Tuesday, 24th.
Slept in late this morning. In bed until at least 9am. I normally get up at 7am, but who cares? I don't have to work yet, so it's all good. I turned my phone on and saw I had thirteen missed calls from Mycroft. Ten texts too. He's taking it too far now. He's obsessed himself into finding him. I'm trying to avoid him now. I can't be sucked into believing he's alive, then just get disappointed. Anyway, I don't want to find him. He would have contacted Mycroft if he really cared, but he hasn't.
I'm coping better today. It has been the best day of the past month and a half. No interruptions yet, just peace and calm. I have another hour and a half until the 'gangs' come out, so I can relax and read a book or something, have a nice cup of tea. Or even go to bed nice and early for another warm lay-in. I might leave this early. Night.
John.
It's nearly midnight. I know it's late but I had to write everything down now. I can't keep it in. An hour ago, I heard a noise outside the apartment door. I thought it was someone going home upstairs, or even next door, but the noise was still there a minute later. I got up quietly and went to see what it was, and outside my door stood Mycroft. By the looks of him, he had been drinking. A lot. I pulled him in and gave him some coffee to sober him up. I half-listened to his drunk mumblings but my mind was somewhere else. It was like a mystery. Mycroft isn't the sort of man to get hammered until he can no longer walk in a straight line. I asked him some simple questions, but the only reply I got was a drunk mumble for each. I left him on the sofa for a minute while I got him another drink, but when I returned, I found him searching through the desk. I asked him what he was doing and he pinned me to the wall. He said that it was none of my buisness anymore and that he needed to do it. I cleaned the spilt drink up and left him to it. After all, who would argue with an emotional, drunk man like him?
After five or ten minutes, he sobered up a little more and sat down. Even though he could now walk without me helping him, alcohol still clouded his mind, and he started to cry uncontrollably. I gave him a box of tissues but he slapped the away and curled up. He said he wanted to go home, so I escorted him outside to the car waiting for him. When I went back up, I saw a white crisp envelope on the floor. I picked it up and ran downstairs to give it back to Mycroft, but he had left already. I walked back up and stared at the envelope. After minutes of silence, I opened it and took the contents out. A new looking letter, a stamp and a few blurry photographs. The letter was addressed to Mycroft, but it was unsigned. After reading it, I figured it was just nonsense. The photos were too blurred to recognise anything or anyone, though the same man was in all four of them, not in focus, but definitely there. These didn't bother me. What struck the most fear was the stamp. It was the type of old fashioned red seal used for letters and parcels. I had found some on my cases with him, and had seen the contents of two or three, but had thought they were pure nonsense set by Moriarty. I looked at it, and thought it was silly of me to get scared over a seal. I tossed it to one side and tried to forget about it. But I couldn't. No matter which way I faced in bed, the seal seemed to follow me. It all seems so silly now.
Look at my writing. I've never wrote so much in one sitting. And the spelling mistakes. I always try to stay on top of grammar, but it seems that when you are deprived of sleep and a clear head, you tend to rush and make mistakes. Sorry. You can criticise me if you like. What is it they call you? Something about grammar police...? No? Oh well. And even if you do criticise me, I have more important things to worry about. Plus, I hardly ever read the comments. Only when someone tells me to because there's something that can actually help me, and that only happens about once a month. I'm going to try and get some sleep. Or just a small power nap, just to keep me refreshed.
John.