Sherlock's secret

CHAPTER 8

SHERLOCK'S POV

John entered the room just as Sherlock was about to snap at his brother.

"You called him?" he accused, turning his head to face John.

"Of course I bloody did," a look of confusion on his face.

"Of course he bloody did." Sherlock had almost forgotten Mycroft was there. John backed out of the room awkwardly, muttering something about privacy along the way.

Despite pretending to be tough and impenetrable, Sherlock knew otherwise. He knew Mycroft had feelings, though he tried to hide them. Much the way he tried to himself, he realized. The older Holmes brother didn't know, but Sherlock once saw a crack in his facade; just after his boyfriend of four years left him. And a similar crack was showing right now.

Tired, worried, scared, annoyed, frustrated, were all the things Sherlock saw when he looked at his brother.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock? How are the...wrists?" His voice wavered a bit on the word 'wrists'.

"Fine." he replied tersely, once again feeling guilty for causing pain in other people. "I'm...fine."

Mycroft sat down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "You could have come to be, Sherl. I'm your brother, for God's sake." He paused, sighing. Mycroft composed himself, his blank face back again. "When did it start again?" All business.

"It. Never. Stopped." Sherlock admitted through gritted teeth. The anger in his voice surprised even himself. During the tense, silent moments that followed, he realized it was because Mycroft hadn't noticed his pain. He didn't want the attention, he didn't want to be found out, but at the same time, his suffering yearned for someone to notice, to help.

"So, what-what you're telling me is that you've been...addicted, since, what, ten years old?" The absence of a reply was all the confirmation he needed. "Jesus, Sherlock." Mycroft stood up and paced the room, running his hands through his hair.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, before his brother slammed the door shut behind him as he exited.

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MYCROFT'S POV

Mycroft leant over a sink in one of the hospital bathrooms, splashing his face with cold water. He raised his head and looked at his reflection.

"You stupid piece of shit," he hissed, before he slammed his hand against the wall and started pacing again. He mentally ran over all the signs that gave away a self-harmers secret - injuries that cannot easily be explained; long sleeved shirts/long pants, even when it is hot; withdrawn, depressed, and secretive; change in hobbies or interests; medical supplies suddenly being used and sharp objects being found in their rooms. The only problem was, Sherlock was a goddamn detective, he would know how to hide those things.

He thought back to the day he found out Sherlock was self harming. His brother was only ten years old at the time; Mycroft was seventeen. Sherlock had gotten in to a big argument with his dad about school; he had been accused of 'intellectually bullying' a fellow classmate, but Mycroft knew it was bullshit. Their dad, however, had a different view, and screamed at Sherlock. Unfortunately, however many times Mycroft approached him, trying to get him to go easy on his younger brother, he never eased up.

As he had walked up the stairs to Sherlock's room, he thought he had heard things breaking and someone crying. He waited outside the door for a while, but it was silent inside. After ten minutes of waiting, he opened the door, intending to check on him. What he found still frequently plagues him with feelings of shock and guilt.

There, lying on the floor surrounded by broken glass, tears streaming down his face, wept a ten year-old Sherlock. His gaze had drifted down to his arms - surprisingly deep cuts lay strewn, with blood still trickling from the edges. Sherlock had spent the next few hours wrapped in Mycroft's arms, and releasing all the negative stuff he had kept pent up inside of him for the past year.

Mycroft stupidly thought that might have been the end of it, but the events of the past day proved otherwise.

Taking a few deep breaths to compose himself, he left the bathroom to find John. He needed to have a little chat.