Chapter 19

Weeks passed but New Scotland Yard was no closer to dismantling the Web of criminals and finding their Spider. Sherlock, on the other hand, was busy solving trivial cases clients brought in. He wouldn't let his brain rot waiting for the next piece in the puzzle of the Spider Web. Fortunately, it made for momentary delays in his spare time against formulating several explosive compounds built from bodily fluids and random household chemicals. Mrs. Hudson disapproved of them, making her opinion very clear every single time she went up those stairs, and it also drove John crazy. "Why on earth would you need to know HOW to explode a body, Sherlock? You're the one supposed to solve the murder, not know HOW to commit one!"

The consulting detective didn't anticipate John's repeated reaction to those experiments, but it actually turned out to work in his favour. After all, wasn't that the goal-give his flatmate a reason to move away. John needed to leave, and knowing the doctor's behaviour, he wouldn't leave unless something drastic drove him away. Annoying John consistently would work, at least the tall man thought so. Besides, the doctor couldn't stay even if he wanted to; his wedding day was quickly approaching. Dr. and Mrs. Watson marry and have their own flat somewhere else, somewhere not anywhere close to Baker Street. The more Sherlock reasoned to himself why John had to leave, the angrier he felt for the cards he had been dealt in the game of life. Nothing was fair in life for him, but that wasn't any new information to him.

He gave up on the experiment, his mind was too preoccupied. Instead, the sad man went to sulk in his chair aimlessly plucking on his violin at random moments. His face was expressionless. His eyes were flat and dead, just staring ahead without focus. His mind, however, hardly matched his outward appearance, it was burning with anger and rage deep within his guarded Mind Palace.

"It's not fair!" He half screamed and half cried over and over again into Redbeard's soft silky roan fur. He always turned to Redbeard if something was wrong, but now his faithful companion couldn't even help. Redbeard licked his master's tears and nuzzled his master's cheek, but nothing seemed to help him. All he could do was whine softly and let his best friend cry to his heart's content. "Poor poor Master, I wish I could help..."

"WHY ME!? Why did it have to be ME! Why couldn't it have been Mycroft! It's not fair! It seems heartless to say, but Mycroft can still run a country without needing sight. He has everyone do everything for him already. It wouldn't matter if he was blind or not. How am I supposed to do anything without my sight in good order? Unlike my brother dearest, I actually NEED my eyes to work properly. Who would want a blind consulting detective, what good am I to solving crimes and chasing criminals? The Work is my life, I don't know anything else, but solving cases and catching the dumb ones who commit the crimes in the first place. Sure, I'm a graduate chemist, but to study in the field of chemistry requires sight of which I won't have much longer. How am I supposed to look into a microscope and examine the details if I can barely see my hand at arm's length from my face?

The Day of Doom is coming fast. I know it, I see the signs, as ionically as it sound, it does describe the situation exactly as it is. It is harder and harder to look at the microscope without it giving me a headache. Too much sunlight I feel dizzy, too little of it then I can't see clearly enough. It is hard to compose new music because the staff is too small for me to see where to write the notes. I don't want a repeat of that one night where John and I ended up cleaning the flat. First, I can't stand cleaning. It is far too dull for my mind. Second, if I let anything remotely similar happen again Mrs. Hudson will have me tethered to her wrist making sure I will not harm myself at any moment then for a certainty John will not want to leave this flat. He and Mary will insist on living in 221C.

I'm terrified of losing my sight, truly I am. Few things scare me, yes, there was that one incident with the H.O.U.N.D. - but that didn't count. I was drugged. This is far worse than anything I've ever experienced. I can't run from myself, can I? I'm scared. I can't sleep because what if when I wake up then the colourful world I once knew suddenly became a void of black. John still feeds me if I forget to eat, but I am rubbish at cooking so that is not too bad. I could try to cook, but I might accidentally tip over something and the flat might go up in flames. It would mean a risk to Mrs. Hudson too.

This is why I need John to marry his fiancée and leave this flat, preferably leave London and live somewhere else- anywhere else. This is a big island, anywhere but Baker Street would be an ideal place for the two. I know Mycroft has his respects for John and Mary, he'll help them out in his own special way of course. I can't let him see me fall down this way of becoming absolute rubbish at everything. I need to spare him for all that. He fell to pieces after my fake suicide, I don't even want to imagine what he is thinking during this time.

I suppose I could go home to mum and dad, but what good would I be there? It's not as if life would be any different for me here or at home. What now!? I hate my life. Absolutely detest it. To see is to have freedom without it I must depend on everyone. I loathe even the thought of coming to that point. I refuse to let John care for me. He will have a wife and perhaps a family later on. I will just be in the way or forgotten along the way. Best to avoid the problem all together. Goodbye John. My best friend.

Sherlock realised John didn't have any intention of leaving anytime soon before his wedding day. At the moment he calculated his rate of visual loss would be 100% approximately two weeks before the wedding date. That just wouldn't work; John had to be gone long before The Day of Doom came. It was fast approaching, it was a running bet in his own mind trying to pinpoint the exact date the curse would reveal itself. It was his sword of Damocles looming over his eyes at every moment swaying back and forth violently on the last frazzled thread of the cord ready to plunge into those once vibrant eyes.

A-N: I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I have in writing it.

Some of you have noticed, but incase you haven't this isn't merely a story about Sherlock loosing his sight, it is something more.

Can you guess it? I hope I'm doing justice to it!

Let me know what you think of everything so far, please? Thanks so much! :)

XinLan