No one wants to play with their sister when they're little.
Eurus, even as an adult, had taken a shine to Sherlock. She'd always wanted to play with him, and he had failed her the first time for not figuring out her code. He still felt somewhat guilty, felt that his stupidity had gotten Victor killed, and probably always would.
"Would've saved Victor, maybe. If I was smarter..."
He gritted his teeth, there'd always been something driving him to be more clever, smarter, more intelligent than anyone else, and he finally knew what it was. It wasn't just ordinary competitiveness, it wasn't entirely because his self-worth was tied up in it because for years he thought it was all he had to offer to people to get them to accept him--it was because he knew that being clever could have saved his best friend's life. The thing that he'd been searching for all this time, the thing he could never find...
It was obvious he'd carried so much blame and guilt over the years, even in his subconscious. It wasn't hard to see how easily he'd turned to drugs. A pain he never had words for, a guilt that fueled his reckless behavior, that lowered his self-worth to the point that it took Mary dying for him to get it back.
"I'm...so sorry, Vic," he mumbled into his knees. How could he ever put this ghost to rest?
He wipes his nose on his sleeve, a childlike-gesture, looking at the sock in his hand. He tosses it on the ground, leaning his head back against the drawers, closing his eyes a moment, swallowing. He'd never grieved properly over Victor, it had terrified him, destroyed his sense of safety and security, and taught him that emotions were pain and needed to be avoided at all costs. And now, here his heart was ripped right open, and John was seeing the most secret part of his heart flayed open. No one should have to see this, much less John, who was obviously dealing with his own pain.
"I...I'm sorry, John," he said, his eyes still closed, his brows furrowed. His voice was wavering, and so unlike the confident air he usually carried.
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Eurus, even as an adult, had taken a shine to Sherlock. She'd always wanted to play with him, and he had failed her the first time for not figuring out her code. He still felt somewhat guilty, felt that his stupidity had gotten Victor killed, and probably always would.
"Would've saved Victor, maybe. If I was smarter..."
He gritted his teeth, there'd always been something driving him to be more clever, smarter, more intelligent than anyone else, and he finally knew what it was. It wasn't just ordinary competitiveness, it wasn't entirely because his self-worth was tied up in it because for years he thought it was all he had to offer to people to get them to accept him--it was because he knew that being clever could have saved his best friend's life. The thing that he'd been searching for all this time, the thing he could never find...
It was obvious he'd carried so much blame and guilt over the years, even in his subconscious. It wasn't hard to see how easily he'd turned to drugs. A pain he never had words for, a guilt that fueled his reckless behavior, that lowered his self-worth to the point that it took Mary dying for him to get it back.
"I'm...so sorry, Vic," he mumbled into his knees. How could he ever put this ghost to rest?
He wipes his nose on his sleeve, a childlike-gesture, looking at the sock in his hand. He tosses it on the ground, leaning his head back against the drawers, closing his eyes a moment, swallowing. He'd never grieved properly over Victor, it had terrified him, destroyed his sense of safety and security, and taught him that emotions were pain and needed to be avoided at all costs. And now, here his heart was ripped right open, and John was seeing the most secret part of his heart flayed open. No one should have to see this, much less John, who was obviously dealing with his own pain.
"I...I'm sorry, John," he said, his eyes still closed, his brows furrowed. His voice was wavering, and so unlike the confident air he usually carried.