The Problem with Sherlock/The Devious Twin

I have never had much interest in writing, at least not writing in the way John does. Nothing gives me more pleasure than writing a paper on the various types of cigarette ash or a journal on gunpowder after my many experiments. But this I had to chronicle myself. Not even John Watson has the capability, despite the many hours he has spent on his blog.

Redbeard changed everything. Where every memory of Musgrave had been a fog, what Eurus did opened my mind in ways that no drug ever has. In my darkest dreams I see him; standing knee deep in water that keeps on rising. His shock of red hair bobbing along as he shivers in the cold air. He yells out but no one can hear him, alone and frightened, helpless as little by little the water rises. His voice is hoarse. And then it becomes no voice at all. Just an open mouth and cheeks that are streaked with tears. Victor Trevor drowns and I wake up drenched in sweat, barely breathing. In every dream I have, I am Victor Trevor.

"Are you OK, Sherlock?" John asks, his brow furrowed with worry.

His blue grey eyes are bright and clear. His shirt crisp and unwrinkled.

"I'm fine, John," I say but even to myself I sound like I'm lying.

"Were you having that dream again?" he asks.

"I thought Molly was on duty tonight," I say.

"She is, tonight. But it's not night yet, Sherlock it's only four in the afternoon. You drifted off again."

I lift up my head. I am not in bed. Instead I am sitting at the desk in front of John's laptop.

"I can't have…" I start to say.

"You have to see someone Sherlock, it's getting worse. And without any help too."

We both know what he means, he doesn't need to spell it out. My system is absolutely clean I haven't touched the stuff since Mary died. But something worse than that is destroying me from within. I am dying, just like poor Victor Trevor but unlike him, I fear it is only my mind that is perishing.

Mrs Hudson appears at the door, flanked by Greg Lestrade. Even though the door is open she knocks and announces him.

She is carrying Rosie in her arms. Rosie lets out a cough which sounds like a harsh bark. John has been worried about her lately. He has started smoking again even though he thinks no one knows. There is light ash on his collar and his breath now smells permanently like the peppermint gum he is always chewing. I decided not to tell him that I know. Everyone deserves to have their little secrets and as long as his habit never grows beyond his current five a day, I will never tell him.

"Priceless." Lestrade says, finishing off a sentence I hadn't heard him start.

"What?" I say.

"He never listens," John says to Lestrade, "I just thought it only happened to me."

"Lord Grayson's painting. It was a rare Vemeer. It's still missing. Remember the case we are working on."

"Find out if the butler painted his own room," I say to him.

John shakes his head as he crosses the very messy floor and walks towards Mrs Hudson. Rosie stretches out her arms.

"He isn't eating you know," he says to Mrs Hudson.

"Or sleeping. Apart from nodding off at odd times, I don't think he's slept in nearly a month," Mrs Hudson adds, "Are you sure he isn't using again?"

"Positive. Molly and I have been taking it in turns to watch him. Clean as a whistle. Molly has been testing his pee."

Lestrade clears his throat.

"If you are not well, I will come another time," he says.

"Find out if the butler painted his own room and all the other servants," I say firmly.

The case is beginning to make sense to me. It has been a whole day and I'm surprised how long it has taken me to figure out. Something is wrong with me. My mouth is almost always dry and my stomach feels as if I've been punched. Always at night.

"I will get the information for you. Anything else?"

"Get the butler's DNA as well. Finger prints will not do this time. Get all the servants DNA to make sure no one gets suspicious."

Lestrade looks like he wants to argue but he keeps his mouth shut. His face has gone bright red.

"Lord Grayson is going broke, you know," Mrs Hudson intones, "It's in all the tabloids. Maybe he stole the painting himself for insurance."

"He has an art thief living in his house," John says.

Lestrade shakes his head.

"Just because he looks like Lenny Thaites doesn't make him a thief we checked the butler's fingerprints already. Lenny has been in prison for three years since Mr Holmes caught him. He isn't due out for another week."

"Twins then," John says, with a smile on his face.

I say nothing. How many times do I need to tell him it's never twins?

My silence doesn't put him off.

"Wasn't the butler just hired, like a month ago. Everyone else has been there for at least three years. I'm telling you, the butler did it."

I roll my eyes and this time I can't keep quiet.

"This isn't Cluedo, Watson," I say.

"I'm surprised you even know what that is," he quips back.

The case unravelled as follows: