Y/n Holmes // Sherlocks Sister

-8-

My eyes open to see pitch black. God what time is it? I look over to my phone and turn it on. 2am. Not so bad, I've woken up at worse. I get up and head to the kitchen. I start to make a sandwich and turn on some music. Harry Styles starts blasting through my Alexa when I remember that it's 2am. I turn it down a bit and continue to make my masterpiece.

There's fuck all on TV so I open Netflix and start watching BoJack Horseman. It's funny and relatable at the same time too, which is why it's one of my favourite shows. After finishing half of my sandwich I make my way over to the bin, seeing a notebook on the side. Well this is shit. I take it and rip some of the random pages out and write on the front page,'Mycroft'. I don't get it but whatever. My mind starts to wonder to places it hasn't been for a while, places Ive managed to keep it away from. I need to distract myself before I do anything stupid. Fresh air. A walk. Okay, good plan. I put on some old shoes and head out of the flat quietly, careful not to wake anyone.

As I walk through the dimly lit streets of London, I can't get these thoughts out of my head. Why am I fucking like this? Literally everyone else gets on with their day and minds their own business. Me? Oh no, I'm not capable of performing such normal tasks for my brain to handle. I sit on a bench and light a cigarette, the nicotine coating my lungs in a black smoke, suffocating them as they try to get free. It tastes awful but the chances of me dying young are 50% so, that's something. I cant be alone without wanting to hurt myself or even end it all right now, but I have no one to turn to. It is my fault I guess,I push everyone away before they get the chance to hurt me. God I'm lonely. Usually, people have someone to go to at any time of the day when they feel like this, I don't. Fuck this, I'm going back to the flat. With that, I get up and head back at a hurried pace, making sure I get home and don't  end up 'falling'  off a tall building.

I get in and slowly close my door. I throw off my shoes and go to the drawer. The old cardboard box stares back at me before I open it, revealing the 2 blades which have been there for a couple of months. I get into the bathroom, lock the door and sink to the floor. My eyes start to tear up as I pick up the blade, this is so dumb but this is my only way of controlling how I feel, to turn it into self inflicted physical pain. I lift up my sleeve and put the blade to my wrist, the once clean surface taking a red form. I hold back my quiet cries and go again. The pain travels through my arm, stinging and burning every second. Another. Another. Another. I make a couple more before stopping to look at my art work. I wipe my cheeks and rub my eyes before glancing at the floor to see a pool of blood, reminding me that I need to get this shit cleaned up. I go over to the sink and rinse the cuts under the cold water, hissing in pain as I do, before mopping up the blood from the floor with an old towel.

I go to my bed and get comfortable, my mind blank from any emotion and slowly fall asleep by 5am.