Woven molecules of sweat swept down his pale face, coating his skin in a film of agony. He placed a trembling hand upon his chest, trying desperately to count the beats of his heart in a vain attempt to establish a rhythm. Still, it continued; pounding, relentless β ready to leap out of his sternum at any moment. He almost hoped it would β an end to this inexorable torture. He yearned for the time when the dreams were as simple as a recollection of the battlefield; faceless soldiers, unknown to him. Instead, all he was left with the nightmares of a situation that he could never leave behind. No amount of therapy was going to cure this. He could barely articulate himself enough to explain what happened; it was clearly impossible to elucidate how he felt inside. His therapist was kind enough but the dwindling funds in his bank account was a distinct reminder that all this talking was making little difference.
There was no point trying to go back to sleep. It once provided him the opportunity to escape the intrusive thoughts; now it only compounded it, like an extension of his wakeful moments. Sleep offered no comfort. A cocktail of tablets had been offered to him; doctors often had anything and everything thrown at them and god knows he'd tried them even though it went against his ethos. After one particularly bad night, he had lined them up on the coffee table like blackbirds on a rooftop accompanied with a tumbler of scotch. He wasn't religious and never prayed, but that night he found himself asking for divine intervention; a sign, anything. In the end a well-timed telephone call saved him from the prospect of an agonising death β a marketing call from his telephone provider which gave him the ability to channel his frustration and anger elsewhere. Eventually, they had been thrown in the bin and still sat there now.
As a doctor, he had given countless people the same trite advice about bereavement; it takes time, and time will heal. How callous that seemed now. All time offered him was the endless deliberations of a man with his life on hiatus with no prospects and no money. Friends had extended their help in various ways and to various means, but in the end, it amounted to nothing. No financial assistance or job positions were going to solve this.
The only thing that could solve the exquisite pain that ran through his veins was the exact entity that had caused it βhis best friend, Sherlock Holmes.
