Write Love on Her Arms- Sherlock x Reader

Trigger Warning- self-harm, suicidal intent (in possession of pills with the intention of overdose), depression. If this makes you uncomfortable then please stop reading now.

   “When were you planning on telling me?”

   Sherlock’s deep, smooth voice cut through the whirlwind of thoughts that had occupied you. Your head jerked up in surprise as you gaped at him, panic filling your chest as you quickly moved to hold your sluggishly bleeding arm behind you.

   Still stubbornly feigning innocence though you were certain that he had seen, you forced your voice to remain steady as you replied, “Telling you what?”

   Sherlock’s gaze was dark and piercing, unreadable as he spat, “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? I notice everything. Especially you.”

   “What are you talking about?” you snapped defensively, fighting the expanding vortex of feelings that threatened to explode from your chest.

   It was Sherlock, however, who exploded first. He moved forwards until he was standing directly in front of you, almost uncomfortably close, his voice quick and sharp, “You wear long sleeves when it’s hot, while it’s obvious to anyone that you are uncomfortably overheated while wearing them. You made it clear that you hate any form of jewelry or fashion statements and yet you insist on wearing a multitude of bracelets to cover your wrists at all times, as well as that you constantly fiddle with them, shifting them so they completely cover your inner wrist. You cradle your left arm against your side while your right arm hangs limp and you occasionally flinch for no apparent reason. Whenever someone comes too close to you, you shift your arm so your inner wrist and forearm are pointed downwards or towards you so no others can see. And despite this, you frequently are seen staring at what you hide from the world. You also stare blankly out windows when you believe no one is looking and often hold an expression that can only be described as blankness. I’ve heard you crying in your room late at night no matter how silent you believe yourself to be. Even if I hadn’t heard, your appearance would be enough to fill in the blanks. You’ve been avoiding John and myself and spend long hours in your room with the door locked, only leaving to enter the washroom to wash away the blood. I know it was blood, I’ve seen it on your laundry and on the towels no matter how well you think you hide it or clean it. I’ve noticed you taking pills more often, whether for anxiety, depression, or both. The signs are irrefutable. You are suffering from depression and have taken to harming yourself as a form of release. All I wish to know is why and for how long.”

   You just stared at him, your breathing feeling heavy and choked as you clenched your hands into fists, struggling to control your emotions. You could feel the familiar burning pain in your wrist, the warm ooze of blood leaving crimson pathways down your fingers. You didn’t trust your voice not to break if you spoke so you stayed silent, fighting to swallow the lump in your throat. He knew. Dear Lord, he knew. What were you supposed to say?

   You were both still standing like that when John poked his head in a few moments later, drawn by the sound of agitated voices. “Sherlock? [f/n], is everything alright?” he asked, concern written all over his features.

   “You haven’t told him either.” Sherlock stated, reading the emotions on your face as easily as one would read a book. “Your own brother.”

   “Told me what?” John inquired, a frown creasing his brow, “[f/n], what is he on about?”

   “John, please tell me that you were able to read the signs.” Sherlock muttered, turning to his flatmate, gaze hard, “How could you, a doctor, not realize that your own sister was depressed and resorting to drawing blood to help herself?”

   You flinched at the look of shock colouring your older brother’s face, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared at your feet, fighting to breathe properly.

   “[f/n]?” John breathed, quickly moving forwards to wrap you in a tight embrace which you returned with your uninjured arm, burying your face in his sweater as the tears began to wet your cheeks.

   “I’m sorry,” you gasped out, clinging to your brother, unable to say anything else. “I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry.”

   “Shh, shh, it’s alright [f/n], we’ll get through this,” John soothed, rubbing your back gently, his eyes still wide. “I’m here.”

   “No it’s not alright,” you sobbed, your shoulders shaking. “John, it hurts and I hurt and I just don’t know what to do and I can’t stop it anymore and I’m so scared and tired and just done with everything.” Once you started, you couldn’t stop the words that poured from your lips, an avalanche of everything you had kept pent up inside of you for so long. “I’m so sorry, I’m just so screwed up and I’m useless and worthless and-”

   “No, stop it, stop it now.” your brother cut you off, his grip on you tightening as he buried his face in your neck. He was breathing heavily and you could tell he was struggling to control his own emotions. “You are not nothing. You are my sister. My precious little sister. And I love you more than anything. Nothing will ever change that. Got it? You’ve taken care of me for so long. Now it’s my turn to take care of you and I swear to God that I will do everything I can to be there for you and be what you need me to be.” His voice broke and you could feel tears of his own dripping onto your skin as he held you.

   You fell silent, giving a tiny nod, tears streaming down your cheeks as you clung to your older brother. You felt cool fingers take your bleeding arm and turn it over, examining the cuts that slowly oozed crimson liquid. A fingertip gently traced the slightly raised white lines that covered the inside of your arm and you saw Sherlock staring at your cuts with a strange look on his face.

Ashamed, you hid your face in John’s sweater, pulling your arm out of his grip and pressing it to your side so he couldn’t see. You hated that they could see what you had tried so hard to hide. You were [f/n] Watson. You were supposed to be happy and cheerful and positive. The young girl who took care of her older brother and his flatmate.

“You don’t have to hide anymore,” Sherlock spoke up softly, his fingers brushing your arm. You whimpered, more tears escaping your eyes. “You’re going to be alright. Not yet, maybe not for a long time, and not without hard work. But you’ll be alright.”

You said nothing as John to lead you to your bed, sitting down beside you with his arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, like he was ready to fight off the entire world for you. But he couldn’t help you in a war against yourself. He could support you and encourage you, but he couldn’t fight this battle for you. You had to fight it.

Sherlock knelt in front of you and carefully began to wipe the blood off of your arm, bandaging the cuts with surprisingly gentleness. Tears continued to drip down your cheeks as you sniffled quietly. Otherwise, the room stayed utterly silent. You weren’t sure if you wanted someone to talk or not. You weren’t sure of a lot of things lately.

At last, you spoke up, your voice barely audible as you choked out, “John, please look in the drawer of my bedside table.”

He nodded and got up, doing as you asked. He pulled the drawer open and you could see his face fall. Your heart nearly broke as he reached in with shaking hands and pulled out one of the bottles of pills you had hidden there. “Dear God [f/n]...”

You hunched your shoulders, fresh tears coating your cheeks, “I’m sorry,” you repeated for what felt like the millionth time, “I didn’t want to hurt you but I was so tired and I didn’t know what I wanted but I didn’t want to keep doing this every day. I just can’t. I didn’t know what to do but I needed a safe plan, I’m so sorry John.”

“I need a moment,” John muttered tightly, quickly exiting the room, tears staining his cheeks.

“Stop saying that.” Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking as he stared at you, tears dripping down his own cheeks that had gone unnoticed by you or John, “Stop saying you’re sorry.” The detective knelt in front of you, resting his hands on your shoulders, gazing at you with his sharp eyes that seemed to change colour every time you saw them. “This, none of this, is your fault. You are human, and to be human is to hurt. Do you know why I told John? Why I told you that I knew?”

You shook your head miserably, sniffling quietly.

“Because I know John cares for you very deeply, and I do as well. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It may not always seem like it, but you are cared for [f/n]. You are loved. You are not worthless. You are not nothing. You are worth so much more than you could ever know. We want to help you through this. You don’t have to be alone.”

You gave a tiny nod, wrapping your arms around Sherlock’s torso tightly. He stiffened for a moment in surprise before relaxing, patting your back awkwardly.

“Thank you Sherlock,” you mumbled quietly.

“You’re welcome [f/n].”