Daily reminders:
~ as dictated by John ~
- Eating is important.
- Nurses are people too.
- Be nice to Mycroft. (It is unacceptable to nick his umbrella and/or allude to his weight).
- You like the violin. However, Mozart is stupid.
- No deducing fellow patients out loud. It's rude.
- Experiments in the communal lounge will no longer be tolerated.
- Recovery is possible.
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...
Falling. Falling. I'll fall forever.
...
My mind is gone.
Overwhelmed by the most mundane things, with headaches I can envisage by the hour, I'm proud when I can wash myself, boil the kettle, converse a little, when I try harder.
There's no quick fix, no off and on switch.
Theoretically, it's only temporary, still I don't dare hope.
...
'John. My name is John.'
'I know who you are.'
...
I am everything and I am nothing.
I lie here.
Breathing.
In.
Out.
It feels like too much, yet it's never enough.
...
I can't be that person. I don't know who he is.
...
'We're just alike. You and I.'
Promising rays of sunlight. The gorgeous gleam of metal, dark eyes, a breath-hitching blast. Ears ringing.
I'm so sorry.
...
We laugh, we smile, we'll pretend.
I'll wipe my eyes, but I can't forget.
...
Caring is not an advantage. I can't recall how I know that, but I do.
...
On a Saturday, I pillow my head on my arm and listen to the faint slaps of rain dotting my window, sinking into bitter glass. A sprinkle of water - quiet and unassuming.
"What are you doing?" John asks me. His eyes are so very tired.
"Waiting," I shrug.
"Waiting?" He's confused. "What for?"
Me, I don't say.
You.
'..Sherlock?'
I'm waiting for us, I think. For the real Me and You.
'Sherlock, what are you-?'
I'm tracing letters. They form under my fingertips robotically, stuttering squeaks and cold dew. There's something…something that I don't - why can't I…? If I could only access…
I know this. I know that I know this.
It doesn't make any sense. There's a memory - down deep - nononono - down deeper - and I want it.
'Sherlock?' 'Sherlock, please' '- you've got to' '- what doesn't' 'Sherlock, stop-' '- Nurse… Nurse!' '- for the last time, can I get a bloody nur-'
A handful of words, here and there. Then arms. Tight, binding. Loud. Too loud. A bloodred apple. Kicking, gasping, a sharp sting.
Nothing.
And there. In the midst of it all.
IOU.
...
Who is the real victim in this, I wonder. Me? Or everyone who must deal with me?
...
My body's craving something like an itch. My lips wrap around random objects - pencils, paper clips, toothbrushes, coins - and I joggle my knee and pace hungrily. I can't sit still, my brain is foggy.
Lestrade tsks at the sight of me, huffs an amused breath, says he has just the thing.
I slap on nicotine patches like a man drowning.
...
It's autumn and my hair is growing back. Uneven and choppy. But I'll take what I can get. No more bald spots. No more odd looks skimming over stitched, bumpy flesh.
The nurses, they scold me. Advise me not to run my hands through it so very often, testing, exploring, but they're not mad, not really.
They understand how soft it feels.
...
Mist engulfs the hills today.
There's very little to see. It leaves me on edge, uneasiness tearing through my spine the longer I gaze out into obscurity.
The murky lines are ominous. Yet incredibly intriguing.
I dab and dot and smudge, sloppy flicks of black and white.
It's not a pretty picture.
...
When did loneliness become a habit?
...
Doctors, therapy, Mycroft, group sessions. It never ever ends.
I talk. I grumble. I repeat the same I'm Fine's over and over, occasionally in a different order. My voice stiff, monotone, never my own.
'It'll be beneficial in the long run,' John clucks when I complain, settling down on the sofa for a game of snakes and ladders with a smile so bright, I forget for moment he's not a natural optimist.
Beneficial? I'm not sure it is. But I can talk and I can grumble. I can spout lines of bullshit, too.
...
The Weasel doesn't like me much. I don't know 'Me,' but I know I'm not an idiot. He visits with Lestrade from time to time, though I've yet to pinpoint why. Out of guilt? Possibly.
It seems most likely, given his obvious discomfort.
His face never shifts from sullen, his feet shuffle with impatience, he fidgets with his wristwatch, never relaxes, not even a little. But it hardly matters. With a mind that simple and eyes that small, I don't suppose the Weasel matters much at all.
...
Freak.
...
You loved a good murder, they tell me.
Wouldn't you like to help again, Sherlock? Wouldn't that be nice?
But I'm not interested, I've found.
The only monsters I care about are the ones I can feel - in here - breathing inside and all around me.
...
He made a lot of mistakes - the Old Sherlock. Masses of them. Impossible to count.
But being with John and his quick wit and easy smiles, I've realised, it never really mattered. The amount.
...
'You really need to stop doing that, you know.'
He means my not eating.
'Why? If my mind is going to insist on being slow and stupid and my body simply won't quit being drained and totally uncooperative, then I may as well give them an excuse to be useless.'
John's jaw tics. 'This isn't exactly going to aid your recovery-'
My spine bulges from under my dressing gown, skinny, gaunt, sickening, my cheekbones are piercing, my wrists could snap in half.
I bite, 'What recovery?!'
...
I'm sick of all the could's and the should's, the maybe's, but not really's. I'm sick of all the false starts and heavy hearts. I don't want to be this.
'Go.'
'Sherlock.. - Sherlock, it's fine. You're si-'
'Go. Get out. Just get the hell out! How many times do I have to tell you I'm not an invalid? I'm not just some poor, tortured soul with a traumatic brain injury. There's something wrong with me, Mycroft. ME. And no medication or physiotherapy or psychoanalysis from you is going to fix that.'
My anger never stops him from visiting.
...
The night's ice is softened by the peachy afterglow of sunrise. I step outside, what remains of the snow slick and slurring under my heel. The crisp air belts my lungs, the dry cold nips my ears.
I shiver, I sniff, I rub my hands together.
There's a coat that's too big, swallowing my shoulders, fluttering at my ankles, and a thick collar that's been upturned - it scratches my skin. A sapphire scarf whips around in the wind, soft threads batting my eyes and sticking to moistened lips. I scrape the strands off my tongue with my front teeth and make a face.
This is my coat. This is my scarf.
This is me.
I don't feel warm.
...
'No. Please, no more excuses,' he groans, throwing back his head - and he calls me a drama queen.
'No. Not excuses. Reasons. Perfectly acceptable, irrefutable reasons.'
"Oh, I'm sure." John rolls his eyes. He does that a lot. 'Spare me the crap, will you? We both know how this is going to end.'
'Yeesss,' I drawl thoughtfully, gaze skyward. Bored. 'I suppose we do. With me reading, and you leaving-me-alone…ing.'
'Or - or,' He's doing that stabby finger thing again. 'Me dragging-you-out-the-door.' A heartbeat. '…ing.' He smiles, I note. John helps even when he's tired. He listens even when he doesn't follow. And he smiles when he wants nothing more than to punch you.
'..I want my skull back,' I barter after a moment, flipping onto the next page.
'For Christ's sake-'
...
He smiles when I'm not looking.
...
I spy it dangling from the ceiling.
Eyes. Eyes that are everywhere.
I blow on it until it falls, toppling to the floor on its back. Translucent legs lashing out, it rights itself and skitters across my slippers.
I squish it with a single stomp.
I'm not afraid of spiders.
...
He says to me, 'You're not broken.'
I wish I could believe him.
What am I, then?
...
John
...
He scoffs. Obviously - the word soiled in derision, nose twitching, chest puffed in arrogance. It is impatient and mean and so, so bloody perfect.
It couldn't possibly be…
It isn't.
Is he finally…?
Nothing's different.
Soon he'll come back to me
Not today.
…maybe…
This isn't The End.
They'll be okay.
...
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Thanks for reading. Thoughts? Sorry if it's really confusing.