Prompt 02: From I'm Nova – Unintended consequences.
Actions Speak Louder
Holmes is ensconced in Baker Street, sat crossed-legged in his armchair before the fire, when Watson pays him a visit. The curtains are drawn and the walls are awash with flickering demonic casts. Holmes's hand is clutching his Morocco case like it is enchanted, ready to fend them off.
"Yes, Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
The detective's eyes are like dark pebbles on a riverbed, scrubbed clean and gleaming. Watson's gaze falls to the open vial on the rug, the discarded syringe lying further away.
"I merely called in to wish you the compliments of the season."
Holmes smiles slowly. "And now you have. Do not let me deter you from your celebrations, my dear fellow."
"I have none," says Watson, not to be dismissed so easily. "Not at present, anyway. I was hoping you would join me for dinner."
"Ah, some other time perhaps."
"Holmes, you have been stuck within for three days. You need to go out."
The atmosphere shifts abruptly, coats the walls in thin wisps. Watson senses it as he takes a step closer to Holmes.
"I need no such thing," Holmes admonishes, his tone sharp. "When my lungs require the smog-filled breath London substitutes as fresh air, I shall indeed take myself outside. As it stands, I am perfectly fine as you see me."
"Are you?"
Holmes's eyes flicker in Watson's direction, a brief warning. "Yes."
"I would have to disagree." Watson cannot hide the disappointment in his voice, feels it gathering in his throat like oil. He picks up the empty syringe, holds it up to Holmes.
"I am no different to how you have seen me before."
"You have taken more than usual."
"Yes," Holmes agrees, blatant in his admittance of this. He waves a hand in dismissal. "It is of no import. The goal required is still the same."
"It most certainly is not." And Watson hears his voice crack on the last word, grips the syringe so hard it presses bruises into his palm.
Holmes gazes at him, only mildly surprised.
"A matter of opinion, Doctor."
"Yes, a medical opinion, Holmes," Watson retorts, unable to let the matter lie. "I will not dispute that your intelligence excels that of any man, but as a doctor I am not diffident to say that my knowledge surpasses yours in this." He swallows hard, clenches his grip. "I cannot condone this blatant disregard to your wellbeing."
Something passes across Holmes's face, shimmers dark and sinister. His fingers press into the arms of the chair, a faint scratching as his nails scrape the fabric. Warning bells ring sharply in Watson's ears, tension running deep across his shoulders.
"Think what you will, Doctor. " The tone is cutting and cold, seeping into the emphasis. "I have not asked for your view nor permission, professional or otherwise."
"No, only my ignorance on the subject. And I." Watson stops, frustrated. He exhales, his heart feeling suddenly heavy. "I do not ask that you stop, but I implore you to stop taking so recklessly, else I walk into these rooms one day and find you deceased on the rug."
The grandeur of Watson's statement is lost on Holmes, and a silence falls between them as they observe one another. The shadows on the walls watch expectantly, the room holding its breath.
Then Holmes stands slowly, takes one long stride into Watson's personal space. His eyes are harsh flints and his body trembles as though afraid, but Watson knows it is the cocaine coursing through him.
"I shall do as I please," Holmes says, quiet and low. "I believe you have outstayed your welcome, Watson."
Watson makes a surprised sound at the cold dismissal, but he does not move. He can feel Holmes's breath against his cheek, can see the frantic movement of Holmes's eyelashes, the muscle twitching in his jaw.
There is a fear darting inside Watson, a horrific notion that, if he leaves, Holmes will finally take this too far and the fear will become reality. He stands his ground.
"I am not a client to be dismissed, Holmes."
"I wish you to leave," Holmes tells him. "Now."
The syringe is still in Watson's grasp. Holmes reaches for it, but Watson tugs his hand back. Anger rolls through the doctor as thick as blood, years borne of exasperation, failure and concern flooding his veins, and without thought he tosses the syringe into the fire. It is churlish and pitiful, completely beneath him, but he cannot help the twitch that touches his mouth as he looks defiantly at his friend.
In hindsight, he should have seen the consequences.
End