There are no words for this. There become no words there become no thoughts and nothing but voracious hole space coming crushing up to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream of nothing but sleep, of holes, of black, of empty, of never anything again.

He cannot speak on these days. There are no tears – his ducts are scorched shut because he has not the energy to open them, has not the energy for anything but breathing, but performing respiration – and there are no theatrics. There is just an emotionless mask set across his face. He lies on his side and looks out the window at things breathing and looking and talking and being and he hates it, he hates all of them, he hates them for daring to breathe and look and talk and be when they have no right to, and most of all he hates himself.

He hates himself for being born. He hates himself for the burden of brain that sits inside his head like some malevolent jewel that poisons his life by knowing everything, by seeing everything and by always refusing to shut up. Sometimes he just wants to take a crowbar to his skull and smash it, let the birds pick at his fibers so that he can get some peace. All he wants is some peace. He wants his body to match his thought. He wants quiet when his body is quiet and fire when his body is fire. He hates himself for daring to take up space. He hates himself because he knows that there is no place in the world for him, for people like him. He is a freak, he is a failure, and the world would be better off if he were erased.

Not dead – no. Death leaves an imprint. Death leaves tombstones and funerals and places in mausoleums reserved just for him, because Mycroft is too vicious and hateful to let him leave in peace. No, he just wants to have never existed. He wishes that he were just blinked out of life, forgotten instantaneously by everyone who ever met him. He wants to leave no trace that he ever breathed or looked or talked or was, because the world is worse off while he remains in it, either alive or dead.

And it hurts. This physical visceral sting of the paradox of his existence, that he should want nothing other and pray for nothing else than to never have been alive at all, that he spends every aching minute of every aching day wishing that he had never had days to begin with, and oh god, he cannot put it in words. No words remain. All the words have been dried up and vanished. His lips cannot move. His voice is no more. And this little piece of him dying is the only thing that keeps him from getting up and jumping out the window in front of a car.

He compromises with himself the same that he always does. He will go to Bart's and whip a corpse or two. He will ask Mike Stamford if he can find him a flatmate. And he will take one more strychnine tablet from the chemical cabinet. Soon he will have enough. He can stand to wait.