Look at you, staring at me all pathetic and doe-eyed. You have no idea who you are, do you? You sad excuse of a human being, look at you. Look at you.
You’ve been here for a little under three weeks, and you’ve already made yourself at home. I detest myself for that particular moment of weakness - the moment you appeared at my door, scared and confused and so very open, and I let you in.
I tell myself that it’s out of respect for what you once were. You used to be magnificent, you know. Spectacular. Breath taking. Never before have I admired someone nearly as much as I admired you.
The thing is, Jim, the most irritating thing of all, is that you’re still you. You’re still clever - more so than you let on. You’re still a little unbalanced in the emotional department - no - that would be me glossing over the fact that you are utterly and hopelessly insane. You’re still playful, you still act as if your life is little more than a game. The only difference now is that you are a man without a past.
You don’t remember anything about yourself.
Which makes it quite sad, actually, how confused you get when John is purposely cruel to you. You don’t understand at all. You can’t remember strapping a bomb to him, you can’t remember trying to persuade him that his best friend was a fraud, nor can you remember having his best friend jump off a building and “die” right in front of him. He spent three years mourning me. He despises you, and you have no idea why. So when he walks in the living room with two cups of tea, one for me and one for himself, you get this sad little look in your eye, you get confused. You want to know what you did, what atrocity you committed that made John hate you so very much, but no one will tell you, and no one will explain.
You cried once, which is quite surprising really. Most people, in your unique situation, would cry buckets constantly in mourning of their own identity, but not you. You’re strong, resilient, and nothing if not adaptable. But then, late one Thursday night, you sat at the foot of my bed and wept to yourself in silence. I heard. I got out of bed and, despite myself, asked if you were okay. I comforted you, which is something that I have never done before - offered comfort.
“You all hate me so much,” you said, “Everyone hates me so much and I don’t know why. No one will tell me, Sherlock. No one will explain it to me. No one ever explains things to me. I don’t understand, Sherlock. I don’t understand.”
I held you for hours that night. Another thing I’ve never done before - held someone. What are you doing to me?
It would seem that converting 221c into a habitable bedsit was a total waste of time. You’re too taken with sharing my bed to bother with going back up there. Surprisingly, I am perfectly fine with that. It’s mildly irritating when I wake up freezing cold, only to find you cocooned in my sheets. Then again, it’s quite pleasant when I wake up warm, and find you curled up to my side.
You’re you, but at the same time, you aren’t. It’s fascinating. You’re fascinating.
I sometimes wonder if this acts as some kind of redemption for you. Perhaps you’ve been given a second chance at life, a chance to start over with a clean slate. All your tragedies have been erased, your demons wiped from your mind.
Good for you, Jim.
I rather enjoy having someone in my life who thinks the same way I do, especially when I’m working a case. It’s always useful to get second opinion from you because you don’t think like a detective, you think like a criminal, which offers an entirely new angle. I find that I’m not opposed to the many ways in which you seem to have warmed up to me, while remaining utterly indifferent toward everyone else. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m starting to like having you around.
So do me a favour, Jim, and don’t ever remember, because I’d rather not lose you a second time.