A/N This is only part one, if you like it please review and I'll post the next part. Thanks :)

He was going to punch Mycroft next time he came anywhere near him. He had no right what so ever to tease him over the boy he liked. Stupid Mycroft. Although deep down Sherlock couldn't help but think the things his horrid brother had said were was no good for John. John Watson would never be interested in a shy and broken soul like him. Being in his last year of sixth form Sherlock had given up hope at any attempt of friendship with John, let alone anything else. Flopping down on the large four poster bed he gave a long sigh, blinking furiously to try to stop the tears from escaping. Mycroft was right, he was delusional and pathetic. Curling up onto his side his eyes scanned the room, landing on a small locked drawer in his desk. He knew he shouldn't but it felt so nice. Stepping quietly across the bare oak floor he sat in front of the drawer. Breathing heavily he retrieved the key to it, which was underneath a pile of books to the left of the desk. Sliding the old brass key into the lock he twisted it until there was a light click. Closing his eyes he placed his long fingers either side and gently tugged the drawer open, the was a brief squeak from the wood which made him flinch. Getting up onto his knees he peered inside.

Reaching into the dark space he pulled out a packaged wrapped up in a piece of cotton. Standing up, he carried the package to his bed, drawing the curtains around him. He sat cross-legged on the soft sheets and placed the cotton wrapped box in front of him. It had felt like an eternity since he had laid eyes upon it, but who was he kidding he knew it had been more recent than he cared to mention. Undoing the cotton surround revealed a small wooden box. But not just any small wooden box, this box contained the tools of Sherlock's darkest secret. Flicking the little gold latch open he pushed the lid of the box open and gazed intently at the contents. Each piece of his kit was arranged in alphabetical order. Rolling up the sleeve on his purple shirt he decided on the small razor blade. Tracing over fading scars he sighed again. He needed this, this made him feel alive. Pressing the cold metal onto the pale skin of his lower arm his breath hitched as he dragged the blade across, which spilled out crimson droplets in its wake.

He stopped himself after 5 more cuts, the blade was dripping with blood and so was Sherlock's arm. Pulling the cotton wrapping out from under the box he held the material over his cuts. Pressing down hard to stop the bleeding quicker, as the white fabric was turning a dark red colour. There was a slot in the box where he kept large plasters, grabbing two of them and gently placing them over the fresh wounds his breathing started to slow down. He carefully rolled his sleeve back down started to undo the shirt off and replacing it with a long-sleeved jersey. He didn't want to risk Mycroft seeing as that would make his situation ten times worse. He hid the bloodstained cloth under his bed. He would deal with it in the morning. He placed the box back in its secret hiding place and locked the drawer. But instead of replacing the key he held onto it and slipped it into his blazer pocket. There was no way he was leaving this in his room. Not after tonight. He would have to make sure that he was up before Mycroft in the morning so he could shower without prying eyes. Now it was time to sleep, he was exhausted. There where lessons he had to attend tomorrow. Ones he couldn't miss.

Pulling the soft white towel around his shoulders tightly he surveyed the hallway. All clear. He made a dash for his bedroom,
making sure to keep his steps as light as possible so as not to disturb anyone else as it was still rather early. When he reached the large oak door to his room he carefully slipped inside and closed the door with a soft click. Running his hands through his wet hair he glanced down at the cuts, he would need another plaster before school. And he had to dispose of the fabric under his bed. He rummaged around the back of his wardrobe where he kept spare plasters and stuck two more over the marks. That should hold it. Dragging a fresh shirt out he started to dress, making sure he had buttoned his cuffs securely. Sliding his arm into the blazer he stood and looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. Pale. Skinny. Mess. The only words he could think of to describe himself. No John would never want him. He rubbed his temples and decided now was a good time to get some breakfast. Exiting the room he slowly descended to the kitchen, where he was greeted by the smug face of his brother. Dressed in a dark pin stripe suit Mycroft Holmes looked out of place in the old kitchen, perched on a stool at the breakfast he greeted the younger Holmes with a sly smile.

Sherlock glared at him from the doorway and proceeded to look extremely interested in the selection of cereals their mother had.
He heard the stool scrape across the floor and the light clack of Mycroft's patent shoes. He turned to look as his brother left the kitchen. Bastard. He knew what he was doing, tormenting Sherlock without saying anything. Mycroft knew just how to make a person hurt with a single look, a skill he had perfected over the years. Dropping the box of frosted flakes on the counter he groaned loudly, someone had left the milk out all night and it had gone decidedly lumpy. Which was accompanied by a rather revolting smell. Toast it is then. Depressing the lever on the toaster he turned and lent on the cold worktop. He was lost in thought when the toast popped up and startled him, blushing he reached for the butter dish and spread the salty gunk on the bread until it had melted into it. It only took him 3 bites to realise. And he threw the toast in the bin and coughed. Chugging down a glass of water to fill his stomach he grabbed his school bag and stalked to the front door. He shouted goodbye but it fell on deaf ears. Cracking open the door he slipped out into the cool September air and begrudgingly started the walk to school.

The cool morning air rushed past him, making his still damp hair stick to his face. He was nearing the gates when he spotted the small blonde head of John Watson. Dressed in smart trousers and cream jumper he looked delicious, even on a chilly morning. He was with Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper, Sherlock had spent time with Molly before. She was his chemistry partner in year 10. She was a nice enough girl, a little shy but always friendly and accommodating. Whereas Greg was a few years older than him, he was resitting his A Levels. He was on the football team with John and they sat next to each other in English. He also seemed a nice enough boy. Digging his hands into his pockets he pulled his eyes away from John and his friends and entered the gates. Taking the familiar route to his form classroom he started to daydream, about John of course.
He only noticed what he was doing when he walked straight into a wall and a gaggle of year 8's giggled at him. Stupid children have no respect. He shot them a piercing glance and they shut up quickly.

For once Sherlock was glad for the lunch bell, the loud penetrating ring brought him back. He'd been off thinking about John again instead of finishing his English essay. He heard Greg shift in his seat and he looked at him. Greg smiled and said it's lunch. Sherlock nodded. He started to pack his belongings into his school bag when Greg started to speak again.
'So Sherlock, did you understand anything she was talking about?' and he gestured towards the teacher. Sherlock was rather taken aback as the boy hadn't spoken to him since the start of term. 'Urm not really I wasn't listening.' his voice came out in a kinda of squeak, and he flushed scarlet. 'Me either, so what are you doing for lunch?' Greg asked with a bright smile. 'Nothing, probably going to the library.' Sherlock said. Looking down at the table, expecting Greg to just shrug him off and go back to not speaking to him. But to his surprise he offered him an invitation to the lunch table he shared with Molly and John. Sherlock looked at him wide-eyed.
'It's okay if you don't want to, it's just I always see you on your own and you know.' Greg looked embarrassed but Sherlock blushed further.
'Maybe another time, I've got a lot of homework to do. Chemistry exam next week.' 'Okay, well just let me know.' Greg still beaming, packed his things away and said goodbye. Sherlock let out the breath he didn't know he was holding and stood up from his seat. Stupid. He had just declined and invitation to spend an hour in close company with John. That was it. No lunch today. Not for stupid people.

Sitting in the library he tried to ignore the rumbles from his stomach and focus on the Chemistry text book. But it was starting to become painful so he drained his water bottle, which subdued the pain for a while. He had Chemistry all afternoon so he could use it to take his mind off things. He liked to use the desk at the back of the room so he could concentrate, it was hard to do today though as he kept playing lunch scenarios over and over in his mind. And was glad when the final bell rang. The temperature hadn't improved much since the morning and he wrapped his blazer tighter around his body. He saw John again at the gates, he stood for a moment but this was a mistake as Greg came up behind him and slapped his shoulder. 'Hey Sherlock!' Did his face constantly have that ridiculous smile? 'Up to anything fun tonight?' he asked.
'Just more homework, Chemistry.' Sherlock felt rather uncomfortable as Greg's arm was still on his shoulder. 'Well here take my number, if you ever wanna hang out just give me a text' He handed Sherlock a small piece of paper with the digits and GREG LESTRADE written in block capitals. All Sherlock could do was smile and nod as he slipped the paper into his blazer pocket. He couldn't help but wonder why he was so desperate for his attentions, when he would much rather it be his shorter friend. He watched him as he approached John, they appeared to get straight into a discussion. Most likely about football. He sighed and began walking home.

He was happy about the way meal times were conducted in his house, it was get it yourself or go hungry. Which made it exponentially easier for him to skip meals. Bypassing the kitchen completely he made his way straight upstairs,
pulling a clean towel out of the airing cupboard on his way. Once he reached the landing he was glad the bathroom was empty because he wanted a long uninterrupted shower. He entered the spacious bathroom and placed the towel on the heated rail. Tugging his clothes off he turned on the shower. A hot jet of water spurted out the head and then slowed into a steady stream. He caught a glimpse of himself in the large mirror and stood for a moment in his boxers. Staring at the faded red scars on his upper arm and the sharp hip bones jutting from his skin. He traced around the bones and flinched. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, not matter how hard he tried he would never be happy with himself. All he saw was a fat,
scarred lowlife, even though he knew he was painfully skinny he couldn't shake this image. Shaking his head he moved away from the mirror and stepped into the warmth of the shower, letting the water pour over him and take away from everything.