Providence

Chapter One

by inkbaubles

Notes

There was no other conceivable method of escape; every ounce of my mind was pervaded with these infernal thoughts, these perverted longings, these endless hopes for the things I knew I could never have in this broken world. Tightening the tourniquet around my upper-arm, I slowly prepared myself for the plunging respite the cocaine-bottle often proffered me after a long period of mental stagnation. When cases were slim and ennui crept into existence, there was no balm comparable to that provided by the sharp stab of the needle into my marred flesh.

But would it work as an escape from the one thought that had been haunting me since the conclusion of my last case? Would it free me from the horror, the guilt, the indescribable want I felt after I stopped my Watson from charging to his own death, yet again?

My Watson.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man known for his quickness to fear of anything, but emotional weakness was a curse I was forced to live with every damned day of my considerable years – its vile claws cemented me where I was; my weakness entrenched me here, leaving me searching fruitlessly for relief from this gnawing want I experience: a want I had only just realized, manifesting itself in a deep, unforgiving desire for the touch of my only true friend. 

I depressed the plunger into the jagged curve of my long-suffering arm, searching for a miracle within the miles of the mazes in my mind. I needed this release to render me numb, to render me dumb – I desperately pleaded with my soon intoxicated mind to take me anywhere else, but I found no such respite. All thoughts turned to my every second with Watson – every touch, every look, every laugh, until I was entirely enveloped by thoughts of the intoxicating Dr. John H. Watson.

Falling onto the sitting room’s rug in despair, I realized how futile my attempt had been – however desperately I could have possibly hoped to try to coax my mind into obeying, I could not save myself from my revelation: I had absolutely no hope of escaping my need for my friend. For the first time in my life, the 7 per-cent solution of cocaine failed for me; this time, the drugs were no escape from the problems pervading my mind. My only prayer in the world for escape was in the task of seeking out my Watson – I would force myself to plead my stance, beg forgiveness, and bear my penance - for there was no existing this way, wasting away in a state of constant longing.

I was the renowned Sherlock Holmes, and I would address this issue with all the usual false bravado and courage. My only hope for the best of all possible to occur rested solely on my admittedly biased remembrances of my experiences shared with Watson: all the glances, the dinners spent together, the walks arm-in-arm down the paths of Baker Street. If I had felt something in these moments, did I dare hope that Watson did as well?  Could I dare to hope? Tortured thoughts, sent as my own twisted appeal to providence for happiness, were the last strands of reason that flitted through my mind when I finally slipped into drug-induced unconsciousness; my last awareness was of the syringe and small vial of cocaine tumbling from my grasp, rolling to a stop under the chair next to my soon-to-be still form.

Chapter Two