It was Saturday. He liked Saturdays. They were days for fun. He was already having such a gre-

No. That was the beginning of a huge lie. He was certainly not having a good time.

He was going to go had, he swore he was. He was going to go insane, completely off his rocker, and it was going to happen soon, as well.

The medication had worn off (his metabolism was against him- just as he was beginning to feel normal too), and he was dealing with the sudden re-onset of his symptoms. The feelings of worthlessness felt like bile rising into his throat, the sudden self-loathing, the constant reminders of exactly why he wasn't good enough and exactly how he had failed everyone he met and exactly what about his existence wasn't worth were crippling.

He knew they were true too, but the respite that River had given him was something he hadn't felt in a long time, and he liked it, quite a bit (too much). The comforting thoughts that he had been given still pressed gently against his mind, whether from the TARDIS or a different source, were nice to feel. They were a contradiction to the rough and loathing thoughts that he had been plaguing himself with for months.

The worst thing though, was the fact that he hated the fact that he had felt that way. Another slither of self-hatred to go along with his personal storm.

He didn't deserve to have their comforting thoughts. He was a fool for enjoying it, even for a second. Then, he didn't even take the fact that he was feeling good into consideration and went to 13 Paternoster Row, and his wrong and evil and undeserving feelings had scared some of his friends. (It couldn't be the remaining self-loathing that was never purged for that short while of time, because him feeling that was good and they would have had to have received that bit as well, nor the awkwardness of him being there, because his existence was awkward and they should have been used to it by then.)

In relation to that- he still had friends, something akin to blasphemy. Something like him couldn't have friends, less he blemish the meaning of the word. Less he undermine every friendship that ever was in the entirety of existence, or cheapen it in some twisted way.

He was outside, trying to get some fresh air, even though it placed unfortunate natives in his wake. He was leaving the park, trying not to think about what he was doing. His need for escape from the TARDIS and his cloud, was selfish and stupid. It would upset people around him, make them feel uncomfortable.

Just as bad, he had that uncomfortable feeling that he was being followed, again.

He was nearly out of the park, He spun around, as quickly as he could, only to spot nothing but a few people staring at him. He was paranoid, because who would find him interesting enough to follow?

Shaking his head, he continued (a bit faster) away from the park.

There was no need to go where people were, there never was. People meant that he was interfering in the life of perfectly innocent humans, which was something he had done plenty of in his too long life.

He just needed to be alone.

The constant feeling of someone looking over his shoulder was not helping him.

He knew why he was so tense too. He had been triggered. The urge to hurt himself was raging at him.

He deserved. He needed it. It was, in all honestly, the only need he had that was fitting for a monster like him. Pain: he needed pain. He always had and always would need it, the sweet relief that it was.

It was all he was living for at the moment. Pain, great and satisfying pain, leading up to his gratifying demise, the relief to everything that it would bring.

He was wrong, in a way, to think that he had only one fitting need. He had two. He needed to die. Pain and death, in that order, simultaneously, and forever more. The universe would be right again.

He kept walking, into an alley that seemed empty (it was the middle of the day, so who knew?), and leaned against a wall, slumping down, holding his head in his hands. How was he supposed to hurt himself without Vastra finding out?

She checked his wrists, and would undoubtedly check him that Monday, so how was he supposed to cut?

Answer: he couldn't.

He couldn't cut, had no access to fire, and no other tools (the TARDIS removed almost everything from his pockets).

He tried to think back to when he had heard of self-harm in medical and psychological studies.

Cutting- nullified.

Burning- not accessible.

Breaking bones- easier said than done.

Starvation- well under way, no immediate relief.

Swallowing various object-

He hadn't tried the last one yet.

Vastra couldn't check for it, and it would bring an appropriate sense of pain, if he did it with the right object.

It was a perfect plan. He wouldn't be caught, and he could fix his problem.

Suddenly eager, he looked around at the ground. There was always something sharp within immediate range (glass, normally). Instead, his grateful eye laid themselves first upon a piece of brick.

A small piece of brick that he could probably swallow with only a small bit of difficulty.

He picked it up and brought it to his mouth, swallowing it with relief. It scratched and burned its way down to his stomach.

As he walked back to the park with satisfaction, and a small bit of pride, he wondered how bad of an effect it would have on his system.

He could feel it ache already, and he couldn't stop the small smile climb its way onto his lips.