Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor his faithful companion, John Watson. I do, however, greatly enjoy toying with them.
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To the Logician
To disregard the pock marks on his pale arms, the deep stupor before the fire, and the silent distance in my companion's eyes when under the influence of the drug is to disregard reality entirely. Holmes often chastised me for my inability to see the true nature of those who came to consult him and, yet, was unable to come to true terms with his addiction. I believe that his personal struggles make his triumphs all the more remarkable and the unbelievable tangible and acceptable; I reasoned that even heroic men have shortcomings. But, as I looked upon him curled within his mouse-colored dressing gown with the flames of the fire dancing unnoticed in his eyes, I wondered why this great man of great reputation would risk his mind and standing for supposed mental exultation. It pained me to see my one true friend reduced to such unworthy vices and I have often hid his horrid syringe of his seven-per-cent solution in various crevices of our small apartment; it was my only way of combating his masterful nature. As one might imagine, Holmes knew before opening the desk of his upper drawer that I had taken his cocaine and found no trouble in finding it. My fruitless attempts only managed to create distrust in our close friendship. Both my traitorous actions and his growing addiction made Holmes unbearable in the times in between our curious adventures and often caused me to wonder if I should leave Baker Street; but, I always remained out of love for my friend and the fear that he might fall into an even greater depression.
A faint rustle of cloth took me from my thoughts. I glanced up to the source of the quiet disturbance, only to find Holmes' eyes fixed upon my face from across the back of the sofa. "Watson..." His glazed eyes seemed all the more bloodshot and barren. I almost wondered if such an effect was resulted from more than the lethargic drug.
"Yes, Holmes?" I replied, trying as I could not to sound the pity that I felt for my friend.
"Well, Watson, I am aware that my actions as of late have been quite difficult on you and our patient landlady. They have been, I suppose, difficult on me as well. Oh, all the great cases have come and gone! How I wish to escape the commonplaces of existence!" Holmes buried his face in his two delicate hands for a brief moment of capitulation before regaining what pride he could muster.
"I... I do apologize, my dear fellow. What I was trying to say is that I believe that I owe you an apology for such behavior." His head quickly turned away and studied the Persian slipper hanging upon the mantle. I was surprised and somewhat worried by my companion's apology, as it was no doubt resulted from his weakened constitution, and decided to take this rare opportunity to talk to him on the matter.
"You owe me no such apology, my friend. It is you to whom you should apologize. My dear Holmes, such a mind is not to be wasted! You owe it to yourself and to London to seek medical help and kill this beast before it consumes you. I confess that while I know a great deal on the subject of addiction, I am not an expert on the subject. I could, if you wish, consult one of my colleagues to assist you to overcome..."
Holmes abruptly turned his skull away from me and and jumped up from the hunter green felt, snatching some tobacco from his slipper and a hanging pipe. Blue smoke quickly curled around him, creating an invisible wall of protection. From within the cloud I heard a sad whisper. "To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are..."
The smoke dissipated through the open window and into the navy London sky.
We did not speak for the rest of the evening and I never saw the syringe again.