SHERlocked

As if It Mattered Anymore (SherlockXReader) ~ TW

TW for self-harm and an eating disorder.

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This is just a bit of background. This is about two years after The Reichenback Fall. You were Sherlock's girlfriend and you know nothing extra about his death. You thought that he had just committed suicide. The depression was too much so you started to cut. You still live with John in 221B. *****************************************

You were in the bathroom. You always 'went to the bathroom' at about three in the afternoon and you were surprised John wasn't ever curious. Your favorite razor blade was in your hand and there were three cuts already on your arm, adding to the ever multiplying array of scars.

You used to cut when you were a teen and still into adulthood, until you met Sherlock. He was able to show you a better way to release the pain, a better way to let yourself go. But Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He wasn't there to tell you that you meant something, that you weren't worthless, that it was okay to cry.

You pressed the blade to your skin and slowly dragged it across your wrist, relishing in the spill of deep crimson.

"(f/n), are you okay?" It was John. Probably concerned as to why you had been in the bathroom for about 15 minutes.

"I'm fine, I'll just be a bit longer." You added a few more red lines to your arms and then moved on to your legs, reserved for only your worst moments. You were practically tearing your legs apart, repeatedly dragging the blade across your thighs. The pain became numb and you hardly noticed the blood dripping onto the clean white floor, leaving streaks and dots that could be considered to some, a twisted masterpiece. You eventually stopped, knowing John would break the door down if you didn't come out soon.

You grabbed a towel and used it to clean up your arms and legs, making sure not to open any old cuts or irritate the new ones. You pulled your sleeves down and your pajama pants up. After cleaning the floor up, you folded the towel 'just right' to conceal the blood and your razor blade and left the bathroom.

"I'm out John!" You called. You walked into the sitting room to see him on his computer, a cup of tea next to him.

"Finally! What took you so long?" He asked, a smile on his face.

"Oh nothing. Did you get your clothes out of Mrs. Hudson's washer?" You asked, attempting to avoid the subject.

"Yes, they're in the dryer. Planning on doing laundry?" He asked. You nodded and turned around, ready to go to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

You already had dirty clothes to wash, so you took your razor out of the towel, and threw all of your clothes and the bloody towel in the washer. You had began to feel a bit dizzy doing this, but you attributed it to not eating for three days, the norm for you these days.

In addition to self-harm, you had a self diagnosed eating disorder. It wasn't exactly bulimia or anorexia, it was a mixture of both. Sometimes it was the starve yourself, sometimes it was eat and puke. It varied. Sometimes you actually ate and didn't throw up. With all of this mixed together, you weren't sure what you had, and you were too scared to go to John, who occasionally mentioned your weight.

"You really should eat more, (f/n)," was about one of the scariest sentences you could hear. How dare he tell you that! You were a fat pig that didn't deserve to eat. You knew he lied every time he said that, and it hurt you.

You made your way up the stairs, the dizziness increasing. You went through an inner battle and then decided to tell John, but only about the dizziness.

"John, I feel really dizzy," you said as soon as you made it back to the sitting room. By then, you were feeling really sweaty and your breathing was rapid. He stood up.

"You don't look good. Sit here and I'll look everything over," he said. You made your way over to the couch and carefully sat down. John first asked you if you had hit your head or something similar. You shook your head no. He felt your forehead.

"Your skin is really cold," he looked at you, but you were slightly staring off into the distance, "I'm going to take your pulse, okay?" He carefully pushed up the bottom of your sleeve to be met with blood.

"Oh God, no," he said quietly. You weren't really comprehending anything, so you weren't aware of what John had just discovered. Taking advantage of your state of compliance, he pushed your sleeve up further. Seeing the damage, he pushed up your other sleeve.

"Jesus, (f/n), you're losing a lot of blood!" He went into doctor mode and went to fetch a first aid kit. He came back with gauze, bandages, and antiseptic. He quickly bandaged your arms.

"Is there anywhere else you cut?" He asked you. He was trying his best not to panic too much, you were his best friend and this was hard to see you go through.

"Legs," you whispered. He carefully pushed up your pajama pant legs and saw even more blood, as your legs were worse than your arms.

"(F/n), I'm going to have to call the hospital, you have to stay here okay?" John rushed to get his mobile and called the number, immediately beginning to brief them on the situation. "(F/n), stay with me. Please? You can do this, just stay with me! I can't lose you!" He said over and over, but the only thing you cared about right now was how inviting the couch pillows looked. Without a second thought, you lay down and were gone.

~Time Skip~

You woke up in a white hospital bed. Your head hurt like hell and it was hard to open your eyes. When you finally did, your vision was slightly fuzzy. It focused and you saw John next to your bed in a chair and the bright lights dotting the ceiling.

"John," you croaked out. You tried to sit up, but it hurt too much. John's eyes shot open and he noticed you struggles.

"Lay back down, (f/n)," he said. You obeyed and lay down dejectedly. "I'm so happy you're awake," he said after a moment of silence passed, "Is there anything you need? I'm going to talk to the doctor and I can grab anything on the way."

"Food?" You asked pathetically. He smiled.

"I'll, attempt to find the least revolting food possible," he promised and then he left the room. You sighed and lay back down. About a minute later, you heard the door open.

"John?" Your eyes shot open and flitted to the door, but the person that greeted you was the person you would least expect. "No, no, no. You can't be there. You're dead. You're a figment of my imagination. You died!" Tears began to leak out of your eyes.

"I'm not dead," he said, stepping forwards. You couldn't trust your eyes. How could Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective that committed suicide almost two years ago, be standing in front of you?

"It's the drugs! You aren't real!" You repeated this mantra to yourself out loud, crying harder and harder every time you said it.

"I'm so sorry, (f/n)," Sherlock came to your bedside and enveloped you into a hug. You sobbed into his arms. After staying like that for a while, you heard the door open. You saw John enter with food and then proceed to drop it.

"Sherlock?" He asked, not believing his eyes.

"Short version. Not dead."