Born For Adversity
"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17
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I cannot pen my exact thoughts on the matter as I stared into the empty casing, for I do not know whether I was thinking at all. It was a shock to my system to find my store of cocaine missing, and for a few moments I did nothing but gaze blankly at the velvet interior of the case.
My mind reeled at this decidedly odd turn of events. Had I used it all up previously, and forgotten about it? That was certainly a possibility - I have forgotten entire afternoons as a result of cocaine, and to this day I cannot recall them.
Another thought came. Perhaps Watson had done just what I had presumed he would, and thrown the entire lot in the Thames. Confidence indeed.
But that particular situation was the one I favored. My pride was hurt at the notion that Watson's faith in me had run its course, but it was preferable to having unknowingly taken the drug behind his back. He is a longsuffering fellow, but even his patience would extinguish were I to do such a thing.
The vacant case still within my grasp, I sank back once again into my armchair, lost in my thoughts. My Boswell had done just what I expected he would, yet I found myself slightly bitter over the whole affair. I didn't deserve the trust he had given me, and I don't believe that I ever will. Still, it was a hard blow to realize that trust had been snatched away from me so suddenly. Even so, this felt as though it were a good thing - Watson had saved me from myself once again.
There was nothing to occupy my mind anymore. I was lacking Watson, musical inspiration, stimulating work, and cocaine. In times of sheer boredom I have always had at least one of those things at my disposal. Not now, however. As quickly as I had seated myself in my armchair, I stood again, restless pacing the only alternative I could think of. For a while I made loose threads in our rug, contemplating the possibility of waking Watson up and heading towards Simpson's for a meal.
As I rounded our sitting room for the sixth time, a small object caught my eye. It was buried beneath a mountain of Watson's writings - am I really the disorganized half of this partnership? - and I did not recall it being there when I left. Intrigued, I sought it out, disregarding my friend's papers as I threw them across the floor. I found the object, an aging album that had certainly known better days. At first I resisted the entirely natural urge to flip through the pages, for this was Watson's personal property, and while he wouldn't be surprised if I happened to look through it, I doubted he would appreciate the gesture. But I could only battle the temptation for so long.
The pages were faded, and contained a number of photographs, letters, and small mementos. The photos were always of one woman and one man, and it was easy to see that it was Watson and his late wife. They were smiling, and their complete happiness was evident. The letters were ones of love - while Mary was not quite so eloquent as her husband, she got the point of her undying adoration well across. I could not help but color with embarrassment as I continued. I had never seen Watson as affectionate as the album demonstrated, and I began to feel that I was prying. I will admit that when Watson first announced his intention to marry, I believed that he would be back home in Baker Street within the course of several months. It was beyond my abilities to imagine Watson settling down permanently with any one woman, for I had come to think that he shared my hatred of domestics, and aside from that he is rather vivacious when it comes to female company.
However, when I am confronted with such evidence, even I must rethink my conclusions.
Watson had adored Mary so completely, that I knew already, but only now did I see how truly in love he had been. I have never known such an experience, so it is a bit of a difficult thing for myself to comprehend. I continued to flip through the decrepit album until a newspaper clipping sparked my interest.
It came near the end, and my stomach contracted. It was an obituary, a wretched one, with the name of Mary Watson at the heading. Yet it was the date that nearly caused me to drop the book.
'-passed away on November 22, 1893...'
It had been a year ago, on this very date.
I let out a breath that I had not realized I had been holding. Mastery of reasoning, powers of deduction - I obviously did not possess any such qualities if I had failed to notice that today was the anniversary of the day my dearest friend was rendered a widower!
With shaking hands I replaced the album to its place on the desk. I had missed all the signs: the silence, the refusal to accompany me, his worry over my well-being. Watson was grieving, and I did not realize it. In my frenzied state, the case that once held my cocaine appeared to be staring at me. I picked it up from the side table, eyeing it with disdain. I opened it, tracing the permanent imprint the weight of the syringe had made. However, I pulled my fingers away with some shock - the velvet was damp.
My mind, as I had trained it, went through the numerous possibilities as to why that would be so, and to my dismay I could come to only one conclusion.
The solution had spilled, and for that to happen someone must have used it. With all the evidence before, it did not require much time for me to deduce just who that someone had to have been.
"Oh, dear God…"
With athleticism better suited to my younger days, I fled upwards to my dearest friend's bedroom.
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AN: Couldn't resist stopping there. No worries, next chapter will be up soon!