Warnings: Self-harm (cutting), Eventual Johnlock slash (Rating could go up), Unbeta'd, and I'm not British

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

More notes at the end of Chapter.

'This is it.' He thinks to himself. He picks up the knife and looks at his reflection in its glistening surface. He looks down at himself with self loathing and begins to think back to all the times they had had together. He bitterly laughs when he realizes that he was the one to ruin it all. His grip tightens further on the knife and his eyes harden and his body runs cold. 'This is it.'

When Sherlock was 15 he began cutting. He didn't intentionally do it the first time. The first time was in fact an accident. He was working on an experiment, on a cloudy Saturday morning, with a small kitchen knife that he was using to scrape the slime off of stones in the pond that was just outside of the Holmes' manor. He was just finishing with the last sample when the knife slips and knicks his wrist. He drops the stone and knife and races inside in order to stop the minor bleeding. Once he is clean, and back in his room looking at the samples he has collected, he realizes he can't concentrate on anything other than the adrenaline surging through his veins based upon one little cut. He pushes the thought away for future examination and goes back to work. Little did he know that this was not the last time he would feel the knife piercing his skin.

When Sherlock turned 16 he knew something was wrong with him. The other children would taunt him endlessly. "Sherlock is a freak, Sherlock is weird, or Sherlock is a machine" Each day he could feel the taunts seeping deeper and deeper into his skin. Sure, he could pretend that everything was alright at school, but when he got home...that was a different matter.

When he got home, he would go into his bathroom and stare at his reflection. 'Why am I treated this way? Why do I deserve this?' He started hating himself, and one day, when they were being particularly cruel, he came home crying. Sherlock took up his place in front of his bathroom mirror and looked on in disgust. He looked at his red rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, wild, untenable hair and hated. He picked up a hairbrush and threw it at the mirror. The glass shattered and the broken pieces landed on the counter and the floor. With tears running down his face, he picked up a shard, looked at it briefly, before putting it against his skin and made a small cut along the inside of his wrist. He Didn't regret it. In fact, he thought that it had felt good. He made another small line and then another, until he had three small cuts running across his wrist. He had never felt so alive.

Sherlock never had friends outside of his blades. Each insult hurled his way caused him to become reacquainted with his poisonous friends. He hates himself and now he has decided to end it. At age 19 Sherlock takes out his razor blade and cuts as deep as he can. He can feel the blood oozing out of the deep incision and he laughs. He finally feels relief. He finally believes that it will all be over, but right before he passes out he hears his name being called. Sherlock couldn't really care at this point and closes his eyes with a deep satisfied smile. 'This is it' and Sherlock loses consciousness.

Notes: I have no idea if this will even be read. I hope to get positive feedback, but even if I don't, I hope to get feedback. Let me know what you think so far. I want to get better at writing and any tips will be appreciated. Also, I wrote this for some friends of mine who are struggling with Self-harm so, this is dedicated to them.