The needle had cut me, and now my lungs dropped onto my stomach. I shuddered. Were my hands normally so white? Did they normally shake? I was suddenly gradually sat down on the floor of my bedroom. Too fast. Stationary. Back against the wall. It was cold. I shivered, but that was the only way I knew. I didn't move, but the room lurched ahead of me.
Cello music (Watson's voice.) I let it play. Major key. Slow.
I screwed my eyes up and the desk leg at eye level pawed the floor restlessly.
"I'm fine, Watson." I did believe in truth, but I lied a great deal.
Artificial light- yellow. Black everywhere else. I was white, though. I scratched an itch on my shoulder. I scratched too hard. I started to slide to the right or to the left. To the floor.
The cello sounded concerned now. Pizzicato. A heartbeat (knock on the door). Blood running fast, like a waterfall. Reichenbach. Coming in waves. High tide. Drum roll (rap on the door).
What was going on behind the door? I asked my limbs politely to move, but they didn't. I didn't want to be rude- I didn't move them without asking.
Knock. Knock. Cello falling down the stairs.
The door falling down on me. My limbs move without asking me.
"I'm fine, Watson." Non sequitur. He didn't believe me. I was lying, anyway.
Suddenly, I saw him. He put his hands in his pockets roughly. He pulled me up. His eyes were dead. I looked at them for a long time.
Then there was anger. Nothing I'd ever seen before. He grabbed my arm. White marks (white again) on top of the other assorted stigma. He shouted at me.
"HOLMES!"
I wished he would stop that. But then, he was a good man. He had a kind face (it fell). A disillusioned face. Broken. Crushed. The disappointment crashed down like a penny.