The crevice of the door jeered at his eye level. Six exactly. And stripes. Flakes of problem settle about his entrance, as if tracing the deceased. I hover at the outdoors, curtain of blood-stained velvet robe draped, far the floor's senior. Balloons of uneasy leave the placidity of the junior and pop at the mind of the aging addict. And pop.
"Afternoon."
I checked the clock overhead.
"Correct."
The door that brought me nothing but misfortune and disaster was at large. It's been a while since I got my hands on him. A thousand stories could be read on his cracking skin, marks of women and men that all put him in an even worse state than my dirty hands. I'm somehow terrified that he won't be on the other side. I linger at the entrance for a minute, fondly eyeing the layers of dust on the hinges. I suddenly flushed with angst, a somewhat native emotion to me, anywhere but here. Yet, after all this time, I still couldn't contain my excitement. I was growing older by the day, but I was still an addict. We are alike that way.
"Afternoon."
He gently tilted his head, and a weary gleam flickered onto the clock, as if they were being lugged so with great effort.
"Correct."
Putting out his cigarette, Sherlock gave me view of the two shaking hollows that I would not believe were hands if they hadn't been in mine once upon a time. Mine were still.
I closed my eyes for a few seconds , and took in the smoke through my nose as I took in the brutality of my surroundings, and of what I had allowed to become of my... friend, I suppose. It was somehow even worse than I imagined.
As if twitching at the silence, he paused, gently withdrew his hand, but did not turn to face me. I dragged a chair across the floorboards. I was already irritated; he was twisting a rusted faucet, tugging each one of my nerves like he was climbing a ladder. I blinked back eight closeted years worth of angry tears, and then I sat where they sat, in hope of playing his game, in hope of something of an armistice.
There were great rips across him, blistering iridescent sores from his fingers to the strips of shoulder blades. They were intentional, if a tad offensive. They were peeling, flaky but still patching, as there remained a problem. I wanted to fall to my knees, I want to crawl like a child behind his chain of deduction, as my desperate truth uncurls like butter as he gazed into my eyes and for once I would be the one to melt his facade, melt him in love with me. Alone, I'd question if I could go on without him; and be dumbfounded when every link rings true. I could not. I cannot. And that, I suppose, as how the man in his state of desperate absurdity stands before me.
His will to live was liquor, in his left, an empty glass lingered, dangling from his empty ring finger, and a long-ago dried stain directly below.
I tugged my head under into a tsunami of papers and powder and I could finally reach this year, as I wrapped my arms around the ever ticking hourglass to lay it down, to stop time; careful of the exposed glass that petruded from his sides, of absence, the insignificant missed meals. He shuddered violently, and I snapped my arm back and shrunk back into the chair. I cried out somewhat involuntarily, my hands digging through my hair, quivering red and sodden. I so desperately pined for him to snap awake and dance into action, grinning and ruffling his curls, an outstretched hand stroking my ear with joyful tears in his reddened eyes.
No.
He writhed around, and I was met with the great wintered willow of his form. He lolled his head to one side, as if the great weight of his mind was increasing to it's own self destruction. Our eyes met for a moment. At least, we faced one another. I let him pour into my eyes. For a time. But fortunately, not back into my heart.
The window threatened me with day, as I stared at him from the armchair- neatly draped opposite on the sofa. I thought about leaving the flat while he was clean. I should have, probably. Left him.
I left it for you on the table. I can't come back again, it'll just make it all bloody worse. Don't try me, the number's changed. I thought you might have changed the locks. You look like death, you know that right? You look like death that spends his hours leering over London town scoping out the lepers that'll take the least effort to finish off. Death that extends his hand, smiling, deal, Death that plummets again the second the inertia runs dry. Have you spoken to anyone, Sherlock? I can't stay here when you're like this. When.. I'm like this. It's... going to take time, but you've got it, judging by your inbox. Don't look for whatever substance's pulling your strings. They're gone. Please, just stop it. Stop this. Please be here, when you aren't death, Sherlock. Just please. Be mine.
Wrote a note or something.
Instead, I'm somehow sunken on the oak floorboards, fingering a tiny syringe I earlier extracted from a Persian slipper. I almost felt like bursting with laughter. Such was an anthem to my lifetime of bad decisions. Many have said I walk into danger voluntarily, spouting said anthem, but I disagree. At least this time, I'm not here to laugh.
I'm here to die.