Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling when the drug coursed through his veins.
"Sherlock?" Angela's voice drifted over to him.
"Yes," he slurred back.
"I want you to concentrate on the sound of my voice, follow it, watch the flame from the candle I just lit, relax and let your mind be still."
Sherlock fought to acquiesce, but was prisoner to the voices that whispered inside his head. The voices that plagued him every day. He couldn't remember a day without their relentless assault on his peace of mind.
"Sherlock, don't fight me relax."
Sherlock's body twitched in response, then went numb. The back of his neck and sides of his cheeks began to prickle. His lips buzzed and his hearing became more acute, nothing escaped its aural sweep of the room, the ticking of Angela's watch, the traffic outside, the girl out front smacking her gum, and the sound of his own blood pumping through his ear drums. I'm high, I'm high, now it's time to fly. He repeated his favorite mantra, until the only thing he was aware of was Angela's soft voice, floating through his consciousness. So gentle, like a silk scarf around my neck.
"Sherlock, since time is of the essence I need you to tell me what you see when you look around you. It is your fourth Birthday. Tell me, where are you?"
Sherlock moved back and forth in his chair. "I don't know."
"Sherlock, open your inner memory and tell me what you see."
Sherlock reached up and felt his cheeks. "I'm walking upstairs," he whispered.
"Are you alone?"
"No, I mean yes. I don't know," he whined in a childlike voice.
"Sherlock, you are safe, now tell me what you see."
"I see steps, pictures, I see a child, a girl, I...I..."
"Where are you? Tell me Sherlock."
"I'm at Musgrave. Oh God, no...I can't."
"Sherlock, tell me, unburden the evil that has entrenched your soul."
"It's my birthday, our birthday...
"Who Sherlock, tell me who else?"
"My...my sister. She looks like me, her eyes are dark but they see the battlefield like mine do. She is not on the side of angels. She is evil."
"Sherlock, don't speculate. Tell me why is she evil?"
"She...she made me kill my best friend, Victor."
"How did she do that, Sherlock?"
"I want to prove that I am smarter than she. So, I play the game."
"What game?"
"The East Wind game."
"Tell me about the game."
"My sister is the east wind, she is fire, Mycroft is ice and I am water. We play sort of a rock, paper, scissors game but with the elements. That day Mycroft didn't want to play. Sherrin had me tie Victor up and then put him in my closet. She left clues as to why, but I don't get them. I am too stupid."
"Avoid judgements, Sherlock, tell me what happened next?"
"I couldn't figure out why Victor was taken prisoner. I lost. The last thing I remember is her, setting fire to the curtains in my room. I beg her to let Victor out, but she puts a chair under the doorknob. Smoke fills the room and I can hear her laughing. I am fire and water is gone. She sings it over and over."
"Sherlock, it's alright you are safe. When I count to three you will open your eyes, remembering everything. One, two, three..."
Sherlock opened his eyes. "I remember her. It's my fault Victor died. He burned because of me."
"Sherlock, did you ever find out what her puzzle was?"
"No, and it has plagued me ever since."
"Sherlock, your sister was insane—psychotic. Have you ever considered the possibility that there never was a solution? Perhaps, she wanted to torment you. In that case, there was no way you could have saved Victor."
Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I could have saved him by ignoring him. I could have saved him by terminating our friendship. I knew she hated Victor. I just didn't know how much. In any case, I was the one who tied him up."
Angela reached over and took his hand. "You couldn't have known. It's not your fault."
Sherlock nodded, then jumped up out of the chair, swaying a little. He pressed his hands against the side of his face. "I have to go."
"You don't look well, at least let me call you a cab."
Sherlock laughed. "I'm a cab." He then pulled out his phone, dropping it several times when his shaking fingers refused to grip its slick surface. When he finally grasped its illusive square shape, he pulled up his contacts, selecting Mycroft's name, then he texted: Mycroft, I'm in trouble come and get me. The list is in my top pocket. Fire has won, water is gone, the only thing left is dry scorched earth. Then he sat down on the ground and waited.
When Mycroft came in through the front door, Sherlock was gazing into space, his pupils two small black points in a sea of green. He bent down, retrieving the list, then closed his eyes. Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?
When Mycroft picked him up, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother's neck, resting his whiskered cheek against Mycroft's smooth one. "Ice," he whispered, then surrendered to peaceful oblivion.
Several Days Later
It was the same old routine, in rehab, out of rehab. I'll play the game just to get out of here, Sherlock thought. Then when I get out I will end this once and for all. If I can't bring John back, I will put an end to our suffering. I will poison us both. The thought was shocking, but the more he thought about it the more he became intrigued with the idea. Water will be victorious, when we both die in each other's arms. If I can solve the puzzle we will both live, if not then I will take John in my arms, cradling him while he both drown in a sea of passion that will climax, while we penetrate each other's bodies, then ebb once we are both spent. He will never know the rigors of death, just a blissful release when he orgasms, spilling his seed against my decaying flesh. Wow, I guess I am a drama queen after all. Then he slept, preparing himself to fight his last battle with the east wind—fire.
