Sherlock gave long sigh. "Because it doesn't [i]matter[/i], John. I'll get over them eventually. They'll [i]end[/i]. Especially when I get my mind back under my control." He took a sip of the tea, and even nibbled at a biscuit. But he wasn't hungry - he was sick to his stomach. His dreams were so vivid, and horrible. And it wasn't even about him, it was about [i]John[/i] - John getting tortured, John being killed slowly, John bleeding out in front of him with these faceless monsters holding him back. It was evil and horrible and he [i]hated[/i] it. Why would his brain do this to him? Why was it John? They probably wouldn't be so sickening if it was anyone else - but it just had to be John who was being killed or injured or tortured. And it [i]hurt[/i]. And he [i]hated[/i] it. With all his might.