The Emotional Children

XXXVII

"Jacobson's brother murdered him with small doses of rat poison over a long period of time. The father's prompt death would have given him the family inheritance."

"Yeah, but how can you know—"

"I just do. Arrest the brother and close the damn case."

"Yeah, but Sherlock—"

"Just do it, inspector!" he yelled, almost groan-like. He abruptly sniffed the air for traces of bergamot and spices. "I need a cup of tea," he emphatically declared. "Do you want some?"

"Erm...no, I'm good, thanks...Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Never better; now get out."

Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway as Sherlock prepared to close the door on him. His mouth was open, and he suspected the worst.

"Sherlock are you—?"

"Piss off, Greg," the detective scoffed, shoving the man out the door and slamming it in his face. His hands shook on the knob. There was stubble on his chin...when had that grown in? His head was racing a million kilometers a second, and he was still trying to catch up.

God, being high was so bad for business.

Sherlock slumped into his armchair, put his hand over his face and let his legs bob up and down for want of exercise. His brain was a mess, and his heart was beating far too fast for his own liking. It had only been one syringe for the past few days...just one! every twenty-four hours. It was the perfect ratio of morphine to cocaine, and it had been exactly what he had wanted...just the thing to spur him into action.

Or so he had thought.

Slumping forward in his chair, he found himself drifting in and out of sleep like a man dozing in a tub of water.

He glanced up at the clock. 15:00. That was...odd...Greg had said he would come by at 12:00, and he had. Had three hours already gone by? Damn it, maybe the few small dosages hadn't been such a good idea after all. He couldn't even keep track of the time or stay conscious for three small hours.

Five earth-rattling pounds on the front door made his eyes shoot open, and he flew out of his chair. Before the knocker spoke, the detective already knew who it was. There was only one person who could bang on the door like that.

"Sherlock!"

It was John Watson's voice that rapped on his brain...as he had previously anticipated. He froze, afraid to unlock the door.

"Sherlock! Is it true? Is it true?!?"

Neither spoke.

Sherlock considered locking himself in his bedroom.

John broke the silence from behind the door.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Open this bloody door or I swear to God I will break it down! Sherlock!"

John Watson was not in a good mood.

Sherlock slowly turned the lock then opened the door in one quick motion. In an attempt to appear blameless and conceal his feelings of overwhelming self-loathing, he put on the best smile he could.

"Oh! Hullo, John," he said. His pseudo innocence was so obvious, and John's expression upon seeing it was revolting. He paused, nervous as he dumbly stood holding the door open. "I thought you were in Dublin," he hastily announced.

"Well I'm not now, am I? Am I, Sherlock?" he demanded.

"Greg texted," he said. If he were a bull, smoke would have been coming from his nostrils. "Don't...don't even tell me that you've been using," he went on. "We talked about this. You're not that desperate!" he ended with at the crescendo's peak, hurtling past the detective and striding into the flat. Rosie was holding his hand beside him, walking in hurried shuffles on her two wobbly feet. Sherlock was confused...she could walk now?