Sherlock hated that word.

So that was how John thought of him? As a colleague?

Even when he was a child, Sherlock had never had many friends. In uni, the closest thing he had to a friend was Sebastian, and he had never been much of a friend after the first few months; always calling Sherlock a freak and making him show off for his real friends.

And now, the one person who had actually been willing to come within ten feet of him, not to mention live with him, had denied their friendship.

It hurt more than Sherlock cared to admit.

He sunk down on his bedroom floor, hands shaking. Silent tears fell from his eyelashes.

I haven't cried since I was eight years old.

What's wrong with me?

John stepped into the kitchen, loaded down with bags and wishing that for once Sherlock would get off his lazy arse and help him.

"Sherlock!" he hollered. "Help would be appreciated!"

No reply.

John sighed and hoisted the bags up onto the counter.

Sherlock stared down at his arm, a stretch of clean, unmarred alabaster skin. In his other hand he held a thin razor blade.

He hadn't done this since he was in uni, since before his brother had forced him off the drugs.

The old scars were still there, on his other arm.

He saw himself in the mirror and gave a twisted smile.

Déjà vu.

When he had first arrived at the university, Sherlock had no friends. He spent most of his time in the library, reading books about homicide investigation and chemical formulae.

He had met Sebastian purely by accident.

One afternoon, Sherlock was heading back to his dorm after cutting advanced chemistry (he already knew everything the professor was teaching, and really, what was the point of attending a class he wasn't going to get anything out of?). In the hallway, he ran into another student.

Quite literally.

Both boys scrambled to pick up the books they had been carrying, trying to avoid being discovered by any teachers who happened to be wandering the halls.

Sherlock, once he had all his books, had nodded curtly and turned, intending to disappear and try to avoid this boy for the rest of his life. However, the other boy, looking around to make sure no one else was around, grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him around behind a nearby pillar.

"What are you doing out of class, klutz? Why are you wandering the hallways?" The other boy gave him a stern glare. "Causing trouble?"

Sherlock yanked his shirt out of the other boy's grip. "At least I'm not a library aid sneaking out to shag my girlfriend in the teacher's lounge!"


Sherlock knew, at that moment, that he was completely screwed.

The other boy stopped for a moment. Then, to Sherlock complete surprise, he laughed.

"You're pretty smart, aren't you, kid?" he asked, amused. "Okay, go on, tell me; how'd you figure it out?"

Sherlock straightened his too-small suit coat. "You're carrying a stack of books from the library. They've been marked discontinued, so you've used that as an excuse to get into the teacher's lounge. You know that no professor is free this hour, so you've arranged for your girlfriend to meet you there. No doubt you're hoping to get a good shag, but I'm afraid that she's only coming to tell you that she's been seeing another boy."

Sherlock drew in a long breath. Now he was really screwed.

However, the other boy surprised him yet again. "Well…that was impressive,…"

Sherlock stuck out his hand. "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The other boy nodded. "Sebastian Wilkes. It's good to meet you."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairlines. No one had ever said it was good to meet him before.

Sebastian scribbled something on the inside cover of one of the discontinued books and handed it to Sherlock.

"My number," he said casually. "Call me sometime and we'll hang out."

He shifted the books in his arms and stepped out from behind the pillar. He stopped to check for teachers and then continued down the hall as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock watched him go.

Once Sebastian was out of sight, he looked down at the book in his hands. He opened it up.


You're pretty awesome. Wanna hang out sometime?



The book was about social disorders.

How appropriate.

Sherlock stared down at the tattered, torn book in his hands. He had read it over and over, finally diagnosing his condition as high-functioning sociopath.

The note was still there, on the inside cover, written in Sebastian's wobbly pen script many years ago.

Sherlock's vision was blurred by tears as he dropped the book to the floor and lifted the razor to his arm with a shaky hand.

A drop of blood fell onto the open book.

This is for you, Sebastian.

John finished putting away the shopping and sat down in his chair, picking up his book.

After ten minutes of reading the same paragraph, he set it down and ran his hands through his hair.

He couldn't get Sherlock's face out of his mind.

He thought back to earlier that day. Thought back to Sherlock's face as Sebastian described their uni days.

John was definitely no master at reading human emotions, but for just a second even he had seen that sad, forlorn look on Sherlock's face.

It had torn at his heart. And made him want to murder Sebastian for ever causing his friend any pain.

But it couldn't have been just that, could it? Sally called him a freak all the time and it never seemed to gain that kind of a reaction from him.

He thought back, back to the beginning of the conversation.

"This is my friend, John Watson."


John's blood ran cold when he remembered the next words that had come out of his mouth.



Sherlock's head lolled back onto his shoulders. Blood ran in scarlet rivulets down his arm onto the book. Fifteen small, shallow cuts up the length of his arm.

It was just transport. It would scab over and, eventually, heal.

There would always be a scar, though. To remind him how worthless he was. To remind him that no one was really his friend.

Then, he would do it all over again.

He brought the razor to his arm once more.

I have to apologize.

John couldn't believe himself. How could he have said that?

John, you bastard.

He'd known all along how much it really hurt Sherlock when people called him a freak. Even if it didn't show on his face, the detective was always hurting.

John stood up, hands shaking in anger at himself. He walked calmly over to Sherlock's door, trying to compose himself.

Sherlock's hands shook from blood loss as he made another cut above the others.

Twenty cuts.


His eyes fluttered.

John hesitated a moment. What if Sherlock was really mad at him?

Admit it, Watson. You can't live without Sherlock Holmes.

John knocked firmly on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Sherlock?" he said quietly. "I…I think we need to talk. I have some…apologizing to do."

Sherlock's ears perked up when he heard John's voice.


"I…I think we need to talk."

"I have some…apologizing to do."

Sherlock gasped and struggled to sit up. All of a sudden, the corners of his vision wavered. He sank back down, feeling lightheaded and nauseous.


Help me, John, I'm dying!


John frowned. Why wasn't Sherlock responding?

"Sherlock?" he asked, concerned. He knocked on the door again. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"J-Johhhn…" A strangled moan came from inside.

John knew instantly that something was wrong. He backed up and positioned himself a few feet from the door.

"Sherlock, I'm going to break the door down. Get out of the way."


John can't come in here, you idiot! Do you want him to see you like this?

Sherlock's head tilted onto his shoulders.

Why not? He won't care.

But what if he does?

What if, after he finds out what you've done, he hates you?

What are you going to do then, Holmes?

Because you need John Watson.

You can't live without him.

Can you?

Sherlock didn't know. Not anymore.

John hit the door hard, breaking it off its hinges.

No sound came from within.

John stepped cautiously into the room. "Sherlock?"

His eyes traveled the room. The lights were off, the room completely dark. Dim sunset light shaded in from the living room, sending dust up in golden swirls.

In the corner, a dark shape lay huddled, unmoving.

Oh, Jesus.

John picked his way through small piles of clothes and science experiments towards the figure.

"Sherlock?" He knelt down next to the figure and carefully shook his shoulder. "Sherlock, I need to know if you're okay. Sherlock?" He carefully pulled the detective's figure over so that he was facing upwards…

And got the scare of his life.

Sherlock's body was covered with blood.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he swore. "What have you done?"

That was when he noticed the cuts.

Oh, god. This is my fault.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "J'hn." He was shaking badly. "J'hn…I'm…sho shorry…."

"No, Sherlock." John said firmly as he pulled off his jumper and pressed it to Sherlock's bloody arm. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"…ishn't your fault, J'hn…" Sherlock's voice was far too weak.

"I know. I know." John said. He pulled out his phone and began to dial 999.

"NO!" Sherlock yelled, reaching for the phone. "No h'spital, J'hn! Please!"

John hesitated for a moment. Sherlock had actually said please; that had to mean something.

He put down his phone and nodded. "Okay. But you're going to do exactly as I say. Right?"

Sherlock nodded. His face was far too pale for John's liking.

John wrapped the jumper more tightly around Sherlock's arm. He helped the detective up and out of the room, up towards John's room. Up there was John's doctor kit.

John propelled Sherlock up the stairs. He knew that, at some point, he would have to talk to Sherlock about this problem.

But not now. Now was not the time for this discussion.

Now was the time to make sure his best friend didn't bleed out all over the stairs.

A/N; Holy bananas...I have no idea where the hell this came from.

Actually, it's much like The Only Man He Could Ever Love in the fact that it was a oneshot for my story Teaspoons Of Sherlock that raged out of control. As in, major raging. I mean, this is only the first chapter, peoples! O.O

Dark stuffs here, people. Self-harm depression, more self-harm, angst, even more self-harm, guilt...did I mention the self harm?

Don't like? Don't read. Do like? Welcome to the mind palace, my friend :D

British people; did I do my phone number right? I literally went to the online white pages and typed in Sebastian Wilkes, and that was the number that came up, so I took it and hoped for the best. If I didn't do it right, would you be so kind as to drop a review or message and give me the right stuff? Thank you :)

For those of you who, like me, have dark, twisted minds and are in love with Sherlock, read and review! Reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft...stuff of the gods ;)