Seeking Refuge

I awake with a sudden jerk and force myself into an upright position, causing the rug that I have been covered with to slip to the floor from off my shoulders. I know not how long I have been sitting here at the dining table with my head resting on my folded arms, but I now have an ache in my neck and between my shoulder blades to add to my many discomforts. I sniff and rub at my eyes, removing the remnants of my drying tears with the back of my hand as I shiver with cold.

The memories of what took place early this morning return with such force that, for a moment, I feel as if I might be sick. I do all that I can to calm myself; it would never do for me to vomit in the sitting room. Still my head continues to pain me terribly even when the nausea has abated and I groan and cradle it in my hands.

I have no doubt that I have lost my only friend. I must have done! I have never before seen him so angry in all the time that I have known him and would never have believed him capable of turning such fury upon me.

I stand shakily and begin to pace. It is then that my eye falls upon my locked desk drawer. I open it and pull out the little box that houses my cocaine and morphine, holding it close to my chest as I contemplate using it.

What harm could it do? Watson is gone - even if he found out that I had immediately turned to the substances for comfort he would most assuredly not care. The words 'I hope you were lonely, I hope you were bloody miserable!' are continuously repeating themselves in my brain, firmly cementing themselves in. I have lost him. With a sharp pang of morose loneliness I open the box and measure my usual seven per cent solution of cocaine.

For what seems a brief moment, my problems fade into insignificance and all is bliss. Nothing matters. I play something on my violin that sounds glorious and then I settle myself, cross legged, on the hearth rug and watch the colourful flames dance in the grate.

As the euphoria fades all too quickly, so the morose emotions return. They are worse than they were before. I shiver miserably, suddenly finding that I am feeling dreadfully chilled, and sneeze.

"It sounds as if you've caught a cold," Mrs. Hudson remarks as she comes in. "It's little wonder. Sleeping at the breakfast table in the draught like that! You were shivering in your sleep, you know."

Was I really? Well, it is of no import. I sniff quietly and warm my hands before the fire.

With a sigh my housekeeper drapes the rug that I left on the floor about my shoulders once more. "You should take better care. How ever did you manage alone for three years?"

I close my eyes hastily, feeling them prickle with tears yet again. I kept myself going with thoughts of home and those who mattered to me. Now I find myself even more alone than I was while I was away!

"Are you going to speak to me?"

I clear my constricting and painful throat with difficulty and lick my dry lips. "I would only drive you away too."

She snorts. "What nonsense! I come with the house Mr. Holmes. Here, have some tea."

I thank her gratefully and swallow the hot drink that she presses into my slightly-trembling hands without a pause. It does banish some of the chills.

"As for Doctor Watson," she continues with severity. "I am sure I don't know what you could have said or done to upset him so and no more do I wish to know. But he is a good man and I'm sure that he will forgive you when he is ready. He just needs some time, Mr. Holmes; he has had a dreadful time of it lately."

I nod and look away. I wanted to return home to him so that he would not be alone! I would have done so in an instant would it not have put us both in mortal danger. What good would that have done? Supposing I had been killed before I even reached London? That would most surely have hurt my Boswell more than my staying away. Had it been Watson who was killed... I shiver violently at the thought. That does not bear thinking about.

"You are cold! Sit in your chair and allow me to tend to the fire sir. You have not even had a bite to eat yet, have you?"

I wave her away. "I am not hungry."

"You'll fade away at this rate! Come now Mr. Holmes, you should eat something. It will do you good."

Cocaine always diminishes the appetite and my current emotional state leaves no room for food in any case. I light a cigarette and eye my morocco box as I consider taking another, stronger dosage. Seven per cent is a very weak solution, after all.

Mrs. Hudson throws up her hands. "Call me if you want anything."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," I hand her the teacup and dismiss her none too gently. I am feeling ill and miserable now that the cocaine is wearing off and I want to take more. I have no reason not to.

I resist the temptation for a moment or two. After Watson's reaction to the drug I do not like to take it in company and so I shall have to administer it quickly lest Mrs. Hudson returns too soon. The resulting euphoria envelops me and I return to chuckling at the fire.