Born For Adversity
"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17
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I returned to our lodgings at Baker Street thoroughly soaked and in a sour mood, as is the usual course when I am wet and have been disappointed in a case. What had looked promising turned out to be completely uninteresting, an incident of mere mistaken identity and murder. I scowled at the uncreative nature of modern criminals - they had no consideration for the arts, nor for the private consulting detective that would be sent away from his warm place by the fire to apprehend them.
Maybe you're just missing your bloodhound. The thought, unwelcome as it was, had merit. Throughout the entire affair I had been distracted. When I stumbled upon something of interest (not a frequent occurrence on that day, but I digress), there was no eager Watson to relay my thoughts to. It was an uncomfortable business to only have one's self to talk to, unable to effectively dramatize or elaborate upon the point because you were already knowledgeable of it. At the very least my love of theatrics had been affected.
But it was that intrepid loyalty I truly missed. It was an odd thing indeed to look behind me and not see my friend with a pistol grasped within his hand.
I fear that I must concede that I had succumbed to loneliness, and realize that in the varied absences of Watson I have become exceedingly accustomed to the sentiment. That undesirable insight in mind, I hurried up the seventeen steps to our sitting room, keen to relay the rather uninspiring account of my latest endeavor.
Yet I was fated to be immeasurably disappointed - though a fire raged within the hearth, the sitting room was entirely empty. The dear doctor's armchair was vacant, and a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea had been left untouched. The door to the hall was left open, however, and I concluded the pain of dear Watson's war wounds must have been too much for him and that he had decided to retire early. I allowed a small grin to emerge as I stared into our fireplace - even in such a state of weariness my friend had thought of my own need for warmth.
It is that singular thoughtfulness that I believe allows - or perhaps forces - Watson to tolerate me and my eccentricities. Throughout the many years of our association I have been surprised by his seemingly incalculable amount of patience. When an experiment went wrong and I refused to give merit to the burns on my hands, Watson would not hesitate in finding the nearest bottle of ointment. Or, when a case presented itself in such a way that it demanded the entirety of my attention and I did not consume anything of nutritional value, Watson would hastily put Mrs. Hudson to work and command me to eat whatever was put in front of me. I remember a few humorous occasions in which Mrs. Hudson was not available, and the doctor had little compunction over assuming cooking detail, and I believe he may yet have scars to show for it. It was such devotion that I was accustomed to, and no longer surprised to encounter.
I seated myself in my armchair, lighting my favored pipe with an indolent hand. Without the conversation I had hoped Watson would offer upon my return home, my thoughts inevitably strayed back to that monotonous case. It had been a rather plain affair - sordid, yet without that flair of dramatic I have to come expect from every facet of my existence. This case, sadly, was not the only one which was worthy of such lamenting on my part - since the arrest of Moran crime had become a muted aspect of London. It forced me to realize just how skilled a puppeteer the Professor Moriarty had been, and yet now I mourned the fact that my goal of cutting all the strings had been accomplished.
Things would not get any better, I mused. It would be folly for me to hope that another brilliant mind so equal to my own would surface. Rather lost in such melancholy thoughts, I attempted to console myself with my violin. The music did little in the way of comfort, and so I was left again to my ponderings, a situation Watson always thinks rather dangerous. Indeed it was, as for the first time in years my eyes strayed to the top right drawer of my writing desk, and there they remained.
To think of cocaine once more felt strangely favorable. I have only a few things in this life with which I am comfortable, and despite my abandonment of it I knew the drug so very well. I was experiencing the very thing - the very circumstance of boredom - that had originally led me to purchasing it. It was contained in that desk for that singular purpose, and now, when I was most in need of its remarkable effects, I was allowing it to remain dormant within a drawer.
Of course, Watson would prefer it that way. But again, Watson had retired and was presumably unconscious. It would be no difficult feat to lift the syringe out of its casing and enjoy it for the remaining hours he would be asleep.
I am not proud of my thoughts. As I said before, the doctor's doubt was well deserved.
Extinguishing my pipe, I stood from my armchair and strode over to the desk, willing the feelings of guilt and anguish to disappear. I slid open the top right drawer and withdrew the rather ornate casing, drawing a finger over the etchings. How many times had I done this before? I could not remember. That thought alone should have frightened me, but I paid it no heed. I was far too jaded to consider neglecting the cocaine.
I opened the case, suppressing all semblances of guilt.
I felt an odd sort of lurching when I discovered that the syringe and solution were missing.
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AN: Sorry about the wait, and please forgive the length. Read and review if you feel so inclined!
