"Ah, Jonathan. You're back early." Sherlock commented, nonchalantly shutting the laptop he held. It was a long shot to hope for a reply; John barely even cast a glance in Sherlock's direction as he entered the room. "She's just a female, John, everything heals in time, etcetera..." He uttered, not an ounce of sympathy in his voice,

John just sighed in response, practically throwing himself onto the leather armchair,

"Cheer up, Jo-"

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John groaned, snatching the television remote from the arm of the chair with the intent to watch terrible entertainment, "What's wrong with the tv?" he mumbled, relentlessly pressing the ON button, but getting no response from the grey screen.

"Needed a fuse,"

"And you couldn't have taken one from any other electrical appliance in the house?" John's voice got gradually louder, anger evident in his tone,

"We need every other electrical appliance in the house." Sherlock sighed "I think keeping the freezer running is far more important than you getting to watch the latest episode of mediocre, irritating commercialized human beings with their cliché 'dreams' of being pop stars."

"Well it's not like we use the freezer for freezing food is it?" John yelled, getting to his feet,

"Extremely useful though," Sherlock said, blatantly disregarding John's infuriation,

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm not in the mood for this, tonight! You are aware that there's two of us living here aren't you?"

"I do notice it now and again."

"Sometimes I am sick of you, Sherlock! Your silly experiments, and the lack of space you give me. And the stupid sociopathy! You could just pretend you care, for once."

"I think you should get some rest, John." He answered, his voice as monotone as he could possibly it. Sherlock couldn't be less considerate about John's recent breakup; at least any normal human being would assume that. If it were Sherlock studying himself, or even his older sibling, Mycroft, it wouldn't be too difficult to see Sherlock's desperation to stay calm, for his voice to not crack the tiniest bit, for him not to be affected by John's anger. In fact, Sherlock desperately wished he could comfort John, but he couldn't, he knew what comfort consisted of. He would like to think it's because he would like to retain his emotionless 'dignity' but the truth was, he was terrified of John. He was terrified of having the job of being close to John, to have to offer him comforting words, to tell him there would be other girls out there for him, other girls to occupy his thoughts. And he always assumed after the inevitable break up of John and Sarah he would be somewhat pleased, yet he was only thirty minutes into the breakup and he was certain of how his night would end, like every other night John had a date.

John didn't say a word, turning on his heel climbed up the stairs, rather heavy footed.

Midnight, it was midnight. John was certainly asleep now, asleep and bathed in tears probably. Sherlock couldn't pretend not to hear the sobs, and he couldn't pretend they didn't hurt him too. The tears were inevitable, John and Sarah had been together a good seven months, and the doctor had clearly grown rather attached to this female.

Sherlock followed the footsteps John had taken up the stairs not a few hours before, but Sherlock wasn't destined for John's bedroom, nor his own. The bathroom at the end of the corridor with the glassy, olivaceous doorknob that took a few twists to work and a rusty lock that often got stuck.

The lovely dull while bathroom, and Sherlock's usual seat, on the glossy tiles of the floor that chilled his whole body. And the pine basket of unused towels, that had been there since the day they had moved in. At the bottom of the basket, under a heap of ratty fabric there sits a knife.

The drugs Sherlock used, the morphine and cocaine, they were impossible to use anymore, even for Sherlock. John could immediately tell of their effects and how often Sherlock used them, which led to threats, threats to call the police, to call his brother. All which were sincere.
But the knife, the knife was Sherlock's new drug. Or more likely an old drug, as a teenager, Sherlock never knew the pleasures of drugs; he could never get a hold of drugs. Yet, as a teenager and a child and even into adulthood Sherlock knew the hurt of being different, looked at wrongly, thinking differently, being abnormal; the efficiency of hiding emotions and hiding behind an excuse of sociopathy. And when it all came down to being desperately alone in his bedroom, he never cried, and outside he never had an excuse to roll up his sleeves.

And to come back to where he was again, he was ashamed. Ashamed he had no other way to dispose of emotions, or to suppress his feelings for John. Because it had become quite obvious to him now, he was in love with John. John, the only one who could tolerate him, who found him fascinating rather than a freak, he was the only one that cared, that cared of Sherlock's health. Yet only his doctor, only ever his doctor and John could never have feelings for Sherlock.

The blade was still sharp after all these years, since being a twelve year old boy staining his pastel green bed sheets and saying he had had a nosebleed during the night.

He rolled up the expensive white shirt sleeve, revealing many faded scars amongst fading scars upon his porcelain wrists. Vengefully tracing the scars with the blunt side of the knife, his hand was visibly shaking with anticipation and the flesh on his wrist seemed to tingle ever so slightly, as though it were beckoning him to do what he felt he needed to do.

He could hide the fact John was never going to love him, John was straight, John liked women, John couldn't stand Sherlock sometimes. Sherlock was still the same freak he had always been.

And he cut the flesh, a week of yearning and urges and itchy cuts all came down to this, the glorious feeling of the chill of the metal slicing through his skin, burning his wrist, and the spectacular crimson that stained his skin. He didn't want to love John, John wouldn't want to be loved by Sherlock and he wanted John to know he was sorry, but there was no other way to apologise.

He cut again, deep and again, all suppressed rage and hurt and pining was being released, and it felt too good, and again. His breathing grew heavy and loud, and again. He winced, yet not in pain and he almost laughed to himself, and again, so foolish, like the red haired teenage girl that had just been faced by the prejudice white haired popular girls. And again, the anguish draining from him and the colour draining from his cheeks. It was over, he had killed the hurt, and it was gone, until next time, until he felt the same again. And again, John would never know how Sherlock felt for him, and it would stay that way. And in the end it all welled up to these very moments and again...

And again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again... until the blade clattered helplessly to the floor.

"...Sherlock?"