May 7

It's still hard for me to come up with something to write about. Maybe it's not just beginnings. Maybe I'm just not very good at keeping a journal.

I suppose I could just lie to Dr. Malone— tell her I'm writing in it when I'm really not.

No, I can't do that. She's been too kind to me.

God, I'm horrible at this.

But now that I think about it, there is a part of me that does want to keep this going. I guess that's why I agreed in the first place.

The part of me that caved in is the part of me that's trying to distract me, keep me busy. I guess that's what happens when you get abducted and tortured by a criminal mastermind, and then spend over three weeks in the mental ward of a hospital.

I seriously could not make that up if I wanted to.

I still can't really remember all that went down that night. I remember being taken, and being forced to come face-to-face with Jim Moriarty, who is without a doubt the most terrifying person I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Then one of his men came in, and then

Sorry, I had to stop there. That part is still fresh in my mind, and it's just too painful. He did terrible things to me. Terrible.

After that, though, is when my memory starts to get foggy. I've tried so hard to remember, but all I get are just brief flashes of images. A dark room. Lots of water. And I think I saw Sherlock, but I'm not so sure. These days, I can hardly trust my own mind.

Sherlock did say that it was at the sports centre, at the swimming pool area, where they met Moriarty, along with how the meeting went between them. That clears some things up, I think. But from what I understand from what Sherlock told me, and with how Uncle John described the event in his blog, we all almost died. So maybe it's a good thing I can't remember most of it.

And I don't want to go into a whole lot of detail of my time in the hospital, but I will let out that I learned some things about myself, and my family— or rather, the one that molded me into the freak I am. An alcoholic mother who was never really there for me and loves her booze more than me. And an abusive, conniving monster who hurt me so bad, she got help from said criminal mastermind to cover her arse and save her own filthy skin.

Sorry, I had to put you away for a little while. After writing that last paragraph, I ended up getting up and punching the wall. My uncle came up to see if I was okay, and then he helped me bandage up my knuckles. He didn't pressure me into telling him what drove me to do it, but I could tell from that sad face that he just knew. He's been trying to give me some space lately, try to give me room to breathe. I appreciate that, but there is a small part of me that wouldn't mind a little smothering now. Sounds twisted, I know.

Maybe it's because before I came to Baker Street, I was always just in the shadows, staying silent. I was never given so much attention— not in the encouraging way, that is. I didn't mind that back then. I liked not drawing so much attention to myself. Now, though, I can't seem to get enough of it.

Does that make me selfish?

For something that's supposed to help me feel better, this journaling business is actually kind of making me feel worse.

If that was even possible at this point.

I better stop for now. Before I put another dent in my wall.

With all due respect,

Harley Watson