Intimations Composed Two Stories Above Baker Street
[Note: Assume Sherlock is coming off a high, hence the following despair]
I'm not even sure why I'm doing this anymore. This infernal contraption is draining the life right out of me as I try to understand what it is and how it works. It is not from my time, that much is so glaringly obvious. But I must keep myself occupied somehow in his absence and this anomaly will at least keep my mind off of my friend.
...
...
Well, clearly this is not working as I find myself dwelling on his absence more and more frequently. Whenever he goes off to procure another wife and another divorce I am left to my own devices. With a certain lull in cases that catch my attention I have fallen into the habit of using again. Yes, my seven percent solution is quite the handy replacement for Watson's amusing and endearing friendship. What else am I supposed to do? My mind is going to waste here, I cannot... deal with this.
It makes me feel ill to think that I have been abandoned for good this time. After all, I do wish Watson to find his own happiness and it is quite preposterous to think that I can provide any sort of enduring pleasantries for any other living being. He has moved on more than once, and only comes back broken into innumerable pieces. I'm not worth more than that, obviously. Yet it still breeds this illness deep within me, this jealous, beaten thing that is all consuming.
I know my own faults, as only a sad and bedraggled man would not, and my faults vastly outweigh my virtues. No one needs to be burdened with such a being as myself. I am glad yet still disheartened by the singularity in which I was left. So I will continue to habitually disappear into various drug dens and hope that Mrs. Hudson stops worrying herself with trying to feed me. Then at least I will waste away into history the way I was supposedly meant to.
I'm not even sure why I'm doing this anymore. This infernal contraption is draining the life right out of me as I try to understand what it is and how it works. It is not from my time, that much is so glaringly obvious. But I must keep myself occupied somehow in his absence and this anomaly will at least keep my mind off of my friend.
...
...
Well, clearly this is not working as I find myself dwelling on his absence more and more frequently. Whenever he goes off to procure another wife and another divorce I am left to my own devices. With a certain lull in cases that catch my attention I have fallen into the habit of using again. Yes, my seven percent solution is quite the handy replacement for Watson's amusing and endearing friendship. What else am I supposed to do? My mind is going to waste here, I cannot... deal with this.
It makes me feel ill to think that I have been abandoned for good this time. After all, I do wish Watson to find his own happiness and it is quite preposterous to think that I can provide any sort of enduring pleasantries for any other living being. He has moved on more than once, and only comes back broken into innumerable pieces. I'm not worth more than that, obviously. Yet it still breeds this illness deep within me, this jealous, beaten thing that is all consuming.
I know my own faults, as only a sad and bedraggled man would not, and my faults vastly outweigh my virtues. No one needs to be burdened with such a being as myself. I am glad yet still disheartened by the singularity in which I was left. So I will continue to habitually disappear into various drug dens and hope that Mrs. Hudson stops worrying herself with trying to feed me. Then at least I will waste away into history the way I was supposedly meant to.