I'm back! From my year long break… woah no posts or anything since January… Just been busy with life. Yeah this isn't as good as it could be but it's late and I want to practice writing before I start up anything else again. Thank you for reading. Sherlock always came across to me as a cutter. Maybe if I continue it will most definitely turn in to Johnlock haha…

Sherlock hissed as the blade pressed against his skin. The metal was cold, like ice against his warm flesh but he had to do this. He gritted his teeth. It had been too long, they had begun to fade… The urge was too strong this time, screaming at him. His body ached for it. He had to cut… he NEEDED to. His arm was too bare, his boredom too great.

He sat – or rather slumped- in his chair. The quietness of the flat was driving him insane. John had been gone for ages. Now he was sitting with a knife at his arm, submitting to an old addiction he had visited many times before and had hoped never to return to.

He pressed down harder on the knife and dragged across his naked snow white arm. Outside London hummed. The drone of normal life irritated him. Made him feel sick. The world was moving too slow for his liking. Everyone slow, stupid, wasting away, their pitiful existence revolving around sleeping eating and working. He wasn't like that. He was different, he was special. And they hated him for it. Why didn't they understand?! It's not so hard really.

The anger spurred him on and he added more pressure to the knife. Dragging more firmly across his arm a droplet of red blood seeped to the surface. Then another, soon they joined creating a pretty line of neat red across his arm. His heart rate slowed all the thoughts that were whirling round his head at a million miles an hour slowed to a steady rate. He let out a breath of relief. For a few seconds he was at peace. The world caught up to him. He was okay. But it was quickly over as he scowled at the small cut. The blood had started to dribble down his arm; he resisted the urge to wipe it. He sat there; admiring it. The way the colour looked so violent against his skin.

It wasn't deep enough. It never was. Gritting his teeth again he set the knife inside the cut and pressed dragging I out longer, this time he felt it, a stinging sensation rippled through his arm and through his body. He let a groan escape through his pressed lips but it didn't deter him. He concentrated on the pain. He kept pressing until the small knife was dripping with blood, oozing with the thick liquid. He felt relief wash over him. He lean his arm over the arm of his chair and let the knife drop to the floor. He barely heard the sound of it drop. Everything was dull now, just the pain remained. His old friend, his comfort when he came home from school limping, his while body battered and smothered in bruises from boys who were just trying to "toughen him up". Where he would lay on his bed unable to cry tears he so badly wanted to cry. He was broken. Dying inside. Rejected from everyone. Everything. He numbed them all out, he didn't have any choice. If he didn't he would only get hurt all over again. What was the point in letting people in only for them to shut you out? His only comfort was in the blades that let him bleed out what he was feeling inside. If others could hurt him then he could hurt himself.

He remembered the rush of his first cut, the constant urge he had since then pulling at him at the slightest thing. The panic of his scars fading, the redness going… those were the worst feelings.

He opened his eyes mid thought to look at his arm. Blood was trickling down to his finger tips now. He couldn't stop a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Something about seeing the blood made him light up inside-

"Sherlock?!" came a shocked and horrified yelp from the doorway.

Sherlock jerked, his whole body trembled and he whipped his arm behind his back. Angry but flustered, he couldn't stop himself from blushing, his body was now hot with emotion. John stood in the doorway, key in hand mouth wide open and a hurt, confused expression on his face. Sherlock felt something in him stir, he didn't like seeing John like this… he wasn't supposed to find out…

This could take some explaining.