He doesn't know what makes him stand up and put on his coat.
He has no idea why he gets out of the house and breaks into a run.
He doesn't know who's commanding, his body or his brain?
He doesn't have a clue where he's heading, and yet he keeps running and running.
He doesn't even realize at first when he finally stops on the side of the Thames.
He doesn't know how he's still standing after what felt like hours of running.
.
All he knows is that everything hurts, and he has to make it stop.
All he knows is that thoughts are running around in his brain, and he has to shut them up.
And he knows just how to do that.
.
He's screaming.
Screaming at the top of his lungs.
Screaming his pain and sorrow away.
Screaming like no man has ever screamed before.
.
He might be crying too, but the rain makes it impossible to tell.
It's just as well.
He just keeps screaming until he has no voice left.
.
Later, when he gets back to the flat, drenched to the bone and almost mute, Mrs. Hudson is there with a blanket and a scowl she usually saves for Sherlock. But she doesn't say anything about his red eyes and her ruined carpet. She just coaxes him to change into dry clothes and drink tea.
.
He feels pathetic.
He feels miserable.
He feels broken.
.
He feels. Finally.
