A thick feeling of dread hung over the mantle place. Fear; tense and binding lingered in the hallway. Regret drifted on the stairs and guilt found its way through the door. Oblivious to it all sat a man. Slumped over in his chair and nearly dead to the world as his glazed eyes contemplated the flame flickering before him.
Discarded papers littered the floor; gray ashes long gone cold showered the carpet like snow. It was an image not uncommon to this man. This image of stagnation and utter lack of personal welfare was one he saw all too frequently.
His hand curled slowly around the syringe in his hand. The rounded glass felt cool to the touch and comforted his fevering mind. The needle prick still felt fresh on his arm and he shivered as the poison ran through his frame.
He had forgotten how relaxing, how soothing just one dose could be.
Settling back in his chair, he prepared himself for what he knew was to come. But something didn't feel right. His mind wasn't drifting off into that blissful stupor he had so desperately needed. For the first time, he felt a twinge of fear at the consequences of his decision.
Tranquil no longer, he sat up bolt right as his heart began to pound and his brain began to dim. Terror filled him as the realization that all those lectures on killing off his intellect may have some sort of merit to them after all.
It started with a tremor; whether one of fear or anticipation he couldn't tell. A small quaking shook his soul and before he could react, his whole body was taken over in massive convulsion that threatened to rip all logic and soundness from his brain.
He fought the seizure; forcing himself to breathe through airways filled with sand. The harder he fought, the stronger it became. Unable to let go of the glass in his hand, he heard the capsule crack in his tightly held fist. His vision dimmed. The colors of life faded from his eyes as he felt himself falling backward into the unknown.
Caught in between the lines of reality, he swore he heard a door slam. Was it all just part of the illusion? A symbolic representation of the life he had left behind closing behind him? Something metallic hit his ears. Chains coming to ensnare him for eternity?
He cared little for what would happen. It was becoming harder to feel anything at all. He got the impression that all he needed to do was let go and he would drift away with hardly a care to call his own.
In fact, something seemed to be telling him to do just that. Let go. There it was again.
He did his best to focus on the voice.
"Let, go, Holmes!"
His desperate soul filled with hope. He knew that voice. He willingly put all attention in to following such a familiar source.
"There you go. Let go. Hand it to me."
Slowly, ever so slowly, his mind began to clear and his vision began to focus on the world he had long thought he had left behind.
Hazel eyes met his and he saw the fear and determination staring back at him.
"Holmes, can you hear me? Let go of the syringe."
The detective poured all his motivation into opening his tightly bound fist. It was like experiencing movement in slow motion, but little by little, his pale, long fingers uncurled to reveal the broken fragments of the substance that had nearly destroyed his life.
With the evidence so clearly set before him, he expected some sort of reproach; but instead, the object was simply moved away without a word and small smile of relief came his direction.
He didn't trust himself to speak, but gathering the courage to open his mouth, he faltered. "Thank…thank you, Watson."
Ever the doctor, his friend gave a professional nod. "You are welcome."
Gray eyes examined the carpet for a moment.
"Watson, what you said. About letting go. I think you might be right. This time was too close for comfort."
A genuine smile lit his face. "I was hoping you'd say that."