The signs telling of the ever-increasing distance growing between myself and my Boswell had begun to manifest themselves just a week after he had said his vows. They were displayed in the way in which he started spending his spare time at his gentleman's club, rather than sitting in comfortable silence over his paper in my company. The faint, but distinctive scent of the perfume – beautiful, twisted, florid perfume that hung around him as evidence of his wife's common caresses. It made me tense because every movement he made released a small trail of fragrances, and the poignant, colourful note of her mixed up in him served as a constant reminder of the person to whom he now belonged, 'till death did the part.
Perhaps not even then, I mused in morbid idleness, standing at the dark window and staring down at the cold street outside, devoid of even a solitary hansom cab. Perhaps, I thought, they would die together; take their lives whilst embracing, in the manner of the clichéd, star-crossed lovers about whom he would so love to write his melodramatic drabbles.
I sighed and watched as my breath puffed and condensed on the window, seeing, just seeing. My mind was a blank, wearing down to base notions. A bad sign. I waited for the mist to clear, unmoving and then the outside door slammed, and I heard his brisk footsteps trotting out their familiar pattern down the steps and pavement, away from me. And then it was over.
My shoulders slumped slightly, my forehead creased. It is a puzzle, a cruel lever, this concept of 'love', to drive men from those who truly need them, to seek out families and wives for society's sake.
I refused to admit, even in the sanctuary of my own mind, that Watson had taken Mary Morstan as his wife for his own sake, and in my selfish stupor, I refused to recognise his needs, just as I'd refused to ever admit my own. Except here on paper, of course, and even now my mind is understandably wrought.
'Blustering idiot' I thought resentfully, stepping away from the window as the sound of his footsteps faded and mingled with the background city noise. I crossed the room to the drawer holding my constant. He had his wife, I had my cocaine.
"And what need have I of anything else?" I muttered aloud, contemptuously, my fingers caressing the familiar handle for an instant before tugging the drawer open, my hand plunging inside for relief.
My breathing grew harsh and shallow as I pushed my sleeve up with a practised flick, and performed the reassuring rituals, my fingers clutching the needle compulsively when I had finished, and I collapsed on the sofa, in a heightened stupor.
"Happy Birthday Holmes" I muttered dryly to myself. Not that I usually attached any particular importance to birthdays as a whole, it was simply that…it seemed as if John had always been there. Ever since he'd dragged the date out of me, he'd insisted, against my explicit wishes, on gifting me, usually with something highly memorable. Until…today.
The wind howled outside, whispering into the room through the cracks around the windowpane, hissing into my ear.
'Lonely' it hissed, and my eyes widened 'Are you lonely?'
"Yes…" I murmured back, lulled by the ache into a drug induced slumber, "oh yes."
A/N: This can be taken as a sort of drabble sequel to 'resolution' or read alone. Again, I have gone very much over the top, but, this is drabble, and trying to convey something in a single scene doesn't often work. I realise that the concept of Sherlock Holmes actually caring about birthdays andWatson (in a certain way)is a slightly strange one, and I'm sure I've made lots of other errors, please forgive. Contructive criticism will be appreciated.