Drabbles from the London Fog

by Alosha135

My first ever drabble series - if I can remember where I stuffed my muse after the last time I wrote, anyway. I'm always happy to hear constructive criticism. R&R, but be nice! I don't know everything about SH and Co. but this is my tribute to them. T because I'm extremely paranoid and for some language/violence that might show up.

26. Dark (Part 2)

8. Helpless (cont. of Dark)

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Dinner was served by an anxious Mrs. Hudson, who cast glances at her invalid tenant as she laid the meal out. I brought Holmes's food over to him and sat down, utterly determined to make him eat.

"Holmes," I said. "Holmes, Mrs. Hudson has prepared a wonderful dinner. Holmes."

His eyes flickered towards me but he made no response. I tried a different tack.

"This isn't healthy, Holmes. You will destroy yourself. You can hardly solve the world's mysteries if you're a skeleton, old boy. The brain needs fuel, remember." No luck. Holmes merely raised his shoulders in a minute gesture that might have been a shrug. "You know how you are, Holmes," I persisted. "These moods come on you. You must fight them. It is unacceptable that you should - should self-destruct like this!"

Cajole, plead, and coerce as I might, Holmes did not dine that evening. I had known this would be a difficult task, but already my spirits had sunk. Holmes did not have time, for the sake of his own health, for me to waste in futile attempts. I did not know what else to do, except pray that he would come around eventually. Rather than attempt to engage him (for he was staring into the fire and seemed quite oblivious to me) I settled myself with a book and waited.

At ten o'clock Holmes was curled in his armchair with eyes closed. I shut my book and went into the room that used to be mine - Mrs. Hudson had made it up for me. I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard a cry and rushed to the sitting room. It was evident that it was Holmes who had cried out. He was grappling imaginary monsters, breathing ragged and eyes wide. Before I could cross the room to him he had reached for his cocaine. As the deadly serum flowed into his veins he relaxed visibly and slumped back into his chair. His breathing slowed and his sharp grey eyes slid closed. I could only stand there, desperately wishing there was more that could be done.

Just as I thought Holmes had drifted into sleep, he spoke: "You should not have come, Watson," my friend murmured. "This is not . . . how I want you to remember me."

And my heart went cold as ice.