Solutions

Some things are simply too much to ask for, even from a friend.

1883

There is a reason that morphine addiction has earned the name the 'soldier's disease'.

I have roughly an hour. I have a decision to make.

I give myself an hour because that is when Holmes will be finished with his preparations for this evening's excursion, and I will be left to my own devices to do what I will.

I could ask for help, but I will not impose my issues upon Holmes. I have followed Holmes to the brink and back, and I will do so again without hesitation in the future.

But, some things are simply too much to ask, even from a friend.

I need help. I know myself well enough to recognise that I past the point of logical reasoning, and so that leaves me in the position to either somehow convince myself not to do it, or to let it happen.

I have been feeling the dull throbbing pain in my leg steadily growing worse over the past week to the point where I must lean heavily on my cane even for short distances and I lost have the range of motion in my shoulder to the extent that I can barely move my left arm without extreme discomfort.

My mind too has become a terrible place where I am plagued with nightmares that echo with memories. My waking thoughts are haunted by reminders of war. A sudden loud noise or an otherwise innocuous smell will bring forth a memory so vivid I'd swear I was back there yet again.

It would be not such a grave thing to take a small dose to ease my discomfort. Morphine is a medicine and is frequently used to treat chronic pain conditions, as a doctor I have prescribed it liberally to bring comfort to the wounded. I should not be so hypocritical about administering one small dose for myself.

The problem is I have been through this before.

For the most part I am used to the way my body is now. When I can go about my day and occupy myself as I normally would, the dull aching pain resting deep in my limbs is but a small nuisance. I am used to it and it does not bother me as it once did. I have come to expect and make peace with the limited range of motion I have in my shoulder and the stiffness in my leg.

Now, I almost feel as reduced as I was two years ago after first returning to London. I assure myself it is a temporary affliction and that soon I will once again be as I was. I can not go for a walk, I can not distract myself with my writing. I can not accompany Holmes in an investigation. A dose of morphine will bring relief. The problem is, any relief I feel is always fleeting and in a short while I will be overcome again.

I can satisfy my need and measure out a dose, but there are other consequences to that. No small dose can sustain indefinitely, the body adapts and needs ever increasing quantities. I have even seen the prolonged use of morphine make the initial complaint worse.

I have witnessed too many examples of what morphine addiction will do to a person, and that is not the kind of person I want to be.

I am more than likely as healed as I will ever be. As I age, each passing year will only exasperate the disabilities I currently face. This is the best it will get and right now that thought fills me with despair.

That is not all, though. One year ago while my mind was swaying and my body free of pain after having found relief through medicinal means, I reached an epiphany. There was a permanent solution to my problem. I do not have to live my life in pain, I do not have suffer the indignities of growing older.

It is not a solution I have ever contemplated while sober.

I prepared everything. I wrote a note explaining my actions and apologising for the inconvenience my sudden absence may cause. In the note I instructed Holmes to use my meager savings towards rent and to keep whatever of mine he would like and donate the rest to the veterans mission. I took Mrs Hudson into consideration as well and decided I had been enough of an inconvenience to everyone around me already and it would be best if I committed the act away from Baker Street where no one would be forced to deal with the aftermath. I knew where I was going, I knew how I would do it.

I was on my way out when Holmes intercepted me and dragged me off on another one of his adventures.

It was enough of a distraction to temporarily shake me from my resolve and by the time we returned I was once again clear headed and horrified at what I'd been about to do. I was shaken enough that I have relied the memory of that experience as a deterrent.

Until now.

But perhaps it will be different this time. Perhaps the extreme thoughts I'd had were only fancies of the moment. I will still be myself, and I will remember my resolve to endure as I am. I am reasonably happy in my new life.

I would be happier yet without the deep aching pain making me clench my jaw and stay awake at night. I could use the morphine to tide me over for only a week or so and then wean myself off knowing the pain will be less. I will give myself one week. Seven days. I will be steadfast and resolute and I will keep to the schedule and all will be well.

"Holmes."

He emerged from his room already wearing the brown wig and glued on moustache.

"How exactly do you intend to determine which company is being used to make the shipments?" I asked. I need your help.

"I already know. What I need is proof." He explained and disappeared back into his room.

I have used gambling as a temporary distraction to avert my temptation. The evening usually ends with the loss of all but my months rent (which is wisely left in the care of Holmes and locked in his drawer because we have been down this road before), but it works as a distraction. I can ease my body by occupying my mind with other things.

But my wallet is locked securely within Holmes desk and I am not feeling up to walking anywhere further than my own bedroom. If I were to take just a small enough dose to ease the ache…

That would defeat the purpose altogether.

Holmes keeps his morphine inside his morocco case with his cocaine. The morocco case currently holds it's place on the fireplace mantle where it has been gathering dust for months. Perhaps Holmes had already used it without my knowledge. Perhaps my decision has already been made for me and the vial will be empty. Once he is gone for the night I will check on it's contents just to make sure.

Right.

"Would it not be better for the Yard collect their own proof?" I called out.

"They could, but I prefer to see a case through to its end." He replied.

I grit my teeth and pushed myself up from the chair. I grudgingly grabbed my cane and hobbled across the room to pour myself a half glass of brandy.

Alcohol is not going to make resisting my impulses any easier but it might ease my fear and subdue my pride. I've been thinking of nothing but the drug for days now. I need to ease this pain, and I need to give myself a good reason not to.

Holmes can look at a man on the street and know his life story at just a glance. What does he see when he looks at me?

Perhaps he has already divined my plan and is seeking to give me an opportunity to follow it through. Heaven knows my mood will be much improved once I am feeling more comfortable.

I filled the glass again, and again I drank it in one shot.

I could appeal to our friendship and beg him to stay by my side. I could ask him to abandon a case he has been working on for nearly a month. I could ask him to choose between his work and me. I could do all those things but I won't. I can't ask for help in this. I need to make a choice.

Or maybe I can take the choice out of my hands.

I walked over to the mantel and picked up the morocco case and placed it on the table. I opened it. The vials were full. I sat down and rested my head momentarily on my forearm. Just a small amount will make me feel better, just enough to tide me over. I stood up again and fetched my revolver from my desk drawer along with the extra bullets and I placed them on the table beside.

"Holmes." I called out.

I heard an exasperated sigh from his room. "Really old chap, with all these questions I am beginning to wonder if you have lost faith in my abilities." He walked out of his room with his face caked with tanned make-up and cheeks filled with putty to change the shape of his face. He looked at me, he looked at the open morocco case, and he looked at the revolver. He spat the putty out into his handkerchief.

"Watson?"

"I do not have faith in Scotland Yard to watch your back as closely as I do. Take my service revolver." I said. He picked it up and dropped the bullets into his pocket.

Next I closed the morocco case and pushed it towards him. "The mantle is too cluttered. Mrs Hudson asked me to put some of our things away so that she might have an easier time dusting."

He picked that up as well and without a word took them into his room and shut the door. When he emerged ten minutes later all traces of his disguise were gone and rather than wearing the clothing of a dock worker he was now dressed in his evening clothes and a robe.

"It will look bad for Lestrade if he does not make the collar himself."

"Are you sure? I thought you wished to see the case through to its end."

"It was a simple case and I am satisfied with the solution. Scotland Yard can clean up the rest, it is only footwork." He explained. "You don't mind if I pass the time playing violin, do you?"

"I don't mind." I said and moved back to my armchair by the fire.