Miscellanea

DISCLAIMER: The wonderful creations of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and their universe belong to the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and not this poor writer.

KS: Here's another random writing... It's somewhat of a continuance of bcbdrums's Tormented Volition, chapters eight through ten. So...it's not like it's a direct continuance...it's just that it gave me a vague 'plot bunny' and I wanted to see where it went. XD So this isn't a drabble, it's just a...ficlet.

Oh, yes, and it is in Holmes's POV, since that is so much easier to write. XDD

Enjoy!

I hate my surroundings sometimes. I feel no desire to do anything. I feel so exceedingly useless and caged that quiet thoughts in my head spur me towards suicide. I dismiss such illogical thoughts, but… Am I going mad? I feel like it occasionally. Surely my thoughts are not those of a rational man. What will I do if I lose my mind? My life will not be worth living.

I need…something to do, but I am so apathetic at the present, drowning so in my own thoughts, struggling with the agony of my stagnation…and even if I do rise to do something, I only fail. This morning I tried a very familiar air on my violin, but I failed so miserably that I almost felt like throwing the dashed thing into the wall. What is wrong with me?

I must be going mad. My stagnation has finally done it—my fears are being realised. My mind is slipping; at times it seems like I can just barely keep my hold on it.

I have not slept well in a week. I don't think Watson has noticed, or by now he would have suggested I take something to help.

I am shaking. It's barely noticeable, but I feel it. Thoughts wend through my mind, causing unspeakable agonies and fears. And what can I do? I can do nothing but lie here, letting them tear my mind apart.

What I would give for a case! What am I without a case? Without my art, I have nothing, and am nothing. My life is despaired of.

All day long I have lain here; I have not moved at all. What reason have I to move? It would be a useless expenditure of energy, and I have no will to do so, anyway. I took the cocaine this morning, but that barely helped. It only gives me a brief distraction from the dreadful monotony.

My mind dulls with every passing moment. I have not touched my violin to-day. I cannot possibly succeed on it. Failure would only bring more pain. My chemicals lie on the table, but I have no desire to take up my research. What am I without my work? I cannot live. And yet, I cannot work.

The darkness outside the window seems to creep in upon me. I wonder how long it will be until my next case…how long I can survive…

Watson has entered, and I feel his eyes upon me. I feel he wants me to look at him, so I do. His eyes…they stare into mine for a moment, and a curious and unfamiliar expression comes across his face. Somehow I find the way he is looking at me most uncomfortable, and I almost say something, but he turns quickly and disappears into his room. I do not rise to go after him. I only feel more miserable.

What was that look? Confusion, but more than that. He has never looked at me that way before. It was as if he did not know me. And did my eyes deceive me, or did he look unwell? Likely had caught it from a patient… Odd that I had not yet noticed.

I sat up and stretched before I stood; my limbs ached after staying in one position all day. I walked over to the mantel, setting my hand on top as I stared into the flames. I could not overcome my lassitude, not on my own. I needed an external stimulus. I gave a tired sigh as I looked toward the door.

He had looked at me as if he didn't even know me, like he didn't recognise me. Perhaps that was no surprise; I felt as if I did not know myself anymore. I felt the slightest of tremors in my limbs and reached my other hand towards the mantel. I bypassed the syringe and bottle and took up one of my pipes. I did not fill it or light it yet, my fingers instead played with its stem, running over the familiar object thoughtfully for a few minutes. I sat my elbow upon the mantelpiece and stared thoughtfully at the wall.

I replaced my pipe among the others and swiftly moved across the room, taking up my violin-case. I carefully opened the latches and drew out my instrument, tightening the hairs of the bow with a movement that was second nature. I placed the violin under my chin and raised the bow and began to play a very familiar tune, slowly at first, to make sure I was steady in my technique. As I grew more certain I picked up the tempo, and I felt myself relax. I heard a few slightly off notes, but I pressed forward. I would not let some small error put me off.

The melody was soothing and peaceful; I focused my mind on it, letting the notes drown out all other thoughts. I made my way over to my armchair and sat, and I continued to play for some hours.

"Watson," I said as he entered the room and made his way to the dining-table the next morning. I laid the newspaper down beside my plate, folded where I could see it clearly and eat at the same time.

"Mm?" he muttered. He looked a little better than he had yesterday. That was good.

"I believe there is a concert to-day which you would enjoy attending," I remarked.

He stared at me for a few moments in confusion, almost disbelief.

"Are you on a case, Holmes?" he asked slowly.

"No," I replied simply, shaking my head and continuing to run my eyes across the agony columns as I brought a forkful of eggs to my mouth.

Watson continued to stand blinking at me for a minute or so, and then seated himself at the table.

"I trust you are feeling better. I'm sorry you had to take a sleeping draught last night. I hope my violin-playing did not disturb you?"

Watson smiled, clearly and genuinely. "No, not at all, Holmes. In fact, I think it helped more than the medicine." I felt his eyes on me for a minute more as he poured his coffee. "If you are not on a case…" he began, and I looked up at him. He stared at me still a moment longer, and then shook his head smiling. "Never mind, Holmes. I'm just glad to have you back."

"Back?" said I. "I have not left."

"Of course not, Holmes. Of course not."

I looked at him with a furrowed brow, urging him to clarify, but he turned his attentions upon his breakfast and that was the end of it.

But I suppose I knew what he meant anyway.

I had been totally lost to my ennui for a time; so long that he had been becoming equally as unhappy. If my misery affected him so, perhaps I would have to find a way to be less miserable.

KS: Thanks for reading. I'm not sure how good it is, not having written much at all in a while, so don't forget to review and tell me!