Shadows of the Past (BBC Sherlock) -1-

26. On the Edge

Dear Journal,

I can't believe I'm actually using you even though the idea of writing things down is stupid. I mean, just because it works for Darien doesn't mean it works for me. Everybody copes with tragedy in their own ways.

It was nice talking to Darien, especially in the time I'm in. In a sense, she understands the grief and the place I'm coming from. It was a refreshing change to talk to her instead of Amanda for once. I feel we got closer.

I'm writing in you now, because I gave in. And actually, despite my hand cramping up from writing so much, it's actually kind of relieving.

Things have been a wild ride ever since The Fall. To think, it's been a little over a month already...

I still picture it as clear as the world around me when I don't want to, which is all the time. I know it's unhealthy for me to hang around London, but I can't leave John, not yet. I still have one thing left to do, only...I can't find the right time to do it.

Ever since Sherlock told me that he'd found my father, I went back and forth into whether or not I believed him. To this day, the battle continues. But compared to before, hope is triumphing for once. I'm beginning to want the theory to be true. I would write down the name, but in case the said person finds this, they won't know it's them if they go snooping around.

On the nightmare front, things aren't going so well. I have them at least twice a week. It could be worse, so I'm glad it's only twice and not more. When I'm awake in the dark, I swear I see figures. I know my eyes play tricks on me, and it doesn't help that I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since I have no idea when. The most recent "sighting" was when I'd woken myself up, not from a bad dream, but simply because I couldn't get comfortable. I'd woken up to see a shadow.

The only good thing about the shadow was that it hadn't been Moriarty.

Speaking of the vile spider, he appears more in my dreams than as a hallucination. No matter what form he takes, I'm still not fond of him being in my life, or my thoughts.

I've given up on wishing for things that will never happen, such as bringing back people from the dead, or turning back time to save them. You don't get a second chance at life, it doesn't work that way.

I haven't eaten; I don't get hungry a lot anymore. I suppose The Fall has changed my appetite.

I worry about John. It's like watching over a sullen, rebel teenager. I make sure he leaves to go to work, or at least get out of the house. I know his therapy sessions aren't helping him, I don't see improvement. If there is any such change, it's probably making him worse instead of better. Out of the two of us, I seem to be the more stable one. I guess that's not saying much considering I see two men who committed suicide as hallucinations and dreams.

I'm lucky John hasn't gone behind my back and ordered medication for me and started slipping it in my food and drinks. For all I know, he could be plotting that right now. He seems more quiet than usual...

I stopped writing; John suddenly on my mind. I poked my head up from the couch I called my bed. Really, couches were second beds to me.

I looked to the small hall in the apartment. My brows came together. Usually, I heard John scuffling around, at least. Way concerned like always, I closed the journal and sat it on the other side of the couch. In a slight panic, I fast-walked to the hall, where I saw John's door mostly closed—it was open just a crack.