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.
And, within the hour, the torment was nothing but a black shadow.
*
“Watson!?” Sherlock stormed through their flat, a single piece of paper in his hands, “ Watson!? Where in God's name are you!”
He took the stairs two at a time, stumbling and falling in his 'morning after' haze. He heard the dog barking in his chambers and quickly burnt through the door. But, there was only Gladstone. There was no Watson.
As the detective strode around the room, he realized all the doctors things were gone. He took a walk to Watson's office and discovered missing books and papers; all the ink pots and quills were still present.
He sat upon the floor and read the page once again.
I am leaving your ill presence. Holmes, you were once a man; now you are nothing but a drunken, drug infested haze. I love you but you are hurting me too much.
I am sorry Sherlock.
John D. Watson.
Holmes' mouth felt dry, his heart gave an uncomfortable thump. His stomach dropped. In all his experience of human emotions, heartbreak had never been one he had experienced; until now. Not even Irene Adler had affected him quite like this.
The clicking of Gladstones claws along the floor lasted for only a moment, and then the canine was laying with his head in Holmes lap. He whined and looked up at the man with sad, brown eyes. Holmes scratched behind the dogs ears.
He found that his hands began to shake and his entire body felt alien. He lifted his finger tips to his cheeks to confirm that, yes,he really was weeping.
“Watson.” He whispered to the room around him, “ I – I can still smell you, mother hen.”
*
"I just found him like this, the blasted man has been nothing but a handful since -"
"Mrs Hudson, I don't need to apologize any more for this surely? I had to leave, you know I did."
"Yes well you're back now, doctor."
"W-watson?" Sherlock Holmes coughed, his eyes were still shut but he knew that voice and smell anywhere.
There was shuffling and then his left arm was being lifted and pinched for a pulse. Every bone in his body ached, his blood felt cold in his veins and a strange sense of utter dis-pare filled him. He was still alive. His heart, the one part of him that had always rebelled when he had tried to convince himself Watson meant nothing, was smiling and begging him to follow suit. But his head was having none of it. He simply wanted his death back. How dare that man steal his death?
"Holmes? Holmes can you hear me?" Watson pulled at his eyelids and inspected the pupil as it sunk away in fear of the light.
"Watson." The detective sighed.
"You are lucky you are not in a hospital, Holmes. They would surely have put you in the asylum." the doctor shot harshly, " You are to stay here, in this bed, for at least a week. Only light beverages, such as tea. You will find, that when you finally rise from what could have been your grave, you will have no narcotics or alcohol of any description."
Holmes tried to find the words to protest or even the feelings to portray, but he had none. He simply felt numb.
"Mrs Hudson, bring us up some tea. I wish to speak with him alone for a while."
"And your bags, doctor?"
"Have them put into my old rooms."
She nodded and was off down the stairs. Gladstone was lay beside Holmes, his chin upon the man's shoulder and his warm breath on his neck.
"That dog has really taken to you. Then again, it never did know good character."
Holmes winced, "Now, old boy, this is no time for snide remarks -"
"Oh no? This is time for sympathy for Sherlock, is it? You overdosed on opium while drunk, as usual. This is no oddity, Holmes. If Mrs Hudson hadn't been so convinced that this was a suicide attempt, I wouldn't be here."
"Wat-"
"You are much too fond of yourself to even attempt suicide. This was a cry for my attention. You knew I would come running. Well, congratulations Mr Holmes, once again you have reeled me in." Watson spat, " You are playing my feelings against me just so you have someone to hurt."
"I didn't. Old boy, listen -"
"I have listened. I have listened and listened until I could no longer stand it any more. I have held back your hair as you vomited, I have bathed you when you were too drunk or high to stand; I have loved you while you never loved me back."
Loved?
"Watson, I have always loved you. I continue to love you."
"Then why do this? Why bring me back to this god forsaken city? If you loved me Sherlock Holmes, you would have gladly let me go."
"But, you see, it is because I loved you that I grieved."
Mrs Hudson knocked gently on the door before entering wearing one of her comforting smiles. She even gave one to Holmes. Watson stood.
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. May I have a moment of your time?" He shot a look to the bedridden man, "Drink and do not leave that bed. Understand?"
Holmes nodded.
Doctor and landlady left the room, the door closing behind them, and retreated to Watson's reclaimed study.
"Mrs Hudson, may I be blunt?"
"Why yes, please go ahead."
"What made you think this was a suicide attempt?"
She hesitated before reaching into the pocket of her apron. She withdrew a sheet of paper blotched with ink in several places. In the corner was number two.
"There were others on his desk, mostly incomplete. All of the same topic but none so heartbreaking and obvious as this."
The man began to read.
I can no longer bare this. I am alone in my torment with only a dog for company. I know I never made things easy, I know I never listened or loved you how you wanted to be loved. But I did love you.I don't now. I still do. I cannot lie to you, not like this.
Bluntly, I am dead. I feel nothing within me any more. There is no flare, no spark. No point for anything. I decided against hanging or the blade I will leave this world in same way that I ever lived in it; A drunken fool chasing a dragon for the last time.
Despite himself, Watson felt tears in his eyes.
"This was not an attempted to get you here, doctor. Holmes hasn't been right since you left."
"W-was he ever right?"
"He was less so than usual. He barely slept, he barely ate. His room was only abandoned at night and even then he came home either drunk or beaten; sometimes both. More than once I have carried him to his bed."
"Cases?"
"Three. All of which he got in a matter of days. Easy, I imagine, when you are forgetting to sleep, bathe and eat, and do nothing but concentrate fully on the matter at hand."
Watson continued to read the letter once more, his heart sinking further with each word. He heard Mrs Hudson leave to check on the man and he felt himself worry. He felt guilt.
In that room, that stinking, shabby room lay a broken man. A man once so obscure, so renounced in his field that he was called upon from every angle. A man he had lain with and argued with. The very man he had ran away from. The man he have vowed never to hear head nor tail of again. But, this man still had a very vital part of him; his love.
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