He talks.
He talks about duties and responsibilities and people you upset.
(You are a burden)
.
The silence is loud, suffocating, and it doesn't bother you anymore (there are other sounds).
You are used to the utter loneliness, to the hollow faces and quiet sobbing late at night.
It's not the end of the world, but it sure feels like that.
.
You don't want to see him, yet he insists on visiting. So you don't throw tantrums anymore – you sit, cold and rigid, and look somewhere to the left of him.
Tap tap tap of his umbrella is the most infuriating sound ever.
.
The whole world is his playground, and you will rather die than be his toy.
(He won't let you die.)
.
There is no escape.
.
You refuse to be the sunflower if he is Apollo.
.
He takes away the freedom, takes away the drugs, gives you pain of withdrawal and leaves you bored, your brain rotting, bored, bored bored bored and you scratch your skull til it bleeds, and howl. He turns you into animal.
(He whispers promises that are lies, but in the dark when you are lonely you can imagine his mouth on your ear and you want to be somewhere safe.)
.
Sunflowers die and Apollo doesn't care – he's had his revenge.
(Except he will break you into million pieces if he has to, break you and mend you thousand times, and he won't let you die.)
[it makes you feel loved – in a twisted, bizzare way – loved nonetheless]
.
Sometimes you think you died – overdosed and died – this is special Hell, for you. (You dismiss such ridiculous ideas, and you don't believe in Heaven or Hell).
Perhaps this is just especially bad trip, and it feels like eternity. (You know it isn't).
.
He is in control, always has been, always will be – this is one of the truths you know, this is one of the fundaments of your world.
.
You are a hurricane with eyes like needles (like needles you insert in your veins) and you run around, wherever that brilliant brain of yours (full of chemicals) takes you – if you looked behind, you know you would see shadow of his imposing silhouette. So you run faster.
(You'll never be fast enough to escape his gravity)
.
This is what he does: he appears.
He observes and admonishes and you want to hit him.
(You are ignoring him, remember)
He hurts, he demands, he threatens. He thinks he knows the best. He thinks he knows you the best.
(In his wake he leaves a burning desire, and you hate him for that).
.
There was a time when all of you was focused on him.
(He never gave you second glance)
.
You can't control me.
(Not forever. Someone will have to get bored of this little game)
.
His visits sometimes aren't unwelcome. You are less hollow, less dull, less bored – you deduce where he's been before coming to you, you deduce the state of the country, you deduce what he had for lunch, and he doesn't really give much clues. It's the most entertainment you get here.
(He is the one you should be afraid of – were afraid of, sometimes; last time being when he found you on that cold bathroom floor and for a moment you honestly believed he would kill you and be done with you once and for all).
[You rubbed your face in his leg and called his name, again and again, horribly misspronouncing]
.
Perhaps this is what happens when he is done with you – you turn into his mirror image. You get suits and elegant umbrella and beautiful assistant and the whole world to manipulate.
No. No. No.
(You don't want to be him – no, God help you, you want him)
.
They won't give you your violin, afraid you might use it to harm yourself.
(The strings are taut, sharp – like his eyes, dissecting you, while his lips form the words you don't want to hear)
.
Leaning on his umbrella, face impassive and eyes cold, and you will never tell him.
(You dreamt of his hands all over you, and pulling him closer, and dragging him down, down with you, reducing him into a mere mortal, a weak flesh)
.
He is brilliant, oh yes, very much so, but you are smart too – you will get out.
.
I don't trust you.
It doesn't matter – it never mattered, because he could have had you, if only he cared.
.
He is the only one worthy of your attention; worth loving. There is no one you'd rather hate more.
.
He has a job for you when you get out, but you refuse; thousand times no – you have to, you need to get away.
Everything bears his marks.
(Sometimes, secretly, it's comforting; his shadow in every alley)
.
Always were the second best, weren't you, and you didn't mind at first, because he was there and he will teach you.
He didn't. He thinks bother, he says annoying, looks bored – so you ask How is the diet, Mycroft, you say gaining weight, Mycroft, and you are childish, and you aim to hurt.
(You have no mercy for him and he has no patience for you).
.
You still have to look up to meet his eyes – not that you want to, anymore.
(The first word you ever uttered, Mummy tells you, little bitter, was a horrible misspronounciation of your brother's name – it sounded partially like choking.)
.
It does choke you.
.
(You will never kiss him.)
.
And then you meet John Watson, and it's something new, something different altogether.
(Nothing really changes, except there is one more figure on the chessboard)
[It changes everything]