SHERLOCK Preferences and Oneshots

Worried About You (Sherlock x Reader)

!!TRIGGER WARNING!!

IF YOU GET TRIGGERED BY MENTIONS OF SELF HARM OR SUICIDE THEN PLEASE DON'T READ

If you're struggling with anything like this, please message me/or contact someone who can professionally help you! 

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You, your boyfriend Sherlock, and John all sat around the kitchen table, eating supper. Or at least they were; your depression had almost completely depleted your appetite. You just sat there, absentmindedly pushing food around on the plate with your fork.

"You all right, (Y/N)?" John asked, looking up from his supper with his brow wrinkled in concern. "You've barely touched your food."

Your eyes stayed trained on your plate, and you answered your friend with a soft, "I'm okay."

John nodded and went to take another bite, but looked back to you instead. "Are you sure?" he asked again quietly, "Are you not feeling well?" Sherlock looked up through his dark lashes at you as well, now a bit concerned.

You shrunk into your hoodie, feeling the gaze of your friends a bit unnerving, especially when you weren't feeling well at all; what you were telling John was a complete lie. "I think I'm just going to go to bed early," you informed them with a small, forced smile.

"All right, (Y/N). Sleep well." John always spoke softly with you, but this was even gentler than usual, almost like you were an animal that could be easily frightened.

You nodded slightly and silently crept to your bedroom across the hall from Sherlock's, the sound of you opening and closing the door about as noticeable as your footsteps.

"I'm worried about her, Sherlock," the doctor commented, raising his food-laden fork to his mouth again. "Something isn't right."

Sherlock nodded, his bright blue eyes not moving from his plate. "I had noticed."

In your bedroom, you were sitting on your bed, thinking back to all the times you had cut yourself. You rolled up the sleeve of your old hoodie to see your old scars, the white and raised lines that told more horror stories than you would've liked to recount.

And then came the tears. The salty droplets coursed down your cheeks like rivers, leaving behind tracks that led to your chin, where they dropped off and into your lap. You hated crying. Yeah, it felt good, but during times like this it just made you feel so weak.

Your mind was finally made up. You would end the weakness. The shame. The sadness. The unbearable feeling of unworthiness. As Sherlock would say, you would be 'eliminating the unnecessary.'

You were going to kill yourself.

By the time you prepared everything, braced yourself for what was to come, and made your way towards the living room and eventually the exit, Sherlock and John were relaxing in their chairs. Sherlock was texting on his phone, no doubt to DI Greg Lestrade, and John was typing on his laptop, most likely working on Sherlock's latest case for his blog.

Your attempt at exiting the flat without going unnoticed failed, Sherlock aware of it right away. 

"Where are you going? I thought you were going to bed?" he asked, looking up from his phone to make eye contact with you.

"Out. I couldn't sleep." You expected him to shrug and resume his staring contest with his cellphone, but those icy eyes didn't move a bit from yours.