Deception
It's been three years, but honestly, it feels like a lifetime.
I hardly remember those days when I was still me.
When I was still John Hamish Watson, only friend, and flatmate to…Well… The world's only consulting detective.
When I was still an army Doctor, with a psychosomatic limp straight out of the Afghanistan war.
When I was still fully here, right in the mind, and body.
Has it really been three years?
I remember I once told Sherlock that I was a soldier, back then, when we got into a quick row outside of Irene Adler's flat. Now though, I'm no soldier at all, but I'm fighting a type of war. I am fighting me.
I look down, and I glance around, but everything's blurred out. Shutting my eyes tightly, thinking it would help focus my vision, I shake my head. My hand tighten grasp on the cool object in my hand.
I am John Watson.
I drop the object, and it hits the floor silently.
I am John Watson.
I sit on the wet ground.
"I am John Watson," I say aloud to no one really but myself.
I reach to pick up the object on the floor again, and examine it.
I don't know what I expected.
Maybe to see a reflection of sane man's eyes.
Maybe I believed to see John Watson staring back at me.
Instead though, I see the liquid on the knife, and my heart drops to my toes, and then picks up pace almost instantly.
" Oh…God." My voice shakes, as I whisper the words, as it dims to me.
As if the object were hot enough to melt metal, I throw it as quickly as I can against the wall, and it simply rebounds off it back to the floor.
I try scooting away, but the pain suddenly registers itself to my body, and I gasp.
What have I…done?
My insides feel as twisted as a knotted rope, and my muscles convulse, and prepare for what's to come.
I spew whatever I had last to eat, and in the midst, I begin coughing.
Perfectly, thick, crimson-like blood comes out my mouth.
Blood so alike, that once came out of a Man I once knew. That flatmate I once had.
I wipe away away the blood on the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, and think of that bloody man.
I try reaching for a couch, or any type of material to stop the bleeding, but the pain cracks like a whip, and quickly, I'm stuck back on the floor, in fetal position.
After the wave of pain, I try again, but my actions are slower, sluggish, and I try, and I try, but I'm just here. On the floor, surrounded in my own puddle of death.
Somewhere along the lines, my thoughts come loose from a string, and I stop thinking coherently at all. Coughing, and choking become one. I can't really differentiate from the two anymore.
What have I done?
Oh…God.
Oh, God No.
...
...
I just wanted to see him again.
I just wanted to tell him that I believed.
That I believe.
...
…I guess I'll be meeting him soon enough now, anyways.