Journal of Sherlock Holmes [entry 12 up!]

[Starthorn]

( c; still love it ♥ )

*gives cookie*

[Study in Scarlet]

( Sorry I just ate a doughnut xD )

[Starthorn]

*facepalm*

[Betta132]

YAAAY! MORE! WOOHOO WOOHOO WOO-clonk! *runs into tree branch* Owwwww!

[Starthorn]

YAAAY! MORE! WOOHOO WOOHOO WOO-clonk! *runs into tree branch* Owwwww!

You just did a Sherlock XD (only the branch hit him...)

[Starthorn]

Sorry!!!!! My life has been busy... browsing Sherlock fan-art....
Thanks for all the epic comments
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Entry 8
28/1
The first thing that I can remember is a blinding whiteness, searing into my ears. warmth. White linen sheets. Moonlight streaming in through the window of the hospital ward. My pupils contracted, attempting to cope with the sudden gleam of soft light. Mycroft was sitting at my bedside reading a book. It's funny though, because I can't remember the title. Everything was fuzzy.
I didn't move. My body felt sore, and yet relaxed. I shut my eyes again. Waking up was not on the agender. I felt Mycroft push against the covers as he put down his book and turned to look at me. Through the tiny slit between my eyelids, I could see his face above me. And he was smiling. Smiling down at me. Mycroft never smiles.
It wasn't a happy smile though. It was almost as if- he was concerned. As if, this is silly, but, as if he cared.
I groaned and turned over onto my side, world blurred by overcoming sleepiness, and my aching head.
"Awake then?" Mycroft asked, his strangely gentle voice drawing me safely back to the land of the living. It all began to come streaming back. My escape. Running to the wood, and my dream. And there was something else too, but I couldn't place it in my mind.
A nurse came hurrying over, her pale blue dress standing out against the clinical white. She reached a hand behind my back, and helped me up into a sitting position, rearranging my blankets. It felt strange sitting there in those hospital robes, a plastic band around my wrist. I leant back into the pillows, furrowing my brow and running a thin hand through my matted hair.
"What happened?" I managed to ask. "Why am I here?" My brother smiled again, and turned his chair so that he was facing me.
"You took quite a hammering in the woods." He began to explain; "You had been asleep for a while. Almost four hours according to-"
"According to who?" I demanded, almost draining my energy at this sudden burst of interest. The same Nurse was instantly at my side, fussing over my blankets, and mumbling her annoyance at Mycroft under her breath.
"He has undergone a lot of stress Mr. Holmes", she appealed to my brother, "What he really needs is rest."
"He deserves to know what happened, thank you." he replied, dislike clear in every syllable. And no-one argues with Mycroft.
I felt a sudden wave of gratitude towards my brother. It was strange, but I was as though a great change had come over him.
I wanted him to continue, but I was almost to weak to say anything. As the nurse walked away again, I turned to him, willing him to keep talking.
"The child Miss. Rushworth bought back from Devon- Her name's Madeline Forster. But of course you already know that."
"Devon." I mumbled in reply, my voice breaking under the strain of talking. "I knew it was somewhere south along the west coast."
My brother snorted gently.
"The lower down the country you travel the paler the sand. The sand in that mud on the suitcase is particular to the sediment in most of Devon."
Suitcase. CCTV cameras. He must have spoken to the porter when I ran off.
Madeline Forster.
"Why- how?" I begged, my mouth dry.
"She was up in one of the trees when you walked into the hollow. She saw you go to sleep and then left. When she came back four hours later,and you were still there. She said you were shouting, and thrashing about in the leaves. The tree opposite the one she had been in was dead."
"Yes- I know." I muttered. Of course. The dead branch. It must have broken off and hit me on the back of my head.
"If I hadn't heard her shouting, you would never have been a lot worse off than you are now."
Worse off? I was only hit by a tree branch!
Surely?
"How- how long- have I been unconscious?"
"Three weeks Sherlock. Three weeks."
.
.
.
I sat there, staring at him, my whole self engulfed in disbelief. Three weeks?
"Post Viral Fatigue." his tone was focused, to the point, and yet its familiarly was somehow comforting."You have been very ill Sherlock. Even before you were knocked unconscious. Thrashing, shouting in your sleep. Waking and sleeping habits irregular. Over working yourself. Usually people cope with this, but there is something else as well."
Was I dying?
He smiled gently, and seemingly guessing my thoughts, continued.
"You are not going to die Sherlock, but unless we work out what is wrong with you it can only get worse."
"You- you don't know?"
He only shook his head, features grave.
"And I fear that this is something that you alone can solve. You can't stay in your own little bubble forever Sherlock. You are living in a real world you know, with real people, and real problems. One day it is going to get to you."
He reached behind himself a pulled his coat off the back of the chair, and then pulled it over his shoulders. With a nod to the nurse, who seemed to have assigned herself to looking after me, he walked briskly across the ward towards the door. Just before he left, he turned to face me.
"And you owe an apology to Madeline Forster. You gave her a bloody nose." and with that he left.
Left me the kill myself in my mind over and over and over again.
He left me alone.

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Post viral Fatigue is real ^^ I had it myself a few years back, apparently from over-work. It's really horrible. You feel sick, but are never actually sick, a burning temperature, pains, constant black outs. It almost like your body has given up living. Especially when there's nothing decent on TV >.< But I had it kinda bad. It's not always like that. And Sherlock has it worse

[Starthorn]

O.O I’m really sorry this took so long!
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Entry 9
29/1
The other boys in my dorm came to visit me in hospital. The monotonous drone of the ward was beginning to get on my nerves, so even they were a welcome break. Ben’s sister had made be a ‘Get well soon’ card with a big pink heart on the front. His sister is only five, but already shows signs of becoming just as big an idiot as her brother is. I’ve only met her face to face once, at an open evening two months ago. She has the same porky features as her brother, and likes Barbie dolls and colouring with crayons. She also had a pet kitten, tabby if I remember correctly. Charles clearly didn’t want to be there, which was fine of course- I didn’t want him there either. He stood a metre from the bed, straightening his collar and looking snobbish and superior. He’s not very tall though, and one of the nurses (a 24 year old named Natalie, as it happens), accidently tripped over the bag he was holding, so he was sent out for ‘disrespecting hospital safety rules’. If Winston hadn’t been so tired himself he might have been some comfort, but the fact that he looked like he was about to drop dead really did not help, as I felt almost exactly like that myself. He bought my violin in its case, and I was glad to see it, but felt so weak that I could barely lift the saw. They didn’t stay that long because the visiting hours ended with about half an hour after their arrival. Before they left, I wanted to ask if they could bring this journal, but, well, it’s stupid. I didn’t want to ask them, because I was-
Alright, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want them to know that I kept a journal, even if I was only writing to myself. I felt completely worn out when they left. I’d had an adrenalin rush, and had said and moved about too much. It was something of a relief to lie back down on the pillows again. Not that I’d got out of bed anyway, they wouldn’t let me. Now I am grateful for that. It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep again. But it wasn’t a normal sleep. It was empty, dreamless.
I woke again, sore all over, my heart hammering in my chest and cold sweat running down my back. I sat bolt upright, keeled over and was promptly sick onto the clinically sterile floor. Not so clean any more.
I was dazed, people running around, cleaning me up. It was terrifying. And that sounds silly, but it was. It was like I had been suddenly woken up from a dream, a dream where I had been running for my life. But I couldn’t remember anything. I groaned, attempting to block out the clamour around me. And then I saw you this journal on my bedside cabinet. Just sitting there. And I felt dizzy. And everything span.
And then I blacked out again.
Damn it.
.
.
.
When I came to, Mycroft was at my bedside again. He turned, and saw that I was awake.
“Only two hours Sherlock. Getting better.”
Before I could say anything, barely move a muscle, he was gone. Out of the door. I slumped backwards, and glanced up at the clock. 2:02. Visiting time starts at two. I vaguely wondered if anyone had come to see me again. It seemed unlikely.
Natalie (that nurse) smiled and walked over to me, two people in tow. I squinted at them, but everything was fuzzy.
“Some friends to see you Sherlock.” She simpered. Natalie is beginning to annoy me intensely.
I felt a shift in the mattress as someone sat down at the end of the bed.
“How are you?”
Miss. Rushworth’s voice. But her? A friend? I can’t remember having seen it like that before. What on earth was she here for? And who was this other person? I peered towards the shorter person standing behind her. As the world began to focus, I made out her form. They was small and slight, with a mess of short brown hair. She stood there, staring vigilantly at the ground, face white as a sheet. Madeline Forster. It had to be. But why were they here? I strained my eyes, looking for some clue as to who this girl was. But everything was confused, and my head was killing like nothing on earth.
“Sherlock?” Miss. Rushworth’s voice. “Are you okay?”
I could feel the blackness creeping in at the edges. Not again. I gripped the side of the bed, attempting in vain make it stop. This seemed to register, and she pushed on my shoulders so that I was lying down again.
“Let the blood run to your head.” She said gently. “You’ll feel better then.” Which of course I knew, but resisted. I hated people pushing me around, telling me what to do, even when I know it’s for my own good.
“Honestly Sherlock,” she persisted. “I had medical training before I went into teaching. I know what I’m doing.” I gave in, and fell backwards so that I was lying down again. If I hadn’t had to shut my eyes, I would have been glaring at her. In the darkness, I began to think. What were they doing here? She was one of my teachers, but it was not as if we knew each other well. The girl. What was she doing here? And medical training? Miss. Rushwoth never had any medical training that I was aware of. I screwed my eyes tighter, searching through the school files in my head. No. It said that she graduated from Oxford University with a first in Biology, and was given work at the school under special charges. ‘Special Charges’?
I felt something move at the end of the bed, and heard light, hurried footsteps as someone left the ward. Miss. Rushworth was muttering under her breath, and I could tell by the air that was thrown in my face that she was moving, waving her arms. Beckoning someone? Madeline Forster who was leaving the ward. I opened my eyes, to have all my thoughts confirmed. I was just in time to see the girl again as she almost ran out of the room. Her face was even whiter than before. She looked positively terrified, but there was something else there too. Something like... determination.
I turned my head towards Miss. Rushworth again, eyebrows raised in a question. For a second, I was certain that I saw something like anger in her eyes, but it vanished as soon as she saw me looking at her. I had never seen that expression on her face before.
Something was definitely out of place.
“I didn’t know you had medical training.” I said. I attempted to make it sound like a statement, an offhand comment, but even talking was a challenge as pain hammered hard on the inside of my head.
“Oh.” She smiled at me. That was not the reaction I had expected. “It’s routine.” She continued. “All teachers employed at a school must have a certain amount of first aid training. Just standard procedure.”
That was true, but only in state schools. We both live at a private one, where there are fully trained school doctors and nurses.
“I thought that was only in state schools.” I was making a demand now. Even she seemed to realise that.
“It’s a thing that the government bought in recently I think.” She paused, and then continued hurriedly, a shadow of a doubt visibly passing across her face. “Sherlock, why are you asking me this?”
“I was just interested. I like to know what’s going on.” This was actually partly true, but too much information confuses me. I struggle to find the separate, the important pieces of data when they are lost in everything else.
She regained her composure quickly, and her characteristic smile returned to her face. It is becoming quite permanent now. If I shuddered at things, I would be shuddering at this. She opened her mouth, as if to speak. I needed to think, and although I hated to admit it, sleep.
“I’m very sorry about Madeline. I… she’s very shy… and really doesn’t like meeting new people.” She said. I grunted in reply. My head was hurting. I think she may have said something slightly different to that, but I was taking very little in.
“That book, on your bedside…” she continued, indicating this journal. I was instantly alert, but stayed exactly where I was. She was only making conversation. She didn’t need to know that it was nothing other than an old novel.
“…Is it you yours?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?” Although her tone was light, casual, there was an edge in her voice that I didn’t like.
“It’s an old copy of Nicholas Nickleby. Mycroft gave it to me when he came.”
And Mycroft had given it to me. Second hand he had said. He told me that keeping a journal of my thoughts might ‘help’. Help with what I ask you? A lie wound up in a truth is always more plausible.
“Mycroft? Your brother?”
How did she know that?
“Yes.”
“Oh… Please may I have a look? “
“No.”
A long pause.
“Urm, I’m sorry. It… just looked like something that I’d seen before.” She muttered.
They were a few more moments of silence, but I did not allow myself to fall asleep, even though I was completely exhausted. Madeline did not come back. After about ten minutes, a nurse came over and sent Miss. Rushworth away.
And then I remembered the journal.
I asked the nurse whether anyone else had been to see me today, when I was asleep, or unconscious. She replied in the negative, and I was left alone to that mystery. Maybe Miss. Rushworth had been telling the truth. But she is a stupid human, who lies. The girl, the diary, the medical training. I’m ill. Why am I ill? So now I’m sitting in this stupid bed in this godforsaken hospital. I am writing a pointless journal for a pointless person. Me. And yet I keep on living, and thinking and breathing. And I don’t know why. I want answers, but answer don’t come on their own. Which is a good thing. This is not however a good thing when you are doomed to a bed for the rest of your life.
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If you are the sort of person who likes to work things out as you go along, there are a lot of important ‘clues’ in this entry. You may want to re-read it in-case you’ve missed something ^^

[K4typ]

its a bit long twin but otherwise cool

[Starthorn]

Thanks... it's not done yet... but do you think it's too long?

[lioness99a]

I don't think it is too long. And I am really enjoying reading it!