Y/n Holmes // Sherlocks Sister

21

-Y/n's POV-

I was 1 week sober. I hadn't hurt myself in a week. I was doing so well. I fucking hate everything. There wasn't even a reason I just saw my scars fading. Why is this so fucking shit? There really is no point in trying because I have one good day and think that everything's better and that I'm somehow cured from everything but no, I'm not. No matter how hard I try there will always be something in my way to push me back down and it's usually myself. I take in a sharp breath as the warm water hits my new cuts but soon get over the stinging sensation that's running up my arm. I cant do this anymore. All of this pain and suffering has been going on for too long and I don't know how to get away from it. My only option is a permanent solution to this problem which seems to be staying forever as well. I look over to my cabinet by the sink and walk over to it. Paracetamol, 100. It takes less then that to kill you so this will definitely work. As I go to open the lid I think of what Sherlock or Mycroft will see when they find me. My lifeless body laying in the shower, bruises and cuts all up my wrists and thighs. Maybe I could just talk to him? He is home. I'll try, I won't tell him about what I'm thinking but I'll just distract myself for a while. I dry myself off and throw on my usual outfit and walk into the living room.

"Sherlock?" I say after he opens the door.

"What is ur Y/n?" he already seems annoyed with just my presence.

"Um, are you busy?"

"No, I'm just sitting around trying ti save someone from being murdered. What is it?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Never mind." God even Sherlock cant stand me. Maybe this is showing that it is right for me to leave. It'd be better off for everyone. I tug my sleeves down and turn around, tears starting to cover my eyes.

"Y/n?" I turn around and he gestures me to go in. So he's not mad? This man is so confusing sometimes. 

I just take a seat on Johns chair, since he's out, but I don't sit back and get comfortable because I don't think I'll be staying long. He'll probably shout at me because I'm making too much noise or something then kick me out.

"What's wrong?" He says in a much lower and calmer voice then before.

"Nothing, why?" Does he just have a 6th sense or something?

"You know why," he sits opposite me and glances down at my arms before looking back up to meet my eyes.

"Nothings wrong."

"I really don't need to check, do I?" He leans forward a bit as if he's ready to stand up to come over to me.

"No, it's fine."

"Then tell me. What's bothering you?"

"I don't know," I really don't. How am I meant to explain something that I don't even know myself?

"Well, try to think about how to phrase it. I'm here all day," he sits back on the sofa, fully relaxed as if he's going to wait a while.

"I only came down to talk to you. I haven't really spoken to you about normal stuff much since I moved."

"Well, how's the cat doing? Lucy, was it?"

"Loki," I laugh quietly at how ironic it is that he's one of the smartest people I know, yet forgets a simple name.

"Ah yes, that was it. Is it well?"

"Uh yeah, I think so. He keeps waking me up in the middle of the night for no reason though. But it's cute so I'll let it slide," I smile softly.

"You seem happy, why did you feel the need to do it?"

"They were fading," I look down at my hands and play with them.

"I'm going to assume you're referring to the scars," I just nod a reply, "Maybe, next time, think of it as a sign of you getting better. Why is it significant that they stay visible?"

"Because if they fade, then everything I've been dealing with hasn't really affected me it's just there."

"So you need them to resemble that you have been through and still are going through something? It's not just a way of coping."

"Yeah," I mutter quietly under my breath.

"Now, you've already done it so you aren't down here to restrict yourself from relapsing. There must be another reason you came down here to talk. A distraction."

"No, just here to spend time with you."

"We both know that's a lie," he jokingly smiles at you. "Tell me, why. It's okay. I'm not going to tell anyone else."

"You'll think I'm crazy Sherlock."

"Trust me, I know a crazy person when I see one. You are most definitely not."

It takes me a moment of two to reply. I need to make sure I say this carefully and not in the worst way possible.

"I was going to do something," he just hums to tell me to keep going. "Something quite bad, permanent. To get rid of it all."

"Elaborate," he really doesn't get it?

"I was going to um, take some pills."

Everything stand still in the flat, the silence deafening.