By Alia Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were
created by the late and great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. No disrespect
Summary: Watson contemplates what he envies most.
Author's Notes: Written for the 7 deadly sins community on
live journal. Envy is prompt #5. Please keep in mind that this ficlet
is unbetaed and contains Australian spelling. If you find a mistake
then feel free to point it out to me.
Comments: Are welcome and can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org
It is absurd, criminal some would say, for a medical man like
myself to be envious of anything that might bring about the eventual
destruction or down fall of another. I am not the man I once was
though, certainly I am not the same man who took an oath years ago to
aid the sick and do no harm.
Not since my time abroad have I felt my feelings and responses so
beyond my control. What was once common place to me now seems strange
and unfamiliar. I fear I have lost myself, with no way to recover
To my eternal regret Holmes knows of my weakness, but I cannot
leave him, or Baker Street. I am slave to his demands, and destined
no doubt, to the fiery depths of hell.
For long hours I have contemplated the dying embers of the fire he
had built for us before we had quarrelled and he had sought the
sanctity of his room, slamming the door loudly behind him. Having
lost complete control over both my body and my mind, I shudder now as
I hear that self same door open again.
Unable to look away or to move I watch as my friend enters our
sitting room, circling around me to the desk where he keeps his
cocaine and syringe. He knows I am here, that I have been waiting to
talk to him again, but he does not acknowledge me beyond the look of
distrust he gives me as he opens the drawer and retrieves its
Once, I would have been appalled by his behaviour and blatant
disregard for my feelings, but Holmes knows I will no longer
challenge his drug use or anything else he does, and to my ever
lasting disappointment conducts himself accordingly in my presence.
Despite my resistance to do so, the lack of cooperation from body
and soul make it impossible for me not to observe the foul ritual of
my dearest friend injecting himself with his seven percent solution.
The arm Holmes exposes in preparation reminds me of the fine polished
marble sculptures seen at the Victoria and Albert museum and beckons
me without mercy to stroke the fine alabaster skin and to press a
kiss to the pulse point where wrist meets with clinching and
Of course I do not move to partake of either. He has made it
perfectly clear that he prefers the sharp prick of the needle and
containing substance to any form of human contact - my touch and
unnatural yearnings in particular, yet nothing in the world it seems
can spare us the torment of sharing in the most disturbing moment
when he punctures his flesh and sighs in the deepest of satisfaction.
There are times when I still imagine a similar sound emanating
from his lips as I move against him, but I know my thoughts are no
more than a perverse product of my deluded mind and will never come
I wait until the drug begins to take effect and Holmes's usually
hawk-like eyes close in what appears to be pure bliss before I rise
and exit in search of my own form of solace and solitude.
Retiring to my room, I lock the door behind me and disrobe for the
night. Much later, alone in my bed I rouse my flesh to life. My right
hand working beneath the covers against God and nature as I attempt
to purge myself of my sorrow, along with my sins.
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