A/N: So, I got 3 followers! This is for you! :D I hope you like it. Please consider leaving a review, just to tell me what you think about it. Criticism is always welcomed.

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I am alive, but I feel like I'm dead. I don't DO anything. I'm not important. I go through the motions, and I work at the clinic 72 hours a week. When I am not working, I sit in my tiny hotel room.

Sometimes, I cry until I can't anymore. Sometimes, I scream until my voice is hoarse. Sometimes, I don't do anything. More often, I cut. It has been a year. A whole bloody year. Ha. Bloody. Sherlock always thought puns were a lower form of humour, and beneath him, but I distinctly remember a couple of occasions where he smiled at a pun I made.

I saw Lestrade today, and surprisingly, he looked almost as bad as I do. He flinched when he saw me looking at him. I expect he thought I was going to punch him. I didn't.

I hugged him, and he hugged me back. It was... nice? I think. Lately, I don't really feel much. I don't know what emotion I'm experiencing. I know when I am in pain, and I know the feeling of endorphins flooding my body after I cut.

We talked for 10 minutes before he left. He patted my shoulder, and told me to call him up to go to a pub some night. I think I might just take him up on that.

Not tonight though. Tonight is for me. Tonight I am going to slice up my thigh a bit, then disinfect it and bandage it up. I am going to get pissed out of my mind, and then I am going to wrap myself up in his blue dressing gown. The one thing of his that I took from the flat. I haven't touched it, so I'm counting on it smelling like him.

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I'm wrapped in his dressing gown on the bed, when I feel... strange. Everything is hazy. It's almost like I've been drugged. Which is impossible, because I didn't even eat any- oh. Oh. The whiskey. It was from Mycroft.

I haven't talked to him since before the fall, but he came by my room a couple months back. I didn't punch him. I didn't kick him out. I just sat and stared at him. Eventually, he brought up some case the government needs help on. I just stared. He left the whiskey on the table. I opened it tonight, and I drank the whole bottle.

That bastard. Next time I see him, I am going to...

Everything goes dark.

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When I wake up, I am tied to a chair.

Tied to a fucking chair.

Mycroft calls Sherlock dramatic.

Shite, called, he called Sherlock dramatic. Get yourself together Watson. It's been a fucking year.

I hear a door squeak, and I squint. Trying to see who it is, is pointless. I have a light shining right into my face. Although, I assume by the sound of the footsteps that it is Mycroft. I also assume that he knew I would be furious, hence the restraints.

"You know, tying me to a chair doesn't make me want to help you." I snarl at him. He is circling my chair now.

"Doctor Watson, this would go by so much more easily if you would just cooperate." He is using the voice I frequently heard him use with Sherlock, normally after Sherlock acted like an insolent child.

"Yeah? Make me. Sherlock is dead. Because of you. I am not helping you do anything. You go on with your life. You swing your brolly about. You Holmes' have always been cold. But, I though you cared about him. Guess I expected too much, huh?" I manage to keep an angry voice throughout my speech.

I didn't see the umbrella coming. How could I? It was behind me.

SLAP!

A searing pain went through my shoulder. Of course he hit the left one. That bastard probably has my file memorized, he knows I have sensitive scar tissue there. Arse.

"Doctor Watson, you may have known Sherlock better than anyone else. You may have known him better than he knew himself. But, do NOT presume to know anything about me. Are. We. Understood?" The bite in his voice was sharp. So sharp that I almost regretted my words. Almost.

"Now, Doctor Watson. You are going to look at these photos, and you are going to stay here until you tell us everything you can. Clear?" He says this as he steps slowly into the light.

He pulls a folder from his briefcase, and starts to remove what I assume are the photos he wanted me to look at. I want to tell him no. I want to tell him that he'll never get me to talk. But underneath Mycroft's stony exterior, I know that he loved Sherlock. I know he made a mistake. I almost forgive him. So I say, "Crystal."

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