- Steven: Now interestingly, Sherlock's handwriting, because he's in a hurry, he's deteriorated here into that of a three year old child.
- Benedict: Thank you very much. That is my handwriting.
I must have always known, gifted as i am. Somewhere hidden in the darker, less avaliable parts of my brain i must have known he was never real. An illusion concuted to stem my own lonliness. An idea i would use to allow myself the pleasure of silence, companionship. Love. Without ever having to rely completely on a real person. It was so gradual being able to understand that there were things that even i was completely ignorant of. I would never admit it out loud, never show such a crippling weakness which could be abused by my enemies and now i have to wonder with whatever shattered pieces of my brain are left whether any of it was reality.
It was cold, freezing. He was shivering, curled up, his knees almost touching his slim muscular chest trying to withold any of the warmth he had left in his body. He wanted to feel this cold to know he was still here still alert and ultimately alive. The thinking, the constant endless noise would be better than this better than the despondancy; but he couldn’t think. He could’t observe or deduce or contemplate anything as broken as he was. He was dimly aware that he was naked, it didn’t bother him nobody was here. Nobody had ever really been here it was just him and the silence. If John had been here he would have been on his knees leaning into Sherlock, stroking his pale skin whisphering strings of comforting usless words and tangling his fingers into Sherlock’s dark hair. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly trying to imagine the touch of skin on skin. Nothing. He let out a rough dry noise somewhere between a cry and a shout unable to control his muscle movements his hands seemed to spasam against his face scatching and clawing again his cheeks and eyes. Painfully digging his nails into his skin trying to remember a feeling any feeling. He couldn’t cry, He couldn’t even cry; robitic, emotionless, disgusting FREAK as his was. He could hear the word resounding in his head. The truth that it held that he was unable to even react normally. Mourn normally. But then how did one mourn something that had never truely been?
John. Sweet, kind, understanding John. His perfect match in every possible way. Able to tame him to stem the flow of incessant noise to inject small doses of humanity into his previously sociopathic existance. His compact muscular frame so different from his own but such a perfect fit. The only other body he had ever wanted to be close to. Of course he was perfect the only logical answer. John H Watson was perfect because Sherlock Holmes had made it so. Had created what he had needed and wanted so badly. That which he could not find in the ‘real world’. Maybe it was a testiment to how much of a ‘freak’ he realy was, the fact that he’d give anything to still believe that the twisted reality he had created for himself was somehow still real. He scoffed at himself. Impossible. It had been such a drastic relentless fall it only took seconds as if John had died just slipped away in to non-existence. He blamed Mycroft it was easier that way. The only person who had had the guts to tell him. Happy to let him continue on with his dreaming and hallucinating fearing what would happened when it all came crashing down. He must have always known that eventually it would. But in what world was it right to nurture a hallucintion. To allow a person to place so much faith in something that never really existed, even as an act of kindness.
He closed his eyes tight against the light flashing through the window from a passing car and tried as hard as he could to bring him back.Draw him forward from the darks corridors in his over active mind and make him into something solid and real once more. He opened his eyes.Nothing. He cried out sitting up so fast that the world spun for a few seconds before righting its self. He lent forward and grasped the blue dressing gown that draped over the arm of the sofa sliding it over his cold naked skin as he stood up. He padded over to the kitched and filled up the kettle picking up mugs and cup at random; staring at them to see if they were clean. The flat was a disaster zone, dirty cups filled with half drunk cold tea, some experiment which he had left seemed to be producing a noxious smell from a beaker filled with congealed red…something. He couldn’t even remember, his mind was rotting away without…ridiculous.
He picked up the cleanest tea cup and placed it under the pouring tap washing it before throwing in a tea bag and two heaped spoon fulls of sugar. He poured in the water and took pleasure in the aroma wafting from the liquid at it fused with the tea and sugar he added a splash of milk and went to sit down again. He picked up his phone the screen chirrped, 17 messages all from Mycroft and about a dozen missed calls. Well Mycroft could just fuck off.
- Stranger: That will kill you...
- Me: Well something's got to...