There is a presence continually watching over him. It watches over everybody, but at this moment it is by his side. It senses that he is close.
There is a perpetual game between them, but he is unaware. Sidestepping, dancing around each other. He goes about his daily business, continually evading it, but it is always close. Sometimes, when he is lying in bed unable to sleep, it reaches out and touches him gently.
The process is slow, gradual. Eventually it works its way into his brain, into his mind. He doesn't realise, of course. People never do.
He begins to think about the bad things, the things he has experienced. What he has lost. Who he has lost. These things prey on his mind. He begins to think of solutions, ways to escape.
It would rub its hands in glee, except it has no hands.
He tries material forms of escape. Smoking. Drinking. Cocaine. All temporary forms of release. Nothing permanent. Nothing to make him forget.
He stops visiting the shrink. She doesn't help any more. Or maybe he refuses to be helped.
He ceases his meeting with friends, going out less and less frequently. Eventually he stays in his flat, rarely leaving the front door. Some days he stays in his bedroom, not even getting up. He can't be bothered, or maybe he doesn't want to be. It's hard to tell, when he is this far in.
Letters stop, phone calls cease. Newspapers no longer want to know about him. It seems the world has forgotten him. Which is fair enough, because he wants to forget the world.
Soon, though, forgetting is not enough. He can no longer exist like this. That is the day he makes the decision.
It is all done meticulously, like he would have done. The right scarf is selected, tested for strength and durability. A chair is found with the perfect dimensions. He spends half an hour finding a spot and screwing a hook into the ceiling. Finally, he is ready.
Text to Greg, 3:21pm – I have to go. Come to 221B if you can. Please. I'm sorry.
It smiles, although it has no face. It laughs, although it has no voice. It picks him up and carries him away at last, the little game finally finished. It has won without him knowing it. He will know no more.
1,2,3,4, someone's knocking at the door,
5,6,7,8, Lestrade enters but it's too late,
9,10,11,12, John is hanging where he fell,
12,11,10,9, he has run out of time,
8,7,6,5, he has taken his own life,
4,3,2,1, it appears death has won.
It circles around, going to places of heartbreak and suffering, looking for its next victim, the next game to be played. It will always win. The question is, who will it choose?