There Is Nothing Wrong With Me

So Much More Than No One

Sherlock POV: It was getting harder and harder to inject that poison into his veins. It was becoming increasingly difficult simply to pick up the newly unwrapped syringe much less fill it with the medicine and stick it into his arm. Dr. Thompson was under the impression that he was getting better, his family all thought that he had a girlfriend, he was happier than ever, more mentally stable than ever, he simply didn't know why he needed this medicine at all! It did nothing except try to taint his beautiful relationship with John, tried to null his feelings until he was almost stupid enough to drag his heart over to the women. Why on earth did he even take it if he knew the damage it would do to him? It was horrific to say the least. And so, in a rather rash move, Sherlock decided that he didn't need the medicine at all. No one would notice if he took his daily dose straight to the sink, not even Mycroft would go far enough to check the pipes for any trace of Sherlock's poison. And so Sherlock filled the syringe up to the proper daily dose and went over to the sink, squirting it down the drain and running the water a little bit to make sure it was properly disposed of. See, no harm done. Sherlock then bided his time trying to do homework, if that's what Lauriston even wanted to call it. The assignments they gave out seemed more like an excuse to inconvenience the students, it wasn't work so much as it was annoying. To Sherlock these problems were about as easy as picking the primary colors, and so what usually would've taken him an hour to two hours at Wisteria took him a mere fifteen minutes to scribble down numbers and solve equations carelessly. There were definitely things about Wisteria that Sherlock missed so desperate, things that Lauriston simply couldn't provide. Most kids, of course, would never complain about the minimal workload at public school however Sherlock saw it, if anything, as a bit of a rip off. Certainly the children with the more extensive education would get farther in life, get better jobs and actually know what to do with them rather than the kids in Lauriston who got to learn all about triangles but never about how to do taxes. Lauriston lacked the challenge that Wisteria had offered, that and the reward that followed a perfect score on homework or tests. Sherlock loved to learn things and remember them, while in Lauriston he could simply get away with memorization and regurgitation, every Brainiac's worst nightmare. Sure, you knew the information for a good day, maybe a day and a half, but come two years when you're neck deep in the word force and suddenly you find yourself in need of a certain piece of information that you had erased all those years back, well, it was frustrating to say the least. Sherlock had dedicated himself to learning everything before he even had to know it (which wasn't hard because it would seem that Lauriston was teaching things much later than Wisteria) and so now, even though Sherlock knew the information by heart, he couldn't even waste his time studying! Oh it was so incomprehensibly boring when he had nothing to learn! Sherlock certainly missed Wisteria on nights like tonight, when even his boredom could be relieved by simply listening to his roommate jabber on about pathetic topics with his friends. He missed the walls when they creaked against the wind and the rain, he missed the sunlight as it started to fade under the tree line right outside of his window, he missed sitting in class and gazing down over to the small pond that say at the edge of the property, he missed answering question that his single minded peers couldn't even touch... Sometimes Sherlock was able to crowd out his negative memories of Wisteria with the positive ones and he found himself wishing beyond anything that he could be there once more. However he knew now that it was impossible to even step foot near those walls, so he had to tell himself that it wasn't Wisteria he was missing, it was simply one of its current occupants. So Sherlock pulled out a blank piece of paper and propped it up on one of his thicker books, taking out a pen and tapping it loudly against his chin while he pondered what to write. What ever could he write to John when there was nothing to talk about, nothing to mention at all? Maybe he could write a follow up from the stream, just to ensure him that all was well and that he had made it back without too much of an issue. Yes, that would make a good excuse to send out a letter and hope for a reply.
John,
I hope you made it back to Wisteria in time after our little adventure, I apologize once more for putting you in that situation. Then again, it's not really my fault that you called on me so late at night, so you rather had it coming when I fell asleep in the grass. Nevertheless I am unscathed over here, I was able to convince my parents that I had spent the night at the stream with Molly and they seemed to take it alright. Mycroft (my brother) is the only one who doesn't seem convinced, but then again he has no proof but his own suspicions and he could never trace my nightly excursions back to you, so I think we'll be safe. How is life at Wisteria now? I kind of miss its walls, but then again I'm sure you'd do anything to be at Lauriston, so I shouldn't complain too much. I miss you already, if it's not too clingy to admit such a thing, I know it hasn't been long but I've almost gotten accustomed to your hanging around. It's nice to have someone to talk to for a change, even in a one sided conversation in a letter it's nice just to know that someone will take the time to read this. It's nice to know that you will be reading this. Maybe you're even thinking of me right now, I don't know. I want to see you again, so whenever you want to plan a visit I'm sure I'll be free. You're my only social life, so any time works for me.
See you soon I hope,
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock sighed, leaning back against the bed and observing his newly created masterpiece. He knew that in a couple of days John's beautiful eyes would gaze upon his writing, the loops in the ink, the smears where his hand touched too close to the paper...That was the charm of letters, more personal than a phone call in Sherlock's opinion because there were traces left on the paper and in the handwriting, traces that simply couldn't be transmitted through a phone wire. He would see him soon, Sherlock could feel it. There was that looming presence in his stomach, an internal countdown until he saw John again. And it seemed, as curious as that may be, that it was starting to get to zero. As if, unexpectedly, John Watson was going to show up in his life unannounced.