I'm pacing around in our living room while Mycroft barks at me; he doesn't even try to hide his annoyance towards me anymore. He makes it clear how he feels about me. And Sherlock. And our relationship.
It's always about Sherlock. What else would it be about? He's only gotten worse since proving Moriarty was dead. A few meters away, I can feel his presence, he lies sprawled out on his disordered bed, unconscious with a limp arm dangling from the left side of the bed. I didn't even need to examine him, the needle marks can be seen from a mile away. I'm sure if he was in control of himself he wouldn't have let them be seen in such plain view but nonetheless, it irritates me. How could he be so careless? Oh I know, he doesn't care about anything. Not me, not –
"He cares about you John." Mycroft says spitefully, contradicting my thoughts.
I scoff, he has a funny way of showing it.
"He does. You need to use that to your own advantage. It's the only way to break him out of this self self fulfilling prophecy of doom before he gets too deep he can't get out."
I swallow, "What do you mean, 'self fulfilling prophecy of doom'?"
"Death."
I stare at him angrily. It's probably true what he's saying but I've been avoiding that possibility for years. He can't die. Not like this. Not of his own accord. Not on my watch.
"Get out!" I yell as politely as I can while stopping the urge for me to force him out.
"His days are limited, Watson."
How can he say that? If he truly believes that then why is he itching towards the door? He doesn't even look slightly upset. Sherlock's his brother for god's sake.
I start making my way over to him, thinking that maybe I can beat some sense into him, when he slams the living room door in my face and makes his way downstairs. I stay behind the closed door. Sherlock will be able to know there was a fight. It won't make him any better. However, I'm too angry to let it go. I'm mad at myself for letting him get to this stage, I'm mad at Sherlock for letting himself get there and for Mycroft walking away. I try to stop myself but I can't. I see a picture of the three of us. I smash the perfect frame.
After bandaging my right fist, I grab my equipment and go into Sherlock's room. He hates me here but I don't care. Not anymore. I ignore the needle marks and measure with my tape measure around his wrist and record the size. 14cm. Last time I did this it was 14.8cm. He's losing more weight. I've been sneaking in some more vitamins and proteins in to his diminishing diet but it isn't working. If I could weigh him, I'd be able to tell the size of the problem. Of course, he'd never allow that. I measure his waist, 31, lower than before too. I carry on measure whatever I can and jotting down my results next to the previous weeks. Sherlock's not the only on that conducts his own secret experiments. I'm also pretty sure he has anemia. He gets short of breath more easily and he looks paler than usual. He's not well.
After measuring his heart rate and noticing a few beats being missed, I realise how bad it has got. Maybe his numbers of days are limited. He should go to hospital but he'd run out. I've took him before and it didn't help. They might take him away, for a long time. I would doubt he'd cooperate. Maybe I'm not helping him. I do try. I need to try harder. Use his care for me to my advantage.
