Walking Toward the End

I squinted at the faint glow of my clock. 3:00 a.m. and I still couldn't sleep, even though I was exhausted. My throat was screaming for something to drink, which I hadn't noticed it through my haze of sleep deprivation. I knew I had to fall asleep soon or I'd start to get hyper, and no one needed to see that. Giving in to my thirst, I slipped into my purple bathrobe and headed to the kitchen to make chai tea. Whenever I was sick, my mum would make it for my sore throat. She detested making it for me at night, claiming the caffeine would keep me awake, but it always helped. She just never noticed.

This was my second week at Baker Street. The drugged lady's case had been solved, but no more leads on the bullet casing. My nights had been getting more and more sleepless. Falling in and out of consciousness until one in the morning, and it went worse from there. I hardly got any sleep, but all of the cases just brought nightmares back from my childhood.

I stuck the mug I'd bought from Starbucks into the microwave and timed two minutes. Though I knew I should have water, I decided on milk while waiting. The carton was nearly empty and I made a mental note to buy more in the morning. Well, later in the morning.
I opened the microwave when one second was left so no one would be woken by the alarm.
"You're stressed."
I nearly slammed my head against the handle.
"Holy-" I stopped myself with a sigh. "Yes, Sherlock. Why can't you make noise when you walk like other people?"
"This is bringing memories, of course," he continued. "You know why I offered to take you to custody."
I nodded, sipping my tea. "I won't, okay? I'm not going."
"I...don't want you to end up like your parents."
I was surprised at his sudden compassion. "I won't. Remember what I went through. If it didn't happen then, it won't happen now."
Sherlock strode towards me and I tensed. His clear eyes examined the way I was acting, trying to figure out if I was lying or not.

I quickly finished off my tea and walked back to my room without another word. My eyelids were already drooping over my deep brown eyes; the tea was all I needed. I let my robe fall to the floor as I crawled into bed, drifting into an unsettling sleep.

I was eight years old again. My mum, dad, aunt, uncle and I were driving in the car, singing along to whatever song was on the radio, but it all sounded garbled to me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and everyone stopped singing. Mum pulled over and we all got out. They were talking, but my attention was turned to the white van that had been following us for ten minutes. There was a rapid beeping, and my mother picked me up, yelling to the others. My dad was paying enough attention to get far enough away, but my aunt and uncle were too close to it.

Our grey minivan exploded.

Like she had practiced for it her whole life, mum buried my head in her shoulder, so I'll never know what they saw that was so horrible. Dad caught up to us and we ran. We just kept running until we got to the nearest house. I heard sirens, but I didn't know what was going on. I was so small, I didn't understand everything.
Now I do.
I hadn't been able to piece it together back then, how someone had tried to kill us. It just made everything that more terrifying.

When we got inside, I noticed that not everyone was there. Dad tried to explain how, "Auntie and Uncle can't come back. They have a sort of...meeting with a very important person."
"When will they be back?" I asked.
"They...they won't."
I could see the pain in his eyes and how he was close to tears. I had never seen him like that, and that scared me to death. So I did the only thing an 8 year old could do in that situation. I cried.
The family we stayed with was nice. They let us stay there for a while, until we figured everything out. I was woken in the middle of the night by a crash.

My family had gone insane.

I know when a lot of people hear that, they think of just saying things that don't make sense, like a zebra flying an airplane. But it was so much more than that. It absolutely terrified me.
My mother screamed and my dad cried. They both would throw anything breakable, screaming about the van. They screamed about every bad thing that had ever happened in their lives. At one point, Dad shook my shoulders, shouting something about never trusting poodles. The mother of the family we were staying with called the hospital, and they told us that they'd been driven mad. I bawled harder than ever. I knew they would never be the same again, so I ran away.

I felt a hand on my head as I was jerked back to reality. I noticed I was shaking and probably screaming in my sleep. My cheeks were tear-stained and my forehead sweaty.
"Shh," John whispered, stroking my hair soothingly. "It's okay."
I steadied my breathing and noted that Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were also in the room. My robe was still on the floor, so I must have been making some sound to attract attention quickly. I sat up, shivering. I rubbed my forehead as John put an arm around me comfortingly, during the brief weeks I'd known him, he became the father that I lost.
"You okay?" He asked.
I nodded, "Yeah. Just a killer headache."
He left to get some ibuprofen for me.
"You kept saying something about your mum and dad," Mrs. Hudson said.
I nodded, "A nightmare."
Sherlock and I locked eyes. He knew that it wasn't just a nightmare; that it had actually happened. Our car really exploded and my parents were somewhere in a mental hospital.
John came back, and I quickly dropped my gaze. He handed me the small pill and some water. I swallowed, grimacing at the feel of it. I couldn't stand pills. When I was small, I absolutely refused to take them. Even though this one was tiny compared to some, I still had a hard time ignoring it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked.
I stayed quiet a second. I wasn't sure what to say. Sure, I had to get something out, but I didn't want to break down in the middle of it. I picked at a split end as I saw the time: 5:24. I sighed, knowing I definitely wouldn't get any sleep without saying anything. Reluctantly, I started to describe my dream.