The words Sherlock said to himself would be considered verbal abuse if he ever said them to anyone else. He was the exception, of course he was, he can never just be normal. Just plain tired, tired of living life for everyone else, tired of pretending. Nobody was allowed in Sherlock's head or was it that he wasn't allowed out? He doesn't deserve the praise he gets… he doesn't deserve anything. When he saves the occasional life he sees the odd innocence of the dead. They always looked peaceful. Recently all he could think about was that he can't wait until he was the one dead. Could he be jealous of the dead? They were the lucky ones.

Sherlock POV:

He's alone not physically but mentally, soon he will be physically alone too. "How could I be so stupid?" he thought, basically yelling at himself. He has always been taken aback by the idea that his "making conversation" pushes everyone away. He won't even allow himself to trust John or anyone even a little bit. "He is going to leave, of course he is, John can't stand me. Who could blame him, I would leave me if I could."

His stomach feels like it's ripping itself up from the inside out to the point where Sherlock questions why he hasn't eaten in days. He either forgot or just didn't see the point. Foods only for the people that deserve it. Why should he give something he hates power to keep going. He doesn't deserve anything, He's a monster.

"John thinks so, I know he does. He pities me, that's why he's still here, soon the realization about how pathetic I am will stop him from spending time with me. Soon he started saying all these things to himself, of course to himself he would never say this to anyone else.

Sherlocks now standing shirtless on the freezing tile floor in the bathroom. "Stupid me broke the heater with a science experiment that failed miserably. God I'm such an idiot."

He cut himself without even realizing it, it's automatic at this point. Red bubbles of blood formed in the new thin red lines on his arm that landed right next to about two dozen other cuts. Sherlock was running out of room on his arms. There's now more scar tissue than skin. It was somewhat satisfying to come to this conclusion. Seeing the reflection in the bathroom mirror of the man he unfortunately became angered him more than murderers ever did. Breathing started to become a job as a panic attack began. The combination of the blood and the physical pain used to distract him from the actual hard pain, but this time it didn't.

"Shit!" He screamed as his heart felt like it was going to explode.

The overwhelming emotions that were bottled up from his day to day struggle that he called life are just too much to handle at this point. The pounding of his heart kept getting louder and louder as it got more aggressive. Looking for at least a sliver of relief, he quickly brought the kitchen knife to his chest. He had to stop his heart from jumping out of his chest. Blood was now dripping from the large wound across his bare chest. It didn't hurt as bad as expected. It was almost beautiful. He could finally breathe again.

His heart began to slow down while his mind began to clear up. For a moment his mind was completely blank. Which very rarely happens for him.

During this moment of clarity he felt a strong hand gently placed on his shoulder. There're two men in the mirror now. One is smart and kind and the other one is Sherlock.

John:

felt his heart stop when he didn't get a snarky comment back from his obviously dumb question. Something was wrong, very wrong but he couldn't put a finger on what.

"Sherlock?" No answer

As his panic grew John's voice got louder, "SHERLOCK!"

He couldn't help but wonder if he was just being stupid or paranoid. Sherlock will find it quite amusing if that's the case.

But his worry proved to be justified when he got to the bathroom door.

"Oh god," he thought.

The soft sound of Sherlock's cries echoed passed the door.

He momentarily debated if he should ask or just walk in. But something in his heart told him that the man inside would lie if he asked if he was alright.

John twisted the awfully freezing handle. Surprisingly the door wasn't locked.

What he saw in front of him knocked the wind out of his lungs.

Every time his brain formed words his mouth wouldn't let them out. He was speechless. The shock wore off when he again realized that he was a doctor. But this was different, this was Sherlock. His friend who could be so cold. Not now though. Who was this tall man who took Sherlock's body.

He looked at the bloody wounds all over his arms and even though it was nearly impossible to see through the blood, they looked shallow enough not to freak out and wrap them up quickly. But the one large one on his thin chest worried John.

When slowly walking over to the man, John wanted to make sure not to scare him since he seemed like he was in his own world.

"Hey," was all he could get out as he placed his hand on the man's bare shoulder.

"Shit," he swore under his breath as he realized for the first time how goddamn thin Sherlock is.

How did he miss this?

A minute passed before either man returned to reality.

The disappointment in Sherlock's eyes surprised John. Maybe he's disappointed with himself or John or even with the fact that the cut didn't take his life. John wanted to stop thinking now. It hurt his heart to think like this.

He quickly put his emotions behind him and grabbed the closest towel. The wet tears stained Sherlock's face and new tears formed in his eyes. But god forbid Sherlock let them fall.

"It's okay, they're all superficial" nothing was okay.

Sherlock finally broke his long awaited silence, "of course they are… I'm pathetic, I can't do anything right."

"What?" John questioned. Shock evident in his voice. "Sherlock, you… you're a genius, you don't deserve this… you know that right?"

Sherlock didn't even take a split second before answering, "of course I deserve it!" "I'm a freak, and don't even try and tell me I'm not because I am and you know it. Everyone thinks so."

John was speechless. To buy him time to figure out what to say he began to clean the wounds that littered the man's body. The cut was deeper than he originally thought, but not too bad. He started to wonder what would have gone down if he hadn't found him when he did. The thoughts scared him. He was used to blood but this was different.

Sherlock's eyes met with johns.

"You're not a freak, you're never were. And you're not worthless, you can't just be thrown away," John started, "its okay, it's okay to cry or show your emotions and all…. it's okay to be yourself, Sherlock, just breathe. We can talk, I can just talk, or you can talk and I'll listen but I'm not letting this go, I can't. Please, I'm here to listen when you're ready."

Nobody ever listened. They immediately ignored him every time he opened his mouth. Sherlock searches John's pleading eyes to see if he was telling the truth. When he saw the truth he broke down for the first time in years. He might let somebody in for the first time ever. Tears exploded from his eyes as he crumpled to the ground. The tears made it almost impossible to see.

All Sherlock could do was spit out gross negative adjectives that "represented" himself. "I'm disgusting, pathetic, worthless, selfish…."

John sighed, held him close and whispered, "you're none of those, I promise you're not."

"Everyone thinks so…. my whole family thinks so. I think so. My dad..my...dad used to…"

John's body tensed against the taller man. John never met Sherlock's father. He had another horrible feeling in his gut. He inhaled rather deeply to the point where he felt like he sucked all of the air out of the room.

"God, what did that man do to you?"

Sherlock knew exactly who John meant. He didn't know why but he started to tell his friend everything his deadbeat father did to him. Both men stayed on the bathroom tile for hours. And shit it was cold.