21Rachel woke up, having slept like the dead. Her body was still heavy with sleep, and her bed warm and soft. As she rolled over she became aware of pain, and she remembered. She tried to move one arm and as she did the fabric of her pyjamas peeled away from her skin slightly, making her flinch.
A brief look under the duvet triggered a fleeting sense of remorse, at the sight of childish light blue pyjama sleeves, marred by ruining lines and patches. Rachel lay still for a while, her mind clearer than it had been for a good while.
The feeling wasn't one of disappointment; there had been a sort of inevitability to it. It was more a feeling of sobering, grounding reality. While she was resisting her demon, she could pretend it was all a game. But, the morning after, there was no escaping the reality of what had happened. This was really her life. This was unmistakably happening to her, and Rachel knew she had a problem.
She lay still for a bit longer, flat on her back, arms resting either side, feeling small and trapped and slightly frustrated. She knew she would have to assess the damage, but she didn't want to look yet; frightened of facing the ugliness and ferocity of the monster she was apparently shackled to at every moment. This wasn't the first time, but it had been the worst so far.
Rachel slipped on her dressing gown. She could hear Mary, her mum, clattering about in the kitchen. John was out mowing the lawn. It was mid-morning. The coast was clear to the bathroom, and protected by her dressing gown, Rachel went through into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.
…
Rachel stood in front of 221B Baker Street. She wasn't even sure what had brought her here. At home, she had cleaned everything up as best she could, rinsed the pyjamas in the shower and stashed them, still wet, under her bed. Her arms hurt to bend them; ached now, more than stung. There were some deeper cuts that probably needed something better than sticking plaster, but she wasn't sure what, and she didn't have anything. She wondered what was in her dad's medical supplies, but she couldn't risk him noticing. After that, she'd caught the tube and then just walked, and walked on auto-pilot.
Mrs Hudson opened the door. Seeing Rachel she beamed, appearing delighted to see her, as if Rachel was the most precious thing in the world. Seeing old Mrs Hudson's obvious affection lanced Rachel with shame and guilt. She was far from perfect and she wore the proof of that, daily, etched onto her skin. But, having regained her focus she was able to smile back and speak clearly, surprised at the contrast between her own voice and the fear and regret just under the surface.
"Hi, Mrs Hudson. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine dear. It's just my hip, you know... but I mustn't grumble. It's lovely to see you anyway. Are you visiting Sherlock?"
"Um… yes, is he in?
Sherlock, technically her godparent, although she knew he didn't really go in for all of that. She felt ridiculous now, wanting to turn and go, but she couldn't because she would have to go back out past Mrs Hudson again.
…
Rachel sat looking around the familiar room; dark and cluttered and dusty. There was a weird chemical smell coming from the apparatus on the table. She shuffled, sitting up straight to try to feel more adult, and then, feeling uncomfortable like that, leaned back into the chair. She still felt uncomfortable.
Sherlock had offered her the client chair. Now he was making her a cup of tea.
Sherlock looked at her warily, she thought, as he set the tea-tray down. 'Uncle' Sherlock. He'd been one of those permanent fixtures of her life. Had been at every family event since she was a child. She wondered why he had never found a partner… a boyfriend, she supposed it would be. Maybe someone had broken his heart once. She had wondered what it would be like if Sherlock was her dad, instead of John. Sherlock was more mysterious, more interesting… less angry.
Sherlock sat down in his chair, opposite, assessing her with his keen pale eyes and then finally broke the silence, speaking dismissively.
"Not my department", he said, simply.
"Sorry?" Rachel whispered, wide-eyed and cradling the tea-cup defensively in both hands.
"Not my area of expertise. I can't help you. I'm afraid. You'll have to find someone else; speak to your mother, speak to a counsellor".
Rachel felt a falling sensation in her head, as her heart beat harder. Surely Sherlock didn't know. No-one else knew. She'd been careful about that.
"What? How did you…?"
"You lifted your tea-cup in an awkward fashion, indicating you're in pain and concerned about doing further damage. You don't play any sport, and I'm not aware you've been in any accidents. So how came by your injuries is ambiguous. However, couple that with the fact that you're wearing long sleeves in 27 degree heat, you're sweating, and obviously affected by the temperature, and it suggests that you don't wish to display the nature of your affliction.
"You clearly came here for a purpose. You obviously hold me in some… affection, but you're not in the habit, usually, of just turning up. You're here because you want help. It's fairly obvious that you've deliberately hurt your arms in some way, probably cutting, and not, I imagine, the first time." Sherlock spoke quickly, and evenly, but at the end of the last sentence he slowed down a touch, his voice changing slightly, his face showing a fleeting hint of some indeterminate emotion.
Rachel stared at her tea cup and felt sick. There was perhaps a fragment of her that was glad someone knew. But having this conversation was cementing the reality of the situation, and it was horrible.
"There are also… other indicators." Sherlock broke off, as if he had been about to say something else and decided against it. "An ungenerous person might argue that you coming here is merely attention-seeking. However, I imagine you're here because it's reached a level beyond your control and now you need someone to be accountable to. As I said, this is NOT my area of expertise. I am not the right person to help you with this."
Rachel tried to process what Sherlock had just told her. She briefly wondered how Sherlock seemed to know more of her mind than she did. Is that why she was here? To try to put the brakes on a habit that was out of her control. She supposed it was. It had been a bad idea, and now she felt stupid. Why would Sherlock want to know about this?
"OK", Rachel seemed unable to say anything else. She felt like a worm next to Sherlock's brilliance.
Sherlock looked at her awkwardly, "Would you like me to phone your mother?"
Rachel wasn't sure. She'd come this far and part of her just wanted to blow the whole thing wide open. She wasn't sure she could contain all of this on her own any more. But the thought of having to tell this to her mum, of having to disappoint her in this way. She couldn't bear it.
"No… thanks." Rachel got up to leave.
"Um, you're alright though?" Sherlock asked quickly
Rachel froze where she was standing, not sure what the question was meant to mean. Not sure what to tell him.
"I mean, you don't need medical intervention?" he amended quickly.
"Oh, no. I'm fine. It's OK." Rachel said, her eyes looking slightly past Sherlock's.
"You're not thinking about ending it all?" His voice was low and sincere.
"No", Rachel replied emphatically, "That's not why I did it... I wouldn't"
Sherlock's searching eyes looked straight into hers. She felt completely exposed; all her guilty secrets flooded with light.
He nodded slightly, and then just stood, waiting for her to leave.
Rachel walked out through the door, feeling the lowest she had ever felt. She stood outside the closed door of 221B, blinking in the sunshine and wondered where to go from there.