What Dread Grasp

I am dying. My body is dissolving and tearing itself apart.

I think I beg for the cocaine. I'm not sure if my moans form the actual words. Either way Moran does not provide it.

All control is gone. I am a disgusting, groaning, writhing, pathetic tangle. Moran laughs from the doorway. For a moment I mistake him for Watson. But Watson wouldn't laugh at me. Even like this. Even though he hated the drug. Even when he was right about it being the death of me.

I need and beg for one of the three: Cocaine, Watson or death.