A/N

Many thanks to my wonderful beta-reader cdngingergirl :) This will be the last thing I write for a while as I'm going backpacking round Europe with some friends on Wednesday, so I'll be on a three week hiatus. I will be back and I will be writing again, so watch this space!

Thank you to everyone who comments or reviews my fics - it really does mean so much to me.

Enjoy :)

BP x

The case was simple enough – a banker, thirty years old, had turned up dead in his flat one morning. Initial thoughts were that it had been murder, given that the man had gradually been stealing money from the bank he worked for, but as soon as Sherlock turned up at the crime scene he said he was certain that it was suicide.

"Suicide? Sherlock, are you sure?" Lestrade asked, running a hand through his hair. He gestured for Anderson to leave the victim's bathroom so Sherlock could have a look around.

The banker – Richard Murray – had been found lying on his bathroom floor by his girlfriend, surrounded by a pool of his own blood.

"Yes, I am positive that he killed himself," said Sherlock, busy inspecting the victim's arms. Two cuts on each wrist, right over the veins. The cuts on the left wrist were much neater because he did them first. Straightening up, he glanced over to where Lestrade was standing in the doorway. "Do you really think that the most effective way to kill someone is to slit their wrists? If it was murder, why not just shoot him in the head or strangle him?"

"Is it possible that it's been arranged to make it look like a suicide?" John spoke for the first time since arriving at the crime scene.

"Possible, yes. Probable, no." Sherlock pulled off his latex gloves and handed them to Lestrade, who took them with a sigh. "Murray was a drug addict; you can see the scars from where he injected himself. He was also a self-harmer: he has scars from razor blades on his wrists and forearms. He was stealing money from the bank in order to pay for his drugs but got himself into a bit of desperate situation. Things clearly weren't going well with his girlfriend; otherwise they would be living together already and we know from the fact that he was a self-harmer that he was prone to bouts of depression. The only plausible way he could see out of the mess he was in was to kill himself."

Both Lestrade and John stared at him dumbfounded for a moment.

"Come on John, we're done here. Let's go home."

The cab ride back to the flat was quiet. John tried to start a conversation with Sherlock, but received no reply. Eventually, John came to the conclusion that his lover was in one of his moods, and so sank into silence himself. When they returned home, John set about making a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock and tried not to think about the case. Idly he wondered if the victim's drug use had brought up some unpleasant memories for Sherlock. John sighed and rubbed his eyes. They'd been together for about three months now, but there was still so much about Sherlock that John didn't know. He wished that he could find a way to get the consulting detective to open up to him more, but so far hadn't had any luck.

The kettle boiled and John made their tea, placing Sherlock's mug on the coffee table in front of the sofa before settling into his armchair and beginning to read the paper. It only took him a few minutes to realise that something was wrong with his flatmate.

"Sherlock," John began tentatively. "Everything alright?"

The detective didn't reply. He remained perfectly still, almost like a statue, his fingers steepled underneath his chin and his eyes glazed over.

"Sherlock," said John, a little sharply and the taller man looked over at him.

"That was me, John."

"What?" What on earth was he talking about now?

"The victim. Richard Murray. I knew it was a suicide because I used to be like that." There was an uncharacteristic vulnerability in Sherlock's eyes. The last time he had looked like that was the first night they had sex.

John moved to sit beside him on the sofa. "I know you used to do drugs, Sherlock."

"I know you know. I don't just mean that… I mean that I used to self-harm too. I've got those scars, the same as Murray."

The doctor felt his stomach twist and swallowed compulsively. "I've never seen any scars." His voice sounded hollow.

"Because you don't look!" Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "The only time you ever see me naked is when we're having sex, and you're a bit distracted with other things then."

John reached for one of his hands and was relieved when Sherlock didn't pull away from him. "So show me now. This case is obviously reminding you of your past, so show me your scars."

Sherlock flinched minutely. "I don't…"

"Are you ashamed of them?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. "That's okay. I was ashamed of my scars too."

"Yours are war wounds, though," Sherlock protested.

The doctor smiled gently and cupped his lover's face with both hands. "So are yours. They're from the war you had with yourself.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leant forwards until their foreheads were touching.

"Show me," John said softly, his fingers already pushing Sherlock's suit jacket from his shoulders.

The taller man nodded, and began to unbutton his plum shirt, revealing the marble expanse of his chest. John helped him pull it completely off and let it fall to the floor.

"These ones here are from where I injected." Sherlock lifted his left arm so John could see the faint pink track marks near his armpit. "I have a few in the crook of my elbow too, but they're not as noticeable."

John traced the lines with his fingertips and Sherlock shivered. He pressed a kiss to the scars in the curve of his elbow and heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

"These are caused by self-harm." Sherlock moved John's hand to the inside of his left wrist, where the faint silver scars of a razor blade could be seen.

There were more than John expected; closer together near his hand but gradually becoming bigger and more spaced apart. "Oh love…" he said softly, all other words escaping him. Glancing up, he saw the years of pent up emotions written all over Sherlock's face. The suffering, the agony and the despair that he'd been through were plainly there, and John felt his heart break. He sat up again and pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, using his lips to communicate the words he couldn't say.

When John pulled away, they were both breathless.

"I love you, Sherlock," he said.

"Even knowing all of this?"

"Especially knowing all of this. This is your past, this is part of who you are. I love every part of you, and I always will."