Hello! Sorry about the late update, but I had loads of coursework to do, and I went to London over the weekend. I saw Frankenstein! It was amazing! I've already booked cinema tickets to see it again, on the 17th and the 24th. Despite the really good weather, I hate being back at college. I think I haven't written a word in three full days! Anyways, enjoy this chapter. The next chapter will be the last, nothing I can do about that. I am going to write another modern-day adaption, though I'm not sure which story yet. Any suggestions? Hey, maybe you don't want read another adaption, let me know each way. Don't own, just for fun.
"Oh you do, do you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of game are you playing, Holmes?"
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing coming from Sherlock. "Water! Get me some water!" he gasped.
"You're nearing the end, Holmes, but I don't want you to go until I have a word with you. That's the only reason I'm giving you this water." I watched Smith leaning to get the water which was on the cabinet beside Sherlock's bed. I didn't remember seeing it when I was last here, and I don't know how I missed it earlier. I must have been too focused on Sherlock. Smith took the water from Sherlock a second later, and I heard Sherlock groan.
"C'mon Smith, let bygones be bygones," Sherlock whispered. "I'll delete the information from my head-I swear I will. Just cure me, and I'll delete it."
"Delete what?"
"Well, about that man, Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now that you did it. I'll forget it."
"You can forget it or remember it, do what you like. I don't see you in the witness-box. Quite another shaped box, Holmes, I assure you. It doesn't matter to me that you should know how that man died. It's not him we are talking about, it's you."
"Yes, yes."
"The man that came to me- I've forgotten his name- said that you contracted it in an alley by the river."
"Yes."
"You're proud of your brains, aren't you, Holmes? Think yourself smart, don't you? But you've come across someone smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this disease?"
"I can't think. My mind is gone. For god's sake, help me!"
"Okay, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."
"Give me something to stop the pain."
"Painful, is it?" The gleeful tone in which Smith said that enraged me. I was close to bursting out the wardrobe and punching him. But Sherlock had told me not to do anything but be still and quiet here, so I kept my fist where it was. "Yes, the disease causes a...little discomfort towards the end. Something like a cramp, I'd imagine."
I saw Sherlock nod his head, wincing as he did so.
"Well, you can still hear what I have to say. Listen now!" His voice was low, but vicious. "Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?"
"No, no; nothing."
"Think again."
"I'm in too much pain to think."
"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"
"By post?"
"A box, by any chance?"
"Smith-I don't feel...I feel faint..." It took everything I had not to go to Sherlock.
"Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking Sherlock again. "You must hear me. You will hear me. Do you remember a box-an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it- do you remember?"
"Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke-"
"Oh, it wasn't a joke, as you will find out soon. You idiot, you got the disease from this box. I sent it. You should have stuck your nose out my nephew's business. If you would have left me alone, you would not be dying right now," Smith said scornfully.
"I remember," Sherlock gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. The box-the box that is on my cabinet."
"The very one! And it may as well leave the room with me when I go. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of Victor Savage's death, so you can go the same way as him. You're near your end, Holmes. I will sit and watch you die."
Sherlock's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.
"What did you say?" Smith asked. "Put the lights on? You've already got that lamp over there on. Oh, it's too dark is it? Okay, I'll turn the lights on. I can see you dying better that way." He laughed, and I saw him cross the room and the click of the switch gave light to the room. "Is there another little service that I can do for you, Holmes?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"A cigarette and a lighter." I nearly let out a giggle then. In his dying moments, Sherlock only wanted a cigarette. I wanted to be there with him, by his bedside. Not this cold-blooded... there was not a strong enough adjective to describe him.
"I probably shouldn't smoke, John would be angry with me. Nicotine patches!"
I couldn't believe it! Sherlock was speaking in his natural voice- a little weak, maybe, but the voice I knew better than my own. There was a long pause, and I saw Smith stand in silent amazement looking down at my friend.
"What the-?" I heard Smith say at last in a dry, rasping tone.
"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said Sherlock.
