A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! So...Remember when Brittany Spears had that nervous breakdown and cut off all her hair? Did you know that that is actually a common coping mechanism, especially in people with severe anxiety or depression? It's also a coping mechanism for victims of abuse and/or rape....yes, that trope where the victim dramatically cuts off their hair is a real thing, and it's actually very empowering. Anyways, I saw a video on facebook where a woman went into a hair salon and kept telling the girls to cut her hair shorter until there was barely any left, when questioned, she gripped her own hair and said something along the lines of "I don't want to give anyone this power over me again." It's very powerful and I was reminded that Sherlock was tortured (and potentially raped) while in prison after the fall and so I wrote this.....
TRIGGER WARNING!!!! This talks about rape, abuse, torture, self-harm, attempted suicide, and drug use....I am so sorry guys....But I will make it up to you with another part to the Tiny Dancer AU book later today....Enjoy<3
Sherlock jolted awake, John's name on his lips and fingers clawing at his hair. His chest heaved and his body shook as memories burned through his mind.
He wanted them to stop. He didn't want to feel the fingers tugging at his hair, pinning him in place while they beat him, violated him.
He wanted John, needed the strength of his blogger, but he knew it was too late for that. He had screwed up, letting his former flatmate believe he was dead for so long.
John wouldn't answer his call, there was no one he could turn to that could make them stop. He just wanted to forget.
So, he turned to an old friend, one that had helped him forget these types of things before.
His blood burned as the poison entered his system, enhancing the sensation of bruising fingers on his skin. He tugged at his hair, pleading to every deity and voice in his head to make it stop, to make the memories go away.
Hands gripped the back of his neck, holding him in place as he writhed in agony, trying to escape the pain. Fingers pulled his hair, forcing him to his knees before the man that had taken everything from him-
The scream that fell from his lips left his throat broken and raw, and he stumbled towards the bathroom, hunting for the razor he knew John had left behind.
The ringing of his cellphone startled John out of his mind, chasing away the images he had been clinging to for so long.
He hadn't slept, not really, since Sherlock had returned, the presence of the man he had loved so much reviving the painful memories of his death.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Watson?"
"What do you want Mycroft?"
"He needs you John." Pain flowered in his chest and he reached for the half empty bottle of whiskey he had started keeping by his bed. It helped numb the pain.
"No, he doesn't need anybody. He made that perfectly clear when he fucking killed himself." He heard the pained sigh from the other man, and took a swallow of the whiskey, wincing as it burned his throat. "If you're so worried about him, then go help him yourself." There was silence for a moment, and John was about to hang up when a soft, broken voice reached his ear.
"Please John. I-I don't know how to help him, and I can't lose him." The doctor within John screamed, he knew what Mycroft was saying, but the pain of what Sherlock had done still burned in his chest.
An image of Sherlock, bleeding out on the floor of 221B crossed his mind, making his chest tighten painfully and his breathing hitch.
"Fine. I'll check on him."
When John arrived, the flat was silent and dark, sending warning bells ringing through his mind. He crossed the familiar rooms, heading for the bathroom. That's where he would go if he were going to kill himself.
He knocked on the door, the faint sound of running water coming through the door.
"Sherlock? Are you in there?" A broken cry came from behind the door, and John jumped to action, testing the handle and ramming his shoulder against the wood when he found it locked.
Sherlock was curled in the corner of the shower, patches of his hair missing and blood running down his face. His clothes were strewn across the room, and his back and chest were covered in scars and part-way healed bruises.
A razor was cutting into the flesh of the detective's hand, the blood being washed away by the running water.
"Jesus Sherlock-" John dropped to his knees beside the shower, prying the blade from the hand of the broken man, checking his vitals and trying to pull him out of whatever state he had gotten himself into.
"J-John?" Relief flooded the doctor's veins at Sherlock's voice, and he mentally slapped himself for the emotions that peaked their way through his thoughts.
Sherlock didn't care for him, he didn't love him like John loved him and he never would. The Fall had proved that much.
"I'm here Sherlock, everything is alri-"
"Make h-him sto-stop, John." Adrenaline flooded John's mind for a moment, had he missed someone when he came in? Had someone done this to Sherlock?
"Stop who Sherlock?"
"I-I can- I can still f-feel him." Something sparked in the back of John's mind, slowly linking the pieces together. "H-His- his hands- I just- make i-it stop." Sherlock curled further in on himself, tugging roughly at what was left at his hair and sobbing.
John had seen this before, at Saint Bart's years ago. A young girl had been admitted after slitting her wrists and trying to pull her hair out. When questioned, she had gone from hysterical to blank almost instantly.
"I just wanted him to stop hurting me. I can still feel his fingers in my hair, and I wanted to make it stop."
John remembered what had happened to that girl, it had made him nauseous all those years ago, and remembering it now made his heart wrench.
She had been raped by an uncle, and was trying to escape the memories.
Looking at Sherlock now, John took in the still-healing scars and bruises on his back and sides. He could see distinct handprints on the thin man's hips, the sight breaking his heart as the dots finally connected.
"P-Please John, I-I don't- I don't want to remember this." John pulled off his jumper and crawled into the tub, gathering his best friend into his arms and letting the broken man sob against his chest.
"I'm here Sherlock. No one is going to hurt you again."
They stayed like that for a long while, the water eventually running cold and driving them from the shower.
John wrapped Sherlock in a flannel and had him sit on the toilet, tenderly checking the wound on his hand and scalp, before reaching for the razor.
"Do you want me to finish this?" John asked, running his fingers through what was left of Sherlock's hair. The pale man nodded, blinking rapidly up at John and drawing in a shaky breath.
"I want to take that power from him." The pained whisper broke John's heart again, and he cupped Sherlock's cheek, leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses to the other man's lips.
"No one will ever have that power over you again." He whispered, pulling back and beginning to remove the rest of Sherlock's hair.
The actions that signified the release of Sherlock's mind from his fears, also represented the beginning of forgiveness for John.
As the dark locks fell to the floor, John felt that maybe, just maybe, they could fix this together.
