Sherlock Imagines

○ Self-Harm Scars ○

| S h e r l o c k |

R e c e n t

You knew you wouldn't  be able to hide them from the detective for long. He could find out the most complex things, through even the smallest habits or movement. You tried to wear long sleeves for as long as you could, claiming it was always so cold inside.
You try and remain calm whenever you were asked to remove your jacket or such. One night, when Sherlock was strangely quiet, you had been drinking your tea.

As you were feeling drowsy, his voice suddenly shook you awake.
"Your sleeves."
"Pardon?"

"Your sleeves are always long. Just enough to come up to your wrists. Implicating the fact of being uncomfortable or hiding. I would like to guess you're hiding something. A bit of a past, wouldn't you say?" He turned to you, his eyes showing worry.
"Sherlock," You mumbled to find and explanation.
"You've only started doing the trend of sleeves this year, which makes it recent."
He shut his eyes. "Why think to hide something so deep from me?"
You didn't reply, and instead started crying. Sherlock shut his eyes harder at the sound.
"Why wouldn't you let me help you?"

| J o h n |

O l d e r

Somethings you would rather keep to yourself. Like the old scars that littered your skin. You prefer to stay away from the dark times that had inflicted for some many years, and you were afraid that if you had explained your story to someone, they might come back. You worked hard to keep John from knowing them.

You covered them with make-up, wore long sleeves when practical, and kept attention away from your arms.
Sherlock would sometimes gaze over you, as if waiting to see if John knows. That was until John came home and slammed the door.
"Is it true?" He said angrily. He grabbed your arms. "Is it true?"
"What?" You barely spoke, nervous from his behaviour. He groaned and rubbed at your arms, wiping the make-up off.
"[Y/N]." He looked to you. "Why?"
"It was a long time ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
You didn't know how to react as he started to let tears fall.
"I was going to." You whispered.
He laughed half-heartedly.
"Really? Because it seems like you going to keep this a secret forever with your bloody make-up!"

| M y c r o f t |

O l d e r

Since Mycroft wasn't much for physical affection, you thought you keep the scars hidden away. You thought you could outsmart the older Holmes. At least, for a long time.

Mycroft had been relaxing outside for a while. You wanted to join him, but you knew he wanted a bit of alone time every once in while. You decided to bring him a cup of tea and a treat. You opened the door precariously, and stumbled to catch the wobbling plates. As you reached for the plates, you tripped up and fell. The glass shattered beneath you as you tried to catch yourself. You felt the a sharp pain as Mycroft had rushed to help you up.
"Are you okay?" He said with urgency. He scanned you and raised your bleeding arm. There were multiple cuts, all around your arms. Mycroft grabbed a handkerchief and gently cleaned the wounds. Then he seems to pause. "Are these...?" You cringed as he pointed to the scars. He waited patiently for moments for an answer. When you didn't reply  and only met his gaze, he grimaced.
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"Well..."
"God, I've been so ignorant." He muttered to himself.
"I'm sorry, Mycroft."
"I am too. I wish you would have at least mentioned it!"

| G r e g |

R e c e n t

You didn't know how to tell Greg about it. He was overly caring about you, and you knew this was a big deal. Soon the wounds scarred over and you avoid the pratice. You avoided thinking about it and decided to keep Greg out of it. You didn't realize how much it could affect him.
He came home tired and upset from a frustrating day. You were watching TV, cuddled to blankets. He kissed your forehead and sat down beside you. You could feel the anger radianting from him, and allowed it to remain silent. It was almost comfortable, just watching the show without a word. It lasts was silent for many scenes, till commercial break.
"What is that?" Greg asked.
"What?" You turned, confused by the sudden question. He grabbed your arm and traced the scars.
"Why are there so many? Where are these from?" He frowned.
"They're old." You whimpered.
"No." He grew more concerned. "These are new. What did you do?"
You choked, throat going dry.
"I wasn't planning on telling you."
"Telling me what? That you did this?  Why did you do this?"

| J i m |

R e c e n t

You never thought of them much. The depression was said and done.

You had mentioned it before, but never went on into detail about the self-harm. You hoped he wouldn't put two and two together. You had come over to surprise him, and successfully did so. He acted well to the surprise, sprinkling you with kisses. Soon the kisses turned heated and passionate , and he pressed you against the wall holding your wrists. He scanned you loving. Then he seemed to be stuck on your arms. He suddenly let go of one of your arms to trace scars on the other.
"What are these?"
"Nothing, really." You mutter. "Just old scars of the past." As the words came out of your mouth, you felt heavy again. The consulting criminal looked into your gaze, his dead eyes giving away nothing. He continued to trace them, before kissing your forehead. Then started to kiss along every scar, making you feel and remember every infliction. The pain was burned into your brain, a memory stuck and there to stay. Jim said nothing the rest of the night, but was heavy on giving you affection.

| M o l l y |

R e c e n t

You had no idea if you could tell Molly about this. Molly was too caring, and would break. At least, that's what you thought. You didn't want her to worry you would do it again. You promised yourself you wouldn't, for Molly. You wore long sleeves for a long time till Molly came back from a visit from Sherlock. She didn't meet your gaze and was silent.
"Molly? Is everything alright?" You ask. "Sherlock says your long sleeves are hiding..." She starts crying.  "Why would you do that? Tell me Sherlock misread it. Please tell me he's wrong!" She exclaimed. Her fists were tense, and her body shaking. You shut your eyes to stop yourself from crying.
"Molly," You take a deep breath. "I'm sure it's nothing."
"Take it off."
"What?"
"Take it off." She sternly commanded. Breathing shaky, you took the shirt off. You immediately crossed your arms, trying not to give anything away.
"Arms." She motioned. You stiffly uncrossed them. She grabbed them and grimaced at the sight. Old scars littered with new, some not even completely healed yet. She suddenly burst.
"Why didn't you tell me?! Why didn't you let me help you before it got to this? And you didn't even tell me! I had a bloody sociopath tell me!"