➠ the death toll.
memories lost:
ONE:
age: eight.
year: nineteen eighty-seven.
Sherlock Holmes had a pet guinea pig. Its name was Felicity, and she was fat. She was also boring. Every day, she would lie there, chomping on long sticks of chopped up cucumber, huddled up in her corner. She wouldn't run in her little wheel, she wouldn't climb up her cage and she hated people picking her up. She'd always bite the nanny whenever she took her out to clean the cage, but what's more important, is that she'd bite Sherlock whenever she had the chance.
So it wasn't Sherlock's fault that, after yet another bite, he decided to put a stop to it.
Actually, he decided to put a stop to her altogether. Life shouldn't be so easy to crush out of any living creature, but all it took was a firm stamp of the foot. It might not have been a perfect execution, but that's only because Mycroft had to go and witness the whole thing.
TWO:
age: four.
year: nineteen eighty-three.
Today, Sherlock spoke with the doctor. He asked stupid questions, ones about what he thought and what he felt. He asked about what Sherlock enjoyed doing alone, asked why he didn't have any friends, asked why he refused to eat his food.
The doctor barely looked at him. Sherlock was polite, he was charming, he smiled when he was supposed to, and he found it irritating that this doctor wasn't falling for the same tricks he'd used for years. He wondered if he'd answered any of his questions incorrectly (because he really hated being wrong), but he didn't get a chance to ask. He was shuffled along into another room - it was big, and the bed in the centre smelt strongly of fresh cotton. There was a chart, and he stood up on his tip-toes to get a better look, but it was full of long words that Sherlock just couldn't read. Things like S-O-C-I-O-P-A-T-H. The pattern of letters stuck out in his mind, and he'd be sure to ask what it meant and what it was when he next saw his mother.
He wouldn't see his mother for three weeks. He'd been admitted into this room - number twenty four - and it was dull, the same as every other room. He didn't want a room that was like everyone else's. He wanted a special room, one for him and only him, but they kept him here, kept him in this big room with only himself for company.
The nurses were kind, at least. Much nicer than that doctor, anyway; they fell for his charms - or they would, at least until they noticed the clipboard on the side of his bed. They'd always leave after that. It took two weeks just to find someone that would be in the same room as his.
THREE:
age: four.
year: nineteen eighty-three.
He hated this room. He hated it, because nothing ever changed. Nothing kept his interest. It was always so bland, and the only thing he had for entertainment was the people that occasionally stopped by, and his obsession with scarring the walls in hard to find places. No one ever knew he did it, it was a secret between him and the room.
A little reminder that this room would always be his, even if he left it.