Disclaimer:
~ I don't own Holmes, Watson, or anything else. I do, however, own an action figure of Holmes. He stands watch besides the Master Chief. :-)
Whatever It Takes
The rented room was small, dusty, and utterly unremarkable in every specific way other than for its current inhabitant. Outside of a few chairs and a bed in the corner that looked shockingly uninviting, the only other furniture was a rather imposing table. Scuff marks from a baby's crib in the far corner, lighter dust build-up than the floor around it. Most logical reason: a young mother's first loss, which necessitated the removal of everything that could have potentially reminded her of her young lifeless child.
Sherlock Holmes shook his head, attempting to still even a part of his overactive brain. After his visit to check on Watson, he had attempted a return to Baker Street. Holmes had even managed to make it inside and grab a few necessary items before officers had shown up outside, which forced him to quickly don a disguise and stumble past the two. He had wandered, his mind working, till he stumbled upon a tavern with a sign in the window that read "Room For Rent." With the bit of money he had on him, he was able to rent the room and quickly head upstairs.
Rubbing his eyes with his palms, Holmes struggled to clear his mind again. He moved to the table, scanning the clues he had laid out. Bones, a map, a knife. He let his eyes drift half-shut, calling upon his memory to start forming connections between them.
–gasping, he ran around the corner. Watson was ahead, and Holmes wanted to catch up. He caught Watson's eyes, heard his shout–HOLMES!–then lost sight of his friend in the bright fire of an explosion–
Holmes' eyes snapped open. His eyes drifted down to the end of the table, where a small unmarked bottle sat beside a chequebook. A trembling hand started to reach for it, and Holmes forced it back down through sheer force of will. He inhaled deeply, and instead took a step back. These things are all connected, logical step by logical step. There's no such thing as magic. He thought about grabbing his violin and playing, but the desire left as abruptly as it had flared.
He moved down the length of the table, letting his fingers slide along the grain of the wood. As his fingers touched the chequebook, his memory flared again.
–Mary, distraught, eyes filled with real emotion. Holmes never felt what was obvious in her, was jealous and insecure to no end about the potential loss of his only friend, but even the Great Detective had to admit she loved him as much as he did. "Solve this," she says, her voice near breaking. "Solve this. Whatever it takes."–
Holmes' eyes flashed open again. Moving with a new purpose, he threw a handful of candles in a cast-iron pot and hung it over the fire. He paced, impatient, until the wax finally melted. As quickly as possible, he poured the wax into a shape on the floor. He placed the rest the items on the floor within easy reach, then moved to the end of the table again.
His hand shook again as his fingers closed around the all-too-familiar syringe. Despite everything, Holmes smiled to himself. Watson would kill me if he knew I was doing this...my only "vice," according to the good doctor. He inserted the needle into the bottle, and withdrew a full dose of the seven percent solution it contained. His gaze caught the chequebook a final time.
"The lady insisted, Watson. 'Whatever it takes.'"
He inserted the needle into his arm, and willingly dove down the rabbit hole.
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Author's Note – I loved the new Holmes film. As a bit of a Holmes freak, I loved the fact that it moved back towards the original works and away from the Basil Rathbone interpretation. My only two complaints were the lack of the Irregulars and the lack of Holmes' addiction. This is my attempt at a missing scene to replace the latter. Holmes is a very difficult character to manage, so I hope he doesn't sound too out of character.