What am I doing?
John walks back into my room and I feel like face palming.
Stupid. Stupid. This isn't the days before I 'died', this is the days where John is acting like he cares. He doesn't care. Stop being clingy. I'm such a bastard, someone kill me before I screw up anymore.
"What is it, Sherlock." John looks impatient... I think...
"Nothing, it was an experiment."
"Sherlock..." His voice is more stern now.
"It was an experiment, goodnight." I sharpen my voice intentionally.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
"... I'm here for you, alright?" John stands in the doorway awkwardly, still holding a sleeping Rosie.
Refusing to answer, I close my eyes and steeple my fingers.
I can almost imagine past John hesitating at the doorway, but I know he's not past John, this is now John... he's upset that I called him.
Stupid, you're so stupid, Sherlock. Look what happens when you forget your place and that people don't care... you deceive yourself into thinking that things are different then they are.
You called John, hoping for the John that enjoyed your company before you died, he's gone. He died with you on that day. The only difference between him and you, is that he's not coming back.
"Sherlock-... alright... I'll see you... later." John's voice expresses an emotion I don't understand. What is that tone?
Look what you did, you made him hate you.
Stupid cock, you pretend that your smart, you can't even name the planets... you can't even remember all of your cases anymore.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You've fooled everyone into thinking you're brilliant, now they're finding out that you're nothing but a dick pretending to be someone.
They're all going to leave you, it's your fault. It's all your fault.
After several minutes, I hear John's footsteps walking away from my room. Slowly, I open my eyes and look around.
Mycroft's right. Attachments are dangerous, sentiment is a chemical defect found only in the losing side.
Maybe, maybe, Mycroft is right about other things... maybe I am the stupid one...
Perhaps- no...no... Yes. I am the stupid one, I've fooled everyone including myself. Now, everyone sees the truth that I'm an ordinary goldfish like the rest of them.
The sounds around the hospital are loud and close, yet quiet and far away.
The beeping of the heart monitor to my left is infuriating, the footsteps and pointless chattering all around me is driving me insane.
That implies you had any sanity to begin with.
Piss off.
My eyes flicker down to my wrists.
If only I'd cut deeper... maybe I would have avoided this whole mess.
Are you suicidal, Sherlock? Sooo disappointing.
Shut up.
"Only eight stitches." My voice doesn't sound like my own. Yet, yet, it sounds more like myself than I've ever heard before. "Only eight..."
You should have done better.
Shut... shut up.
A soft knocking erupts from my door, in a split second I find myself staring at a Molly Hooper.
"How are you feeling, Sherlock?" She doesn't approach me, she just stands in the doorway, as if afraid to come closer.
"Fine." I'm aware that my voice is jaded, but I don't care anymore.
"I brought you... umm..." She hesitates, then walks toward me with slow and deliberate movements. "I brought your violin to you... you left it... and..."
My eyes lock with hers.
No, this isn't right. I don't deserve the violin according to everyone who has spent five minutes in my presence.
"Umm... John said you were here, so I thought that you'd like it back... Sherlock, why did you hurt yourself?" Her voice is soft, yet pain filled. Why?
"You must be mistaken." I steeple my fingers, but don't close my eyes.
"No, John said you cut yourself... and when I ran into him outside he said you weren't doing very well."
"He's wrong, I'm fine." I snap at the brunette woman.
She looks taken aback, and there are tears in her eyes.
"I should be going, I hope you feel better soon." She lays the violin down in the bed and as quickly as she appeared, she leaves.
Look what you did, Sherlock. You chased her away. She knows that you're a freak. Everyone knows you're a pathetic freak that deserved everything that happened in Serbia.
Leave me alone.
The violin on the bed next to me keeps catching my eye, as if asking me to pick it up and play.
I don't have my bow.
My hands act upon their own will, picking up the violin and plucking at the strings.
You're never going to survive without Allan. You're nothing without him.
Shut up, just leave me alone...
I'm you, I'll never leave you alone.
My inner voice has grown more critical since my return from Serbia, my time with Allan helped to mold my inner voice into the perfect weapon for keeping me aware of who I am.
If only Allan were here to be proud of me.
Mycroft. Fucking Mycroft. The motherfucking motherfucker.
I want Allan. I want Allan. I want Allan. I want Allan. I want Allan. I want him now.
"Knock, Knock." A nurse steps in with a fake cheery smile and even faker attitude.
"Why won't anyone leave me alone?!"
"Calm down, Mr. Holmes, I'm just here to check your vitals."
"Check them later." My hands grip the neck of my violin and I just want to escape this hell.
"Sorry, sir, I have to check them now." She acts as if she's sorry, but I know she's not. No one is sorry. No one is sorry and no one cares.
Can't they just leave me alone?