Sherlock Imagines

Battle Scars (Sherstrade)

Day Six of SHIPPING HELL
[MORE EXPERIMENTAL WRITING CHOICES THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR- YAY!]
Ship Suggester: @PrincessPeach211
A/N: I tried journal entering. Idk if it's any good, I'm sorrys. It's also not quite by prompt I'm sorry 😭. I tried, and I kept reworking it, but it never came out right, and- I'm sorry. That's all I've got. I'm sorry.

15/5
Mycroft suggested I start keeping this. If anyone knew how close Sherlock and I are, I'm not surprised to find out it was him. I actually hadn't listened to him, not for a long while, but- today was different. Sherlock has certainly been distant, and I wouldn't expect things to be the same. But I didn't know what had happened while he was gone. I wish I still didn't.
To me, the lashes looked more like dried paint. I remember when I tried to paint my bedroom as a kid, and couldn't quite reach the top parts, and was to lazy to bend down to get the bottoms of it. It dried like that, a mess... that's what his back looked like. Scars danced along his shoulders, his too thin shoulders. I think they starved him, but he's refusing to talk about it. I wish there was something I could do. Anything. He won't let me touch them to change the bandages, he insists on doing it himself. He still isn't eating. I'm worried for him... I think I'll call Mycroft.

20/5
I got him to actually eat something today, which is a good thing, I suppose. He returned to our room, too, even stayed the night. I wish he'd told me he was having night terrors, or maybe he didn't know... for all I know, he might not have been sleeping at all. I don't know which worries me more. In the very least, he let me hold him. It's odd, even before this he was adverse to any physical affection, but... something tells me he needed it. Badly.
It lasted well over an hour, where he was just tucked in my arms, my fingers running through his curls in attempt to calm him. He shook, almost violently so. I thought he'd break completely- shatter in my arms and I'd lose him forever. No, he just got up and walked out. When I called him to make sure he was alright, he lashed out- I hope he wasn't serious when he said he hated me. I want to help him, I just don't know how. Maybe I'll message John, see if he can go check on him, since he doesn't want me there...

30/5
I called him with a case today- just a little something I knew would cheer him up. After his row with John, I think he really needed it.
He barely looked at me. Didn't even spare me a glance. Actually, no, he did spare me a glance, and it was full of contempt, hatred, annoyance- I'd hoped he hadn't meant what he said on the phone, but apparently, he did. So here, in writing, let it be known that I don't care. He can hate me, all he wants, as long as he gets better. If he has to shoot me through the skull just to feel right again, so be it.
And no, I don't think it's that simple. Actually, I know it isn't. But if that was what it would take, I wouldn't hesitate to let him. It's hard enough not seeing him smirk that smug little grin of his, Let alone watch him go through life, eyes nothing more than blank cameras, collecting information to spew out deductions. There's nothing 'clever' about it anymore, just... dead. Why won't he let anyone help him..?

12/6
Mycroft called me today, said Sherlock was getting worse. It didn't take anything more to have me rushing over there, but I'm sure Mycroft knew that. It smelled like sorrow, and something else- something familiar. I still don't know exactly what he took, but, by my guess, it was probably cocaine. Enough to kill a heard of cattle, at that. I'm writing this to get my mind off him being treated to, actually. I'm worried that he won't come back out. The doctors said they weren't sure if they could do anything, but- I can't lose him. Not like this. Christ- what was he thinking?! Did he never consider how this would effect John? Or Mycroft?! Molly!?.. me..?
Of course not... he's Sherlock Holmes, he doesn't think about anyone besides himself.

13/6
They said I can take him home in a few days, but I don't want him going back to his flat. I know he won't want to stay with me, but I'll force him if I have to. I won't let him go out like that, not if I have anything to say about it...
He looks almost peaceful, sleeping there. I can tell his body's worn from overwork, malnourishment, and lack of sleep. I hope he gets enough rest, he truly needs it. Still, despite all that, he still looks peaceful in his slumber. Utterly... entirely peaceful. I don't know any other way to describe it...
I hope he wakes up soon, even if he needs the sleep, I need to see his eyes. Hear him speak. Just to know that he's actually alive. I need something other than that damned heart monitor telling me he's here, need something more than just the nurses and doctors' reassurance- I need him. To tell me I shouldn't have stayed, that staying here wouldn't make him get better faster, or even just say I'm worthless to him. Anything would do. I just need to know he's still there.
I'll give him all the time he needs to truly heal, I just need to know he still can.

20/6
Reading these, I don't understand why I thought I was alone. Even when I couldn't see it, you were looking out for me. I'm... sorry, that I made you feel this way, and for worrying you. The nightmares got to me, and losing you... even by my own hand, it was too much. I lost my only connection to reality, and once it was severed... I didn't know how to repair it.
You're not worthless to me, you're everything to me. Thank you for staying. Your sentiment is... appreciated, George... Graham? Geoff. Ger-
Greg.

"Why am I not surprised?"