Before Holmes Met Watson (FEATURED)

Day Twenty-four: Sickness

[Trigger warning: Discussion of suicide. Things take a bit of a dark turn in this chapter.]

John had become "that patient" – the one who downplayed or outright lied about their symptoms. He said he was fine when the pain was almost unbearable and, while he still kept to himself and rarely struck up conversations, instead of sitting and staring out the window like some sort of persecuted maiden in a Gothic novel, he pretended to read. When the rejoinder, "Not much of a talker are you, Cap'n Watson?" was directed at him now, he would smile and say, "Never have been. Always preferred a good book."

He was depressed. He was a medical doctor, and he knew his condition could be treated. He also knew that the condition made him not want to be treated. His emotional life had been packed up onto an ice floe, and he could feel it drifting off into the fog over the sea. It was a relief, honestly, letting it all go, not fighting to hold on. Or perhaps he was the one drifting away. That feeling of not being tethered to his body had persisted, and he sometimes wondered if that important part of him – his soul, his consciousness, whatever you wanted to call it – would float away and disappear into the ether. The physical pain he kept himself in by refusing higher doses of pain medication was the only thing keeping him anchored to his flesh. He needed it. There was a part of him that wanted to suffer, that wanted to be punished. Part of him felt he deserved his fate, even though he wouldn't have wished it on anyone else. Well, maybe the bastard who'd shot him.

Some cultures believe that every object has a purpose, a destiny to fulfil. He'd never given it much thought before, but he'd had to reconsider it now that he seemed to be surrendering to the will of his pearl-handled straight razor.

It wanted him to die.

No, that wasn't right. It wanted to kill him.

No, that wasn't right either. It wanted to be pressed against John's wrists, to slice them open. It wanted John to be holding it when it did so. It wanted John to use it to kill himself.

It didn't talk to John. He wasn't hallucinating or anything. But he felt as if some force outside of himself was pulling him towards it. He could always sense its presence even though it was packed away unseen with the rest of his expensive toiletries in the bottom of his footlocker. Underlying the almost mesmeric attraction was the strong feeling that everything would be all right if he just did what it wanted. He became obsessed with it and thought of it almost constantly. He felt it watching him, wanting him.

Completeness. That's what was being offered. An end to things on his terms, at his choosing.

His father had given him that razor. If it was to be the tool that brought about his death by his own hand, what did that mean? Were the people in his terrible dreams his mother and father? Did they really want him to come and join them? If this was his destiny, hadn't his father set things into motion?

It was too much like a Greek tragedy, all a bit too grand for the likes of John, and that thought sometimes gave him pause. But not for very long.

The power of making the ultimate choice was intoxicating. It made him feel alive. His mood improved noticeably. He had more energy. See, he told himself. The closer I move towards the final solution, the better I feel.

He began to think of where he'd do it. He didn't like the hospital very much, but there was a quiet bathroom that might do nicely. He'd prefer to go to a hotel though, have a nice meal first, maybe even hire in some companionship. Yes, he'd do it up proper: head into London for a haircut and a shave, book himself into the most expensive hotel he could afford, make a night of it, then answer the razor's call.