I came down the stairs one night because I heard breaking glass and things falling and being thrown all over the living room and the kitchen. Sherlock had destroyed everything. He paced the flat in his underwear (he always told me that clothes made him itch, no matter how soft) and flung things and kicked things and tore out his hair. He was screaming, too, but I couldn't tell what he was saying, if it was anything at all. I froze in the doorway, too afraid to do much of anything. It was only when a vase flew past my head that I moved and rushed over to restrain him. He struggled, of course, and did some damage to my legs and lower body with his feet. The hardest part was to see him crying. I don't believe he ever meant to do this. Something in him snapped that night and he couldn't hold it in any longer. I eventually got him to calm down and I took him back to bed and rocked him while I stroked his hair. He didn't say a word. I fell asleep with him early in the morning. Sherlock had woken before me. That was the morning I found him dead in our bathroom.