A/N: This is not the end, faithful readers. More to come.
It didn't take long before the leaves were transformed into a fine powder. Holmes briefly exited to the kitchen, whereupon he happily discovered an unopened bottle of wine and set about finding a suitable glass. Usually, the detective could not be bothered with minor annoyances such as the absence of a clean glass; however, this was important and simply wasn't done with any old dirty glass. Holmes uncorked the wine and poured a healthy amount into the glass. He took a sip, as if to test the flavor and determine if it was suitable to pass his lips; it quite obviously met with his approval as he closed his eyes, the better to savor the fruity taste of the liquid running down his throat. The detective allowed a small sigh to escape his throat- a sigh that encompassed his wishes, his dreams, whatever he had once foolishly hoped the future would hold for him, him and possibly Watson…but those dreams were from a time far before he knew Watson's secret.
Holmes went back to the room where he had been working with the hemlock; he measured out a generous amount of the powder and poured it into his wine glass. He looked around and quickly discovered an old and tarnishing silver spoon, which he used to transfer the powder into his glass and stir the wine so that the powder was absorbed. Holmes waited for the liquid to settle, idly watching the ripples splayed across the surface of the red wine. Holmes thought, rather distractedly, that the wine looked like blood…how ironic, the detective realized with a twist of his lips.
He stood up, holding the drink carefully in his hand. He took a deep breath and poured the contents of the glass into his mouth, wondering if he was doing the right thing. It had to be the right thing…after all, he was doing it for love…how could that be wrong? Holmes sat down again and sighed, resuming his thinking.
It was only a few moments later when Holmes realized he had an intense pain in his abdominal region. Had he had that cramp all this time? He didn't think so…he got up to go to the bathroom, but it seemed as though he had stood up far too quickly. He felt nauseous, and his legs felt weak, like they wouldn't be able to hold him up. Holmes straightened, and then vomited suddenly onto the floor. He almost collapsed right there, but the detective somehow managed to keep himself on his feet and stagger into the bathroom. He grasped the sink and stared into the mirror, groaning. His pupils were dilated far beyond normal parameters, and Holmes realized with a start that his body was shaking violently. A few choice expletives flitted across the great detective's mind, and he could feel hysteria rising steadily like bile in his throat. His eyes flickered back and forth nervously. This was ridiculous. Why was he nervous? Something was wrong…or was it?
Holmes realized at once. The hemlock. The deadly poison was taking its toll. Holmes calmed down a bit, and made his way, with much difficulty, into the bedroom and shut the door. He fell onto the bed as if he was a puppet whose master had cut his strings. He suddenly thought of the first night he had been with Watson, and he smiled slightly at the memory. But then he remembered hoe the doctor had changed, and the smile turned into a flat line as a few stray tears fell from his eyelashes. Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He then released the air for the last time.