned, which was a rare indulgence, something good.
He had been annoyed with his life, with his boring parents and his condescending brother, with his stupid classmates whom he could all read in seconds, who got mad when he deduced them aloud, and with himself, though he would never have admitted it out loud. Because he couldn't seem to handle life, and for Sherlock Holmes to not be able to handle something was a disgrace he, ironically, couldn't handle.
He'd stood in front of the vending machine, considering each brand, until he finally chose the most expensive one. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. The muffled thump of the packet had been like music to his ears, and he hadn't been able to stop the smile on his face as he lit the first cigarette of his life. It had been bitter, of course, but not as bad as he had expected. And he could understand the appeal, how it burned down slowly, how hot it got at the end, when there was almost nothing but the filter left. He had let it burn a little longer, until the ash was touching his finger, and he stubbed it out on the sidewalk.
It had made him try cutting, when he was fourteen. He had watched the blood bead in the thin incision he had made, pool and finally spill, a single drop, like a tear, running down his wrist. Silence. His mind was clear, all the background noise suddenly gone, replaced by focus and bliss. He had stared down at his arm, then drawn another line. It was amazing, he had thought, how little pain he felt. He ought to start conducting experiments on human pain, he'd thought eagerly, categorise it. The next day he would chart it, he'd thought, but this night was his, the pain his pleasure.
It had made him do far worse things, when he was sixteen. Looking back, he wasn't as ashamed as he probably should be, having run away from home to hide in drug dens, used syringes and dirty mattresses all around him, weeks spent in a haze. At most, he was annoyed. With how everyone treated him after, the fear of his parents, the doctor's firm stares and nurse's pity, his brother's cold anger and disappointment. Didn't they understand that he could have stopped whenever? It had been an accident of course, he had taken too much, and it was, in a way, fortunate his brother had found him, though he would never admit that out loud. And then he'd had to do therapy, had to listen to all these people's sob stories, stories he knew just from looking at them anyways, and the worst part was that sometimes, when he got weak and let his guard down, he even felt something like empathy.
It had made him have sex, when he was twenty-two. He had started to get the urge again, to relapse, go back to a den, leave all these idiots behind and feel the bliss of the drug in his system. For once though, he had tried to fight it, and so he'd gone to a bar, in clothes too tight for his comfort, some semi healed scars under his shirt, in the hopes of finding someone willing to... well, have sex with him. He hadn't been nervous, exactly, but he didn't quite know what he felt. A bit of excitement, maybe. People always did say it was good, at least, didn't they? Enjoyable? Women had never really had any influence on him, so he had hoped a gay bar might work better. And there he had gone, early at night, sat down at the counter and ordered water, to keep a clear head.
The man hadn't been very gentle. A good looking guy in his mid twenties, just finishing his law major, planned to work for his father's company, closeted. A dog at home, didn't smoke, two siblings. Those had been the things going through Sherlock's head while the other had slammed into him without regard for his enjoyment, all wetness and absurd sounds that had made Sherlock want to throw up.
He'd walked home that night, his groin hurting, and lit a cigarette, disappointed. He couldn't fathom what people found so appealing about the act, two naked bodies clashing against each other over and over. Sure, he'd thought, it was apparently supposed to be better with feelings, or with pleasure, but it still seemed so disgusting to him. He couldn't understand why anyone would do this regularly, need it even. Either way, he had thought, putting the cigarette out with his shoe, it would probably be useful to his research in some way or another, seeing as people were apparently ready to do all sorts of things for sex. He had glanced back down at the cigarette, a fag stomped out on the ground, like him, really. Huh. Shaking his head, he'd continued his way, surprised by himself. He didn't usually get so sentimental.
He was thinking about those things now, safely tucked away in 221B, perched in his armchair with John making them some food in the kitchen. He hadn't wanted to eat, but John had finally put his foot down and was currently heating up some take out. He could feel the boredom coming, the stimulation of the case they'd solved that morning already wearing off. He went through his options. Drugs were out of the question, cigarettes didn't even make him feel anything anymore, that had stopped long ago. He could conduct an experiment, but what for? Too tedious, he decided. He could cut himself.
The option was appealing for a moment, going back to his room, feeling clean... but that was for when he needed to quiet the voices in his head and right now, he just felt a severe lack of interesting things the voices could be saying. His brother knew, of course. But what was he going to do? In comparison to his drug habits, his 'habit of slicing his arms open', as Mycroft had once put it, was nothing. Other than Mycroft... he wasn't ashamed, per se. But he didn't want people to see, to eat up the fact that the brilliant detective, Sherlock bloody Holmes, was a cutter. He just didn't need any more gossip, he told himself.
At another randomly picked spot in time and space, say 221B Baker Street at 07:25 pm on a Thursday, Sherlock was laying in bed, uncharacteristically in nothing but pyjama pants, yes, he wore pyjamas, and an old t-shirt, with his hands steepled under his chin. He barely heard the knock on the door, or maybe he just chose to ignore it, which didn't matter anyways, because when John entered the room, and started saying something like "Sherlock, Lestrade ca...", he turned quiet quite fast, his eyes on Sherlock's arms.
The detective followed his gaze and after a moment, eyes widening almost imperceptibly, stood up and stepped over to his closet, took out a jumper and pulled it over his head. He never wore jumpers. God. John was going to say something horribly nice and he was going to answer rudely, which he would later feel sorry but be unable to apologise for. What a bother. Why hadn't he just put on something long? Or listened for a knock? Stupid. Now he had to deal with it. Maybe he could ignore it? When he turned back to John, his face was expressionless as usual, as if everything was normal.
"What is it, John?"
His flatmate was still staring at his now clothed arm, but seemed to catch himself, though his speech was slowed. Surprise, shock. Not unexpected, but still annoying.
"Uh... Lestrade called. The guy confessed."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, giving no other indication he'd listened. He had to do something now to prevent John's brain from having enough time to think and potentially ask stupid questions, so he turned on his heel to get out of his room. Well, they were going to talk to the man again. It wasn't going to gather new evidence, he was done with the case, but if he could keep up his irritable and impulsive demeanor, he could pretend everything was normal. As normal as it got, at least. He pushed past John, his stupid heart skipping a beat at the contact, who barely had time to step back, and grabbed his coat from the hanger, his shoes already on for some reason.
"Sherlock! Where-"
He could hear the annoyed sigh behind him, but John rushed after him anyways, as usual.
They were sitting in the living room, John working on his blog and Sherlock seemingly lost in thought. He was trying to drag out his thoughts, make the interesting ones last longer to delay the inevitable onset of boredom. He could feel it looming over him already, like some big, scary accountant ready to start a conversation about the weather or holidays or whatever. John still hadn't said anything, but considering that he'd been holding his tea for three minutes without taking a sip and his blank stare at the computer on his lap, he was gathering the courage to. Eventually, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.
"What?" He asked, hoping his voice to be as calm and unaffected as usual.
"Hm? What?", John answered, looking like a schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn't.
"You haven't moved in two minutes and your eyes are glassy. You want to say something", he observed, feeling somewhat... nervous? John didn't look too happy and when he answered after a few seconds, he sounded like every word he said brought him physical pain, which was a bit ironic.
"Well, you uh- yesterday...", he looked up, now seeming a bit more like the doctor Sherlock knew he was. There was that determination in his eyes, that need to help people. Sympathy. God, Sherlock had had enough of that for a lifetime.
"You cut yourself?"
Sherlock let out a sigh, moving to meet his friend's eyes, which was a huge thing for him, actually paying attention to another human being.
"Don't be absurd, John. Seventeen percent of people will self harm one way or another in their span of life. It's not special." I'm not special, he didn't say.
He could feel his heart racing, even... sweat under his arms? Was he actually anxious? He averted his gaze again, not wanting to look into the other's eyes, because right now, he felt that anyone who looked at him would be able to read him just as well as he usually read others. He could hear John take a deep breath, start saying something nice: "...well, I-"
"John. Drop it."
His voice sounded more sure than he felt. For a long time, he knew, he'd actually just wanted to be forced to talk, some way or another, about how he felt, to not have to be vulnerable by his own choice but to have the truth dragged out of him, to have the choice taken from him. He was tired of making choices. But he could hear John hold his breath, hesitate, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw him turn back to his computer, his blog. Their life, in a way. And Sherlock didn't move, kept his hands steepled under his chin like he always did and he knew he was going to stay like that for a long time, until his thoughts inevitably ran out, and he would do something extremely stupid and reckless, like shooting his wall or chasing a murderer without a weapon or maybe, just maybe, telling John all the things he wanted to be asked. Maybe.