You are a genius.
An incredible actor.
You fooled everyone, didn't you?
They think you've never known what it's like.
They think you can't feel pain.
Now you just have to fool yourself, as well.
Shouldn't be that hard, but it is.
All the control in the world and it's still spinning.
The only things that help are the things that tear you apart.
But at least you can still act. And you'll do it well.
Take it like a champ and spit it back in their faces—
But just make sure you don't mix too many painkillers and sleeping pills.
The game's not quite over yet.
Sherlock turned his head on the pillow to gaze at the deepening sunset beyond the windowpane. The world outside was bare and quiet, and even the sunset's hues seemed to be stained grey somehow.
John had left several hours ago.
Gone home to Mary.
Again.
It really shouldn't be this hard. He'd survived so long before John... He should be able to now...
But for some reason...
He put a hand on his collarbone and slowly dragged his nails down across his chest, not hard, but enough to distract slightly from that unexplainable ache. He wasn't even sad, exactly, that he could discern—it just... hurt.
Quite a bit.
Strange...
He let out a soft sigh and allowed his eyes to wander over to the bedside table. Mycroft would have had all his stash confiscated while he was out cold, no doubt. But he might not have checked under the mattress... yet...
With considerable effort Sherlock rolled over and heaved himself up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and attempting to stand.
His first step brought him crashing down to the floor, narrowly missing a broken teacup to the face, but not so lucky in avoiding a lone shoe.
He caught the groan in his throat and held it in, hoping to god that Mycroft hadn't heard.
The last thing he needed right now was his brother's nagging.
After lying there for several moments in silence he figured Mycroft was probably too far away, and the coast was most likely clear.
He took another few seconds to gather his energy and began crawling back up to his feet, hoisting himself up by the bed frame.
This was humiliating.
Shameful.
But it would all be alright soon.
For a little while.
For a little while, he wouldn't care anymore.
He could forget that he ever gave a damn.
He paused for breath, and then pushed his shoulder against the mattress, shoving it aside just enough so he could reach underneath it. When the tips of his fingers brushed the plastic bag beneath, a slow smile spread across his lips.
Not a happy one.
Not really.
More relieved.
For a little while, it would be okay.
"Sherlock? I trust you're still alive?" Mycroft nudged the door open with the tips of his fingers and glanced into the room.
The entire bedroom was awash in shadow, tinged slightly red from the sinking sun. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, wrapped up cosily in his blanket and gazing out the window rather dreamily, with a fixed smile on his face.
A comfortable one.
But a tired one.
Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock glanced about at him, but he soon turned back to the glass, as if there was something far more picturesque to be seen there.
"Listen to the birds, Mycroft..." He smiled softly, pulling the blanket more securely about himself.
"What birds, Sherlock?"