Mondays were tiresome. His limp was back.
Bring flowers to the grave, bite tongue to keep from crying. Go to work, go home, and buy milk.
Fall asleep in Sherlock's bed.
Tuesdays were horrendous. His limp was really bothersome now.
Bring flowers to the grave, gnaw on tongue to keep from crying. Go to work, go home, and buy milk.
Fall asleep in Sherlock's chair.
Wednesdays were unbearable. He was going to have to see someone about his limp; he feared maybe it wasn't psychosomatic anymore.
Bring flowers to the grave; his tongue was going to be permanently disfigured. Go to work, go home, and buy milk.
Fall asleep at Sherlock's laptop, updating his blog.
Thursdays were detestable. The specialist said that there was nothing wrong with his leg.
Bring flowers to the grave; his tongue was sore and it hurt to talk. Quit work, go home, and buy milk.
Don't sleep.
Fridays hurt his head. He felt as though he could barely move, the pain in his leg was so acute.
Bring flowers to the grave; he now chewed on the sides of his mouth due to his tongue's state. Go to the pub, go home, and buy milk.
Spend night at the grave.
Saturdays were depressing. He had to dig up his cane from the boxes in the attic to use again.
Bring flowers to the grave; gnaw on the sides of his mouth. Go to the pub.
Fall asleep in stranger's bed.
Sundays were maddening. He didn't like to go outside 221b anymore.
Bring flowers to the grave; give up on not crying, his mouth can't handle the abuse. Go home, buy milk.
Fall asleep in Sherlock's bed.
This Monday morning he couldn't take it anymore. His leg was killing him.
Bring flowers to the grave; sob openly. Buy milk, go home.
He's waiting for him in his chair, playing the violin. Punch him in the face.
Fall asleep in Sherlock's bed, in Sherlock's arms.