Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: T. Depiction of depression. Angst. Insomnia. Resistance to therapy. Pre-series. First person, present tense, John POV.
Warning: Suicidal ideation and planning.
Word Count: 450
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Another take on early days post-combat John. May be seen as out-of-character. [LJ-only]
Summary:I can't stay awake forever. I know this.
I can't stay awake forever. I know this. The same way I know looking up the lethal dosage on every substance in my flat, alone and in combination, well. That's just medical research. 'Course it is.
They only write my prescriptions to last a week at a time now. They say it's to make sure I 'check in for a chat' when I go get the prescription re-issued, since I'm still refusing to see a therapist. It's less suicide watch and more liability limitation; if I manage to top myself despite their due diligence, it won't be their fault. I know and understand this, but I don't have to like it.
They also gave me a card with a number to call if things got bad. I didn't ask them how I was supposed to know when things got bad as opposed to the rest of the time. I didn't ask how I was supposed to talk to anyone about this. If they don't understand, how can an anonymous voice possibly be expected to understand, let alone help? It's laughable; waving sparklers and shouting at the darkness.
I'm not trying to stay awake though, not deliberately. I'm just awake. I'm not awake to avoid the nightmares either; eventually they come for me anyway, roiling in my head and gut throughout the night and day and night again.
I don't know what to do. Or I do know what to do - just put Afghanistan behind me and start my new civilian life, like they all say - but I don't know how I can do it. I'm just numb. I don't know what I feel all the times they ask me with their standardized forms. I know what the questions are for and what it all means and can't bring myself to care. They get me to fill out the same bloody questionnaires about my mood and mental state at every new medical office or referral. Questions and boxes, tick, tick, tick.
Less often than before though. Around me has been built a cadre of disinterested professionals. Test this, talk about that, stretch this muscle out, take this pill, on to the next poor sod. They are my walls, and they are closing in. A therapist is the only remaining crack in the architecture. Fill that in and I'm done, the walls will be complete, and they can leave me to fester in my box labelled 'broken man'. Heal or don't.
I don't want to sleep. I don't want to be awake. Mostly I don't want to wake up. Not die, not necessarily. Just don't want to wake up to face another bloody day of the same pasty indistinguishable time wasted doing nothing for no one, being nothing but a drain.
I lose myself in a long blink, staring at my laptop screen. The guns echo in my dreaming memories. It's coming again, whether I sleep or not. My eyes want to close now though. Might as well let them.
It doesn't matter anymore.