WARNING: This drabble is filled with much angst and character death!
He was my best friend, and I tried to help him. He traded everything though, for cocaine, and soon enough he found that I would put up with it no more. There were scars on each arm from that damned syringe, and it seemed that everyday he got worse and worse. I pleaded with him to stop, telling him the consequences, the fact that as a doctor and his friend, I didn't like watching him slowly kill himself.
I can still remember that dreadful night too, when I found him curled up in an alley, his face twisted and unnatural, and it was all just to get high.
I dragged him back to Baker Street and once again told him he had to stop, but once again he didn't listen to me. Then there was the times when he wouldn't sleep for days, even when he wasn't on a case, and refused to eat anything either. It was terrible, watching him spend all the money he made on that damned drug.
Just to get high… If only I would have done something. But no, I sat there and watched my best friend, the one and only Sherlock Holmes, slowly come to an end. God! If I would have taken action! Forced him to stop! Done something, anything! And then maybe I wouldn't be standing over his grave!
The day I found him was worse than some of my days in the war. I walked into his room, frustrated because once again he had stolen an article of my clothing, to find him lying on the floor. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his skin was whiter than a ghost, there were numerous fresh bruises on his arms, and the syringe was still being held in a death grip in his hand.
That's when I let my emotions run free. With tears rushing down my face I took the syringe out of his cold hand and smashed it on the floor. I tore apart his room, smashing everything in sight. My rampage continued to the sitting room, where I destroyed all of his experiments, and everything else he owned. Mrs. Hudson heard the racket and came to see what was the matter, but when I told her what had happened she too became quite emotional.
Sherlock Holmes was lost that day. London had lost its greatest private detective, Mycroft his only remaining family, Mrs. Hudson another tenant, but what did I lose? I lost the greatest friend a man could have. I lost my brother! And I will never forgive myself for it… Because it was my fault Holmes was now gone, and I could never get him back.
Just to Get High by Nickelback
AN: Sorry this was so angsty… I hope you liked it all the same! I don't own Nickelback either.