While bridges still burn.

"In the darkest of moments I hear your sweet voice and it's like a choir of angels in my head. Three months and one winter since you've been gone and, in truth, I can't breathe without you any more."


Ink blotched the paper. Holmes cursed. Through his utter hopelessness he could barely see nor write. 


"Where did you go, old friend?" he whispered to no one. 


He took a new quill, the other having been thrown to the floor, and dipped it into the ink pot. He began to write, carefully choosing each word, slowly saying it to himself and them to Gladstone.


Gladstone. 


Every time he looked at the dog his heart sank. He had considered putting it out and letting it find someone else, but each time he made to do so, he couldn't. It was and will always be, Watson's dog. He looked over to the mutt, to find it laying over the arm of his chair, watching him with those big sad eyes.It was as if he knew Sherlock Holme's game. 


"Which sounds more appropriate. 'Wretchedness' or 'torment'?" He asked the dog. It gave a huff but no response. As expected. 


The man sighed and returned to his writing.


"Dearest Watson, I regret to inform you that all is not well with in my mind. I am in constant torment -" 


He ceased and tapped his fingers on the wood. In his other hand, a cold whiskey. 


Tap, tap,tap.


More whiskey was poured, more and more until nothing was left. 


Narcotics. I need the narcotics. 


His mind was racing almost as fast as his heart. He took the drug from its home beneath his bed and, desperately began to cook it. Holmes' body shook as he waited for the drug, he longed to pull at his hair or scratch his skin; anything to numb the sensation of hopelessness. How much he had began to prepare, he didn't know nor did he ultimately care. He had no mind for ounces tonight. 


Gladstone continued to watch him from the armchair with those sad puppy eyes. Damn those eyes. Holmes could have sworn that he had heard the dog speak, he would swear on the bible it's self that the animal had begged him to reconsider. 


Nevertheless, the task was to be done. The heroin was cooked and he was already filling it into a syringe. He tied the tourniquet around his bicep, pinched the skin around the crook of his elbow and waited for the vein to rise.  


'Mainline, Holmes,remember to mainline old boy.' 


The detective raised his head and gave the dog an infuriated look. Had the dog really spoken again? Shaking it off as another moment of near insanity, Holmes pushed the tip of the needle into the flesh. 


A great sense of relief washed over him, the sting passed, tears ran down his cheeks and he looked to the ceiling. Little dots appeared before his eyes and Watson's voice in his head. 


The syringe dropped, Holmes laid back. The hallucinations, caused by the long term psychosis, played out in his head and he wept at their kindness. His breathing slowed and became shallow, his chest rising and falling less frequently. 


And, within the hour, the torment was nothing but a black shadow.