I Am Sher-Locked Up

Sarcasm and Sadness

Sherlock

Dear John...

Sherlock takes a breath, unsure of what to put next. He had never really been one for speaking from the heart, he was more of a precise, planned speech with notecards kind of man.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure what I'm writing you about. I feel like I need to apologize, but for what I am not sure. I guess I should start with me existing. I've been nothing but a burden my entire life, and I am stupid to believe I'm not one in yours.

Sherlock chews on his crayon a bit, spitting in disgust when he realizes it wasn't a pencil. He didn't know exactly how much to open up to John, and he didn't know what he was comfortable sharing. He decided to just quit thinking and let the words flow:

And I also need to apologize for being so difficult. It's hard to exist as I do, and I know that's no excuse, but please try to understand I am trying my hardest. 

I know you're not one for repetitiveness, so I'm just going to say that I am sorry for all the undue distress and hurt I may have caused you over the years, and leave it at that.

Additionally, I think I better explain my position here. I know you and Mycroft have spoken, and I know he's told you what he thinks is wrong with me, but I want you to hear it from me, the source. I'm not one for anecdotes or life stories, but I'll tell you mine.

I'm sure Mycroft has explained the facts, about me hearing voices and how I used to hit myself and how I got in and out of hospitals for years, but I want you to know why I did that.

I can honestly say that there was never a time when I loved myself, or even remotely liked myself. When I was four, I had already been given several labels: broken, crazy, unloved, unmanageable, irreparably hopeless. It's hard to build your self worth from such shambles, isn't it? I suppose I could blame my self hatred on my circumstances, but I can't really absolve myself from the blame that easily. I dislike a multitude of things: people, stupitity, ignorance, politics, gender roles, children, etc. But I have never hated something with as much fierceness as myself. I'm not sure you can understand how much I loathe every molecule of my being, and I hope to God you won't ever have to. 

As a result of this, I'm pretty certain that any love directed at me went unrequited. But there was one exception: you.

Sherlock pauses here, unsure if he should crumple this note up and trash it, or to keep going. Once he finished there was no going back; he never left things halfway done. On the other hand, he never gave up either. With a steady resolve, Sherlock marches forward.

It took me so long to recognize the emotions I associated with you. Took me even longer to accept them, and sometimes I can't even look you in the eye because I'm afraid of what you'll see: a broken man who isn't worthy of the emotion he's feeling. 

I don't know what to do. All my life I've felt helpless, caught in the riptide of life. This is the first time I've taken control in a while. I don't want to lose you just because I was stupid enough to throw my life away just when things were looking up. 

I guess this letter is a promise, from me to you. I'm not one for promises, seeing as I usually cannot keep them, but I promise you this: I am coming home, and I will try my hardest to recover. Be patient with me, because 30 years of hatred doesn't disappear in one night.

~Sherlock 

Sherlock realizes that he is crying, and that several tears blot his paper.

"Fucking hell, what have you been reduced to, Sherlock? The slightest emotion turns you into a sniveling mess." He said to himself, smiling a little.