Scars for the Forgotten

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The cold knife sat in Sherlocks shaking hands as he held his breath for a moment. He closed his eyes and let one tear fall gently down his face to his chin dripping off and he started to sob more. The darkness heard his cries, and held them dear for he, Sherlock Holmes, had finally snapped. The cold had finally hit him, and left its mark for this was something it had longed for.

For Sherlock Holmes to finally drown in a sea of depression with the waves of defeat crashing violently over him.

He opened his eyes slowly peering down at the knife still laying there. He held it tighter and placed the blade against his wrist he hesitated and let another sob escape his quivering lips.

Do it

Coward.

Sherlock clenched his teeth as he slowly slid the blade over his pale skin the blood creeping out of the gash now formed on his body. The stinging in his arm should hurt him, but he found it addictively relieving. He began to from more cuts and 1 lead to 10 and 10 lead to 20.

He sat for a moment. His eyes heavy and blood streaming down his arms along with pain the he had bottled up inside flowing out to creep into the forgotten spaces of the darkened room.

After he waited for the bleeding to stop and cleaned off his arm, he laid on his bed staring up at the celling with his arm still stinging slightly.

What would John think?

He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. The last person he would want to tell was John.

He could already see the hurt in Johns eyes. "What if he just turns away? What if he leaves me?" He thought.

He couldn't hurt John. He couldn't...

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