A/N: I switched to first person, present tense for the first part of this chapter. It switches back at the end. Trigger warning for self harm.

I'm sorry

I scratch the words into the table with a letter opener. I'm not sure what I'm apologising for.

Sorry Sherlock killed himself. Sorry I wasn't able to stop him. Sorry John is falling apart. Sorry I don't know how to help him.

My dad's been up in his room all day. He rarely comes down anymore. He hardly eats, except when I bring it up to his room.

I look at my wrists. Faded scars from many years ago, so faint that only I can see them. I stopped cutting after I moved in with John and Sherlock two years ago.

I glance at the letter opener in my hands. The blade whispers of sweet remedies for my suffering, if I only just drag it across my skin. Just like before.

I hold the blade up to the light that shines through from the window and watch the light beams reflect off its surface.

I press the cold metal against my skin, whispers telling me just to slide it across my wrist. I push more firmly into my skin and feel a familiar sting that's like an old friend to me. Ruby drops of blood appear, dotting along the slice I've made. I lift the blade and pull the it across my wrist again slowly, savouring the pain that eases my mind.

Once more, the blade whispers.

"Just once more," I breathe, slashing my wrist a third time.

But I've started and now I can't make myself stop. A fourth, a fifth.

The pain numbs my mind. A sixth, a seventh.

It fills the emptiness with a new feeling. Thirteen, fourteen.

I don't want to stop. Twenty, twenty-one.

Rubies drip from the blade onto the coffee table. Twenty-five, twenty-six.

Press a bit deeper, whispers the blade. I can make it all go away. Everything. No more pain, no more sorrow. Forever.

That snaps me out of it.

The blade falls out of my hand and hits the floor. I look at my wrist, horrified by what I've done. Blood flows from my wrist onto the floor.

Suddenly I hear footsteps making their way down the stairs. Panic floods me. I grab some napkins and try to quickly clean up the blood that stains the coffee table and the floor. I stash the letter opener in my pocket and pull on my sweatshirt to hide my wrist.

My dad walks down the stairs into the living room. He looks at me strangely. I hold my bleeding wrist in my other hand and stand up to leave.

John stares at the coffee table for a moment and I hope he hasn't noticed the blood. I didn't do a very thorough job of cleaning it.

"Hamish," John says softly. I don't turn around. "You haven't seen my letter opener, have you?" he asks. I don't answer. He knows.

"Hamish," he says still softly, but a bit more firmly. I pull the letter opener out of my pocket and look at the red stains across the silver blade. Without turning around, I hand it to him. "Hamish, sit down. Let me see your wrist."

I sit down on the sofa and roll up my sleeve, tears building up in my eyes.

"Jesus…" he whispers. He looks at me sadly. "Why?" I start crying and he hugs me protectively.

"It's…all my fault…" I cry into his shoulder. "Sh-Sherlock's dead…and you're broken and I don't…know how to fix… you…"

"It's not your fault." John looked at Hamish, tears now built up in his own eyes. In all his grief from Sherlock's death he'd almost completely forgotten about Hamish. He'd never once asked Hamish if he was okay, or if he needed to talk. In fact, this was the first time he'd held Hamish since Sherlock's death.

"Oh God…" said John quietly. "I'm so sorry, Hamish," he said, squeezing him slightly. "I'm so so sorry. I love you." He kissed the top of Hamish's head. He let go of Hamish for a moment. "Come on, first aid kit's in the bathroom. Let's go get you cleaned up, alright?" They stood and John hugged Hamish again.