How to Save a Life
Step one… you say we need to talk…
The room is dark and hot, the curtains drawn against the sunlight. I cautiously sidestep the heaps of books and clothes piled around the room.
"Holmes?" I call, only to receive a low grunt as a response. I am already irritated as I sift my way through the junk to find the detective sprawled on his back on his bed, his eyes dazed and the morocco case nearby. I exhale sharply through my nose and proceed to shake his shoulder roughly.
"I'm fine, Watson…" he says, his eyes scanning me vaguely.
"This is not fine, Holmes!" I protest and I know this is going to be another argument. We argued the last time I came to see him and about the same problem: Cocaine, Morphine, alcohol… I want to pitch that case across the room and smash all of his bottles but I stand by the bed, silently fuming. I wish he could understand that I'm only concerned for him but he takes it as cruelty.
"Damn it, Watson!" he said, slowly becoming more lucid as he tries to sit up, "What gives you the right to barge into my home and boss me about? If you move out and leave me by myself, at least have the decency to let me be!"
It always comes back to the fact that I left Baker Street to be married. I could continue to argue with him but I know that would get me nowhere. Instead I say, "We need to talk."
He's coming off his high now so he attempts to get up and make some tea like nothing is wrong. He walks right past me as he moves towards the kettle, "I'm perfectly fine, Watson…"
"Sit down, Holmes. It's just a talk."
After a moment's hesitation, he leaves the kettle and joins me in the sitting room. We sit in our old chairs and for a second it feels just like old times. The purplish marks on Holmes's arm jolt me back to the present and he tugs down his sleeve to cover them. All is quiet as I study him. He smiles politely back at me and I keep the accusation out of my stare.
I start to talk then; I have to let him know that I know best. I only want what's good for him. "Holmes, you know I don't want to make you angry with me. Few things would upset me more."
He shifts in his seat a little but does not reply.
"So what has been going on?" I try to slip past his defenses, try to relax him. He seems a bit surprised at the casual tone in my voice and fumbles for a moment before he comes back with, "Nothing. Nothing at all. The Moriarty case has come to a dead end and there's been no new work for me."
"You should try to get out more." He gives me that face, that grimace which always accompanies that suggestion.
"Get out? Where would I go?"
"Well you could always come see Mary and I..."
I can see a look of disgust and something quite akin to pain in eyes which I can't fully understand. I avert my gaze and fiddle with my cane for a moment, knowing there is no way to beat around the bush about this. I have to lay down a list of what is wrong.
"Holmes… you can't go on like this anymore. It's killing you and I can't bear to stand by and watch that happen. Surely you must understand how much I care for you."
He snorts humorlessly and looks toward the window. I'm beginning to wonder why I came.
"Listen to me. You must listen! You don't leave the house and you hardly eat anything. I can tell you've lost at least ten pounds since I left. All you do is sit around and pump that poison into your veins and drink until you can't stand anymore! It's never been this bad before and you're starting to scare me."
Holmes fingers a loose thread on his trousers absently and keeps his eyes on his lap.
I continue, "Hell, if I thought you wouldn't escape, I'd take you straight to the hospital! Now please, just take my advice. Clean yourself up and tidy the room. Let some sunlight in; it will do you some good. Eat a full meal, get some sleep, and for the love of God, trash all of your damn needles!"
He stands up suddenly and is glaring with such a venom that I have never seen directed at me before and I can feel myself cringe.
"In case you have forgotten, Watson, I do in fact run my own life and I would much appreciate it if you would run your own elsewhere."
These are things I've told him all along but now he's nearly shaking with anger. "Holmes, why won't you just…"
"I said get out, Watson!"
As he begins to raise his voice, I lower mine and grant him one last choice. "…Holmes… I know it's your life and the choice is yours. But please, tell me what it is that's bothering you. I know it's not just a lack of cases or- I mean… you're not you; who you used to be. You're not the great detective that I admired."
The anger on his face seems to be replaced with a look of hollowness as he stares at the floor, "I guess I'm just not the same…"
After a moment of silence, I sigh and rise to my feet. "Like I said, old boy, the choice is yours. If you want help, I'll be there. Call for me or come to Cavendish Place. You have the address, yes?"
He says nothing and I leave, forbidding myself a backwards glance as I pray to God he heard me.
The cab ride back home is a blur. My mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Holmes and the worry gnaws at my insides like a vicious animal. 'Surely I must be missing something,' I think as I fail to notice the potholes in the road, 'Nothing I know of could be upsetting him to this degree.'
I arrive just in time for a dinner that I do not taste and a conversation that I don't participate in before I find myself in bed. Mary remains on her side of the bed but I hardly miss her closeness as my thoughts swirl into a troubling tangle of nightmares.
I am awakened by the clanging ring of the telephone. I almost just let it ring and then I remember Holmes and worry suddenly clenches my heart. I throw back the covers and run down the hall to my office. I grab it up and answer with a tense "Hello?"
Mrs. Hudson's shaking voice greets me, "Doctor, you must hurry… Mr. Holmes had some kind of fit earlier, throwing things about and then everything got quiet. I can't even hear him pacing. I knocked on his door and but there was no…"
"Yes, I'll be right over!" I almost yell, slamming the receiver down into it's hook and hurry back to the bedroom to rapidly get dressed, accidentally waking Mary in the process.
"John, what's…"
"Nothing, Mary, go back to sleep," my voice answers automatically as I pull trousers on over my bedclothes and shuffle on a jacket and shoes. I grab my doctor's bag before I dart out the door and into the night.
I hail a cab, throwing all of the money in my coat pocket at him, telling him "Baker Street and hurry!"
We thunder down the road, the carriage shaking over the cobblestones but it never seems to be going fast enough. I drum my hands anxiously as I stare blindly out the window, praying against prayer that Holmes is okay. As soon as we turn onto Baker Street, I throw open the carriage door, hearing the driver scream something about being an idiot as reigns in the neighing horses to a stop. I jump out before the wheels have stopped rolling and take off running down the street. My leg throbs dully but I can hardly care as I have come to 221b and am banging on the door.
Mrs. Hudson opens it, "Doctor, thank heavens you're…"
I hardly allow her to finish as I dart up the stairs and to Holmes's bedroom door. I call out his name and bang on the door but there is no answer. I can hear Mrs. Hudson hurrying up the stairs after me with the key but in my mind, there is no time. A few good kicks and the door is down, sending a cloud of dust into the air as I plunge into the dark room. "Holmes," I call out, looking around frantically for any sign of movement. I walk forward when the tip of my boot catches something which nearly causes me to trip.
I look down and find Holmes lying there on his tiger skin rug, the light from the hall vaguely illuminating his form. His eyes are open, hazed and I notice the needle still hanging from the crook of his arm. I am annoyed and furious and I start yelling at him for his drugs, for scaring me and I tell him that I'll throw it all out the window and he along with it when I notice something. He hasn't blinked once since I found him and has done nothing to acknowledge my presence.
"Holmes…" I say quietly as my stomach drops to my feet. Shakily, I kneel next to him, my trembling fingers searching for a pulse…nothing. I press harder and then feel his wrist, I put my ear to his mouth but no breath graces my skin. I am nearly hyperventilating as I straddle him and attempt chest compressions and when that doesn't work, mouth to mouth resuscitation. My mind tells me this is crazy and foolish as his skin has already started to grow cold.
My heart is torn from my chest at the sight of his eyes, lifeless and unseeing. Those eyes which could hold such warmth, such humor and an agonized cry as such that I have never heard escapes my mouth, escapes my very soul and I can do nothing but scream as the tears course down my face in rivers, staining his shirt. I crumple over on top of him, my fingers grasping at his clothes and hair as I cry brokenly, begging God to tell me why. This pain I feel is incomprehensible, unfathomable and yet here it is, wracking my body with hoarse sobs and my heart is so shattered I fear I will never recover from this and I'm not even sure I want to.
It angers me that it takes losing him to realize how much I love him, how much I need him, and how foolish I was to ever leave him. I wonder if he loved me too, I wonder if I was truly the cause. Another moan befitting a man on the brink of death leaves my mouth and I wonder if I had just stayed, would he be alive right now? Talking? Laughing? Even fighting would be better than this.
I hear a muffled sob as Mrs. Hudson retreats from the doorway. All my body, my heart wants to do is lay here and cling to him helplessly like a child but I know I cannot. I slowly rise, my whole form quivering and I press a kiss to his cold cheek. It's killing me to do it, to hide his eyes but he must be at peace, I must do it for him. I raise two fingers and gently lower his eyelids and now it looks like he might be asleep. I feel like I might be sick as I stand and stagger over to a chair, falling into it and staying there as the relentless tears leave permanent tracks on my face.
Where did I go wrong?
I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known
How to save a life…
(A/N: Reviews are loved.)