Mohinder cried, long and loud. His sobbing could be heard throughout the entirety of the apartment. Sylar had finally calmed him down the past night, after dressing his wound. He had seemed so lucid, speaking normally and keeping his voice steady. Sylar would have almost believed he was better if he hadn't been pleading for his own death.
The doctors said that Mohinder would probably never recover from his condition. 'Severe mental trauma' they had called it. Sylar had taken Mohinder to every mental specialist in New York, only to have that damn phrase follow him everywhere.
They told Sylar that Mohinder's madness must have stemmed from a deeply traumatic experience. Perhaps the death of a loved one. Of course he had been asked many questions regarding the subject, but Sylar stuck to his back story.
He told the doctors that he had found Mohinder in his apartment already in a state of insanity. It was really only half a lie. He had to face the truth of the situation, though. Sylar was the one who had broken Mohinder. It was his duty, his responsibility even, to fix the poor soul.
There was once a time when Sylar thought his only reason for living was to further the evolutionary process. Those times were long behind him, but they still haunted many. He didn't exactly feel remorse for his actions, but now that he had a new purpose he was able to accept the wrongness of his past life.
Sighing deeply, the tall man entered Mohinder's room. The geneticist was in his bed, right where Sylar had left him. He clutched his bed sheets tightly, drawing them closer to him when he noticed the man in his doorway. He whimpered pathetically, his dark eyes wide with fear.
Sylar walked up to the bedside, crouching down to meet Mohinder's horrified gaze. He reached his pallid hand out and touched a chocolate curl lightly. The Indian shrunk back, trying to avoid the unwanted touch. He averted his shining eyes, muttering to himself. "This isn't real," He whispered, "It's just another nightmare. Wake up, Mohinder. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."
It was extremely disconcerting for Sylar to learn that such an innocent gesture from himself was the stuff of Mohinder's nightmares. He withdrew his hand, hesitantly, and made a small flicking motion with his fingers. This caused Mohinder to flinch involuntarily.
A small plate of pancakes floated silently into the room, hovering just above the geneticist. This was accompanied by a glass of orange juice and a bottle of maple syrup. The assorted goodies came together on a tray, and rested softly on Mohinder's quivering lap.
Sylar smiled sadly and poured a generous amount of syrup on the pancakes telekinetically. Mohinder picked up the fork Sylar offered him gingerly, and began to eat.
Even in his state of madness, Mohinder still retained most of his knowledge of basic tasks. Eating, showering, and dressing himself were no problem. His mental state was still extremely distressed. He was no longer able to separate fantasy from reality.
"Thank you." Mohinder uttered, looking up slightly. The taller man smiled, but inside he was shocked. The mere notion that Mohinder was actually speaking to him made Sylar feel something that he hadn't in ages. Hope.
Once Mohinder had finished eating, Sylar picked up the dirty dishes and headed to the kitchen. He scrubbed the plate clean by hand and picked out a green porcelain tea cup from the cupboard. The green tea cup. Humming quietly, he set a tea kettle on the stove.
False hope was better than none at all, he reasoned.