The Torn In His Side…. A Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson Story.
Part 1
I walked in from the rain of London to our apartment in 221B Baker Street. "Oh! Doctor!" cried our dear landlady, Mrs. Hudson. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" "Holmes has been acting strange, sir." "That doesn't surprise me." "Stranger than normal… ever sense you left for that patient abroad he hasn't come down for anything. Not even cases! It's not like him… and I've smelled strange smoke. Not like his pipe at all, sir. Not at all." I stifled a groan. The smoke was his opium. "Damn him.." I murmured as I walked up the long stairs to the door. I knocked. No answer. I drew back the door. "Holmes?" I coughed. I waved the tick bluish smoke from my hand. I could see the outline of his face, pipe in hand, book resting on knee in other. "Close the door and sit down." his voice was raspy, almost nervous but the authority wasn't to be questioned. I complied and sat across from him.
I knew there was something wrong. "What is it, old boy? Mrs. Hudson says you haven't been down since I left for Berlin….why that was nearly three weeks ago!" "I am aware, Watson." "Well goodness sake! Something is eating at you and I intend to find out what." He sighed. At that moment, his features were very clear to me. His robust face, the hawk like nose, the piercing eyes. I felt sick, suddenly. I checked my pulse. Why was my mouth dry? From the smoke? No. I know what it is but I can't face it. The urge came over me again. Damn him. Damn Holmes to hell. I ran a hand threw my hair and felt a hot tear of frustration burn down my face. Thank God for the smoke so he couldn't see. Knowing the nature of the human mind, we all want something we can not have. And that something is Holmes.