The Ignorance of Love
Karen looked once more at the scrawl on the piece of paper that Mycroft had given to her, a single phrase. Her laptop pinged as Google opened before her, the search box flashing temptingly before her. She typed in the phrase, pausing for a moment, biting the insides of her cheek as she pressed enter.
Breathing a sigh of release, her eyes scrolled to a hit that made her stomach jolt. She clicked on it, knowing immediately it was the correct post that Mycroft wanted her to read.
That Heart of His by Dr John Watson.
Firstly I must apologize for the previous post. It's now been deleted. It appears that even when Sherlock's drunk-
Karen's breath caught in her throat as she read his name. The first conscious time in weeks that his name had entered her mind, and it hurt. Physically hurt. Feelings came flooding back, they're time together, that night together and how he'd broken her heart with his cruel vindictive words. Taking another sharp breath she gathered herself and read further.
-he still has the ability to hack into my laptop. I swear the man see's me changing the passwords. I don't have the heart to argue with him. He's a broken man, as many of my repeat visitors will know from previous posts.
The Science of Deduction has been left to wrack and ruin. Countless emails flood into my inbox every day, the phone never stops beeping, the landline never stops ringing, hundreds of cases every day, Lestrade, Mycroft, even his mother, sending things that we all know he would find interesting. But he doesn't do anything about it. He sits in his room, drinking, smoking; doing god knows what else up there. Everything except the things that he should be doing. I mean this is not the man I moved in with.
I haven't been woken up by the violin in 2 weeks. I haven't seen him touch it in more weeks than that; it sits there in the corner of the room as dejected as its owner. He hasn't experimented for much longer, the last I recall being how many painkillers he can take without passing out. He claims that was an experiment, but who doesn't know that 12 painkillers and a shed load of other drugs will end in him in hospital with his stomach being pumped. There are much more sinister plans at work here. He wants it to end and with this self deprivation and harm, the time of loss seems to be closing in, even with me watching his every move.
Karen whimpered reading the final words over and over again. There was another post above it, the date only yesterday. With a shaking hand and tears in her eyes she tentatively clicked it.
The Ignorance of the Detective by Dr John Watson
Dearest Readers,
A lot has happened in the last two weeks. For one the great detective actually emerged from his room, and what a sight. In all my years as a doctor, to see someone that I care deeply about in a state such as that. It breaks my heart all over again.
When Karen left, Sherlock simply lost the will to live. He claimed he was fine, and yet he allowed himself to sink into the deep blackness of depression, missing her. And I don't care what he says, I watch him sleep. I have to, to ensure he doesn't do anything stupid. He cries, every night, whimpering her name.
I told you once that Sherlock Holmes can see through everything and everyone but is spectacularly ignorant; well I have to say my diagnosis has changed a little. Everyone. The man cannot for the life of him see through himself. He can't deduct why he's hurting even though he must know subconsciously why. He fell in love. And he hurt her. And this guilt, this terrible guilt is killing him. It's hurting him more than the drink and the self harm combined. And he knows it. He wants the pain; it's the only thing that keeps him alive.
The more you care the more it hurts. He said it himself.
Karen slammed the lid of her laptop down, raising her hands to her face. Tears where streaming down her cheeks. The thought of him doing that to himself. With that she ran from the room, leaving her money, phone and coat behind her. The only thing she had grasped in her hand was her keys.