Spilt Cyanide-The Other Bullet

CRYING OVER SPILT CYANIDE PART 2 - THE OTHER BULLET


[ extract added 27th march by SH

     I wasn't entirely sure how long I'd been on the phone to Mycroft. I knew it had been a while.
     How could I have got it so wrong? I was never wrong. My instincts were always right. Always!
     And then the world goes and dies. . .
     I'd always loved him. Always. How could he not see that. How. Perhaps I'd done something wrong . . .
     I was new at this. Entirely new. How did anyone expect me to know what I was doing? Why hadn't Mycroft helped me?
     Perhaps he didn't think I'd needed to be helped. Perhaps, like John had said, I was emotionless. Perhaps I really did seem it. Perhaps I worked too hard to hide, and I had, worked for so long, that this was just . . . almost inconceivable.
     That one day, that one meeting, from that phrase – 'quite extraordinary' . . . how the hell did I stand a chance?
     Perhaps that was why I'd got it wrong. Perhaps thinking with my heart, instincts had ruined what, for at least a decade now, had been a perfect thinking machine.
     I had to stop thinking with my heart.


     I tried to ignore the fact that all the boxes were gone by the time I left my bedroom. But I couldn't stop my brain from noticing all the facts that showed me John had left in a hurry. All the little things he'd left behind. All the stuff he'd left behind – his book by his armchair, even his favourite pen on the desk –
     But I could ignore them.
     I pulled on my coat, checked in the mirror that my eyes weren't still swollen and red, then left the flat.
     Molly was waiting anxiously for me. "Oh my god," she breathed when she saw me.
     "Yes, I'm alive," I said tiredly. "The body?" I didn't have the energy (or the will) to flirt with her right then.
     "Oh – this way," Molly said, leading towards the morgue. "By the way, Jim's been missing – well, just a bit longer than you – I was wondering-"
     "Busy," I said. "I'll look for him later." That I would . . .
     I leant over the body, letting my mind work entirely on autopilot, revelling in the freedom it brought me.
     She didn't habitually take drugs – at least, she hadn't taken them for a long time – the crook of the elbow was clear, and the arm was free from those abrasions that come from tightening the strap for the blood flow.
     She liked snakes, handled them often. Her hands had the slight grazed impression all over them which showed long term handling of scaled creatures.
     And she'd been cheating on her boyfriend. Distinctive marks on her neck above a hickey where a nose piercing had scratched the skin. Chase hadn't had a nose piercing.
     And – on the inside of wrist – she'd doodled a pattern that looked slightly familiar . . .
     I smiled.
    Around her wrist was a tattooed band with a pattern of dots.
     I now just needed a few more things . . .
     "Where's your friend?" asked Molly.
     I shut down my emotions. "Gone," I said simply, walking straight from the room. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to stop myself crying, and that would really be bad for my relationship with Molly.
     No matter how our argument could be translated, Molly still simply had a schoolgirl crush. She would be fine.
    

     I really needed a smoke. It felt like the patches had stopped working.


     Mrs Hudson yelled at me when she came into the flat. I suppose I'd earned it. I mean, what with shooting the walls and now the smell of tobacco, I wasn't the perfect tenant. She also commented on the lack of John. I snapped back.
     The cigarettes weren't working as well, either. Perhaps J- Mycroft had found them, and swapped them for fake ones. I'd buy some more on my way out.
     The doorbell rang. Damn – the parents.
     I opened a window, and wafted some of the smoke out, before letting the parents up.
     When they raised a questioning eyebrow at the smoke, I told them that one of my, uh, 'patients', but really friends had just been around. I was trying to cure him of his addiction.
     I almost hated myself for saying that. Part of me hated myself. The same small, useless part that had rebelled against fags.
     I believe foolish people call it hope. I call it pain.
     Anyway, the parents soon gave me the diaries. I ignored the dinner Mrs Hudson had left me, pushing away the hunger with a trained patience.
     The diary was reasonably boring. The usual rubbish about falling out with parents, cheating on her boyfriend, drugs – dull.
     But it gave me the background info I needed.
     That little voice – the traitorous, painful voice – muttered something. Something about snakes. Something ridiculous. Preposterous. An idea, a possibility of what had happened –
     But I knew now what happened when I listened to that voice.
     So I ignored it, and paid a visit to the Vauxhall arches.


     "Hey, mister H," said Simpson, jogging up to me. "You 'kay? You're looking like the back end of Beelzebub's burgundy behind."  
     "I'm fine," I said. Simpson always managed to surprise me with not only his intuition, but his way of verbalizing it. Sometimes, he was my psychologist. Others, he was my right-hand man in the underworld. Earlier, he'd been my dealer. But he'd worked himself off that, just before I had. "I need information."
     "Shoot."
     "There's a gang, squatting round the back of Maiden Inn. I need to know if there's a man called Jason Miles. I need a description of him."
     Simpson blinked. "You don't need me for that, Mister H. You can get in anywhere."
     "Yes, but I may have to do some other work with them, and I don't want to have to ruin my cover when it's not necessary."
     "What about your mate?" Simpson asked, narrowing his eyes. "Can't he help?"
     For a second, one sweet second, I smiled as I imagined John trying to bluff his way into the gang. The next, painful second hit back the truth. "No. He can't."
     Simpson looked at me for one, long second. "Right. Listen, can you get me application forms for Cambridge?"
     Greatly-needed change of topic. "How's your Latin?"
     "Finished the book you gave me."
     "Psychology?"
     "Finished the textbook, and the practise paper with flying colours."
     "The practical?"
     "Reduced my councillor to tears over her breaking marriage, and as far as I know, they're getting re-married in two months."
     I smiled. I was proud of Simpson. 17 years old, and I'd looked after him for 6 of those. The kid was as close to a nephew as I'd get. "I'll see what I can do." Mycroft would help me. He found it funny that I helped the kid so much. But I wouldn't bribe his way in. If Simpson was accepted, it would all have to be down to his pure genius. One day, I knew Simpson would be helping kids just like himself.
     John had never really got to know Simpson . . .
     I was suddenly furious. How did everything always get back to John? Was my brain incapable of passing a single thought without that man entering it?
     He would leave. I'd make him leave it. Leave my mind to work as it used to.
     That voice was getting louder. The rebelling voice. The voice that had refused to leave with the tears it had created.
     "Thanks, Mister H!" cried Simpson. He jogged off to chat to some guys.
     On the way back to the flat, I stopped off at a corner shop, and bought some more cigarettes – two packets. As an afterthought, I picked up a bottle of scotch as well.


     I couldn't sleep that night. I tried, but I couldn't close my eyes. Not if I wanted to keep my sanity.
     I tried playing the violin. But then I automatically started playing one of John's favourites. To spite myself, I started playing the one John hated. But then I couldn't hear the music. All I could hear was his voice protesting.
     At around two am, I had to find an all-night shop for more cigarettes and this time some straight gin. I didn't put on my coat, or my scarf – I simply forgot. With all the alcohol in my system, I didn't feel the rain either.
     At four, I went and sat on the steps outside Baker Street, watching the world go by, ignoring the looks that some gave the cigarette that spent most of its time between my lips.
     At six, Simpson was back. "I thought you'd quit that stuff, Mister H," he said, looking at the slim, smouldering wrap of paper that was left.
     "I had," I replied simply. "Do you know, your hair looks almost burgundy – perhaps the same colour of Beelzebub's backside." I wasn't quite sure what I was saying at this point.
     "And – you've been drinking?" Simpson said, peering around me. The gin bottle was on its side on the step behind me.
     "Perhaps," I conceded.
     Simpson didn't say anything. "Right," he said. "Where's your flatmate? I don't think I've met him yet."
     I smiled wryly. "Probably happily asleep beside his girlfriend right now. Lucky, lucky sod . . ."
     Simpson muttered something under his breath. It sounded annoyingly like 'him or her?' I glared up at him. "Listen, 'squirt'," I said sternly. "I may have been smoking. I might even have been drinking. But you can be damn sure that I've still got twice the wits you have. So just say what you have to say, then go."
     "I found the gang you asked about," Simpson said, looking like he wanted to step back, but was too afraid. I felt some pleasure at that. "I've also been speaking to a few who know them. And this Jason Miles is a bad one. Crack, blow, homemade booze – none of it good, all of it cheap and packed with addictive substances. But he's got that black charm that rebel chicks find alluring. He's meaner than a mandarin-mumbling Muskrat."
     "Right." The little voice, now yelling through my brain, wanted to ask questions, pathetic pointless questions that had no basis in fact, only my heart. Only an inkling of a belief. I shook it into silence. The alcohol helped. "How intelligent was he?"
     "You mean, is he intelligent enough to cover his tracks with suicide?" Simpson grinned. "I'm not completely stupid. Yeah, I think so. But – well, he's not shy. He'd claim praise for it, I think."
     I glared at him a second time. It was fun. I was enjoying making everyone else scared at the moment. "I could have guessed that. Simpson, I think I know what I'm doing. I don't need the help of an amateur Psychologist just yet."
     Simpson's face went impassive. I realised that I'd never again be able to tell what he was thinking if he didn't want me to. But the fact that he didn't want me to read him showed that he disapproved, and was angry with me. The kid had a lot still to learn. "Shoo," I muttered, suddenly feeling old. I was half surprised, at that moment, that I wasn't going grey, the amount I'd gone through. The challenges, the life and death situations, the pain…
     Simpson left, and I headed back inside.


     I'd freshened myself up, but I knew the scent of smoke still lingered. For where I was going, I suppose that was kind of a good thing.
     I was kind of upset that I would be closing the case today. I needed distractions. But I supposed there would be other cases.
     I strode confidently onto the small green, and went up to the nearest caravan. I slammed my hand on the door. A portly older woman in well fitting black clothes opened the doors. "What?" she asked sharply.
     "I'm looking for Jason Miles."
     The woman looked at me. "Push off." She slammed the door.
     Yeah, fine. I got angry. I walked around the caravan whacking the sides of every single one. Everyone emerged, some holding barely concealed weapons – guns included. "Jason Miles!" I yelled.
     A tall, almost gothic youth with a nose piercing stepped forwards. "And you are?"
     "Sherlock Holmes."
     A few of them almost hissed. I was reminded of the reptile house, of all the snakes slithering around, glaring at the children that rapped on the side of their homes.
     But there wasn't a glass shield between me and these reptiles. And I was glad. "You've heard of me, then," I said, smirking. "I'm here to arrest you for the murder of Marian Barnes."
     And suddenly, the snakes attacked. But one raised hand from both me and, unsurprisingly, Jason, stopped them all. Jason looked at me, almost surprised, almost angry, but then he grinned. "Yeah? Got proof?"
     "Oh, I will," I said, certain. "And I also know you'll confess."
     Jason grinned again. "Why are you certain of that?"
     "Because it will be your crowning glory."
     And Jason laughed. "It would be a pretty good glory, wouldn't it!" he swung himself around, and looked at all his clan. "What do you say? Should I give myself up? Should I claim that I killed little Marian Barnes?"
     Everyone jeered. "No," Jason said, "I quite agree. I can't go down easily, can I?"
     I knew what he was going to do. So I managed to block his hands easily, and twist his arms behind his back. "I didn't expect you to," I told him, my mouth threateningly close to his ear. "Now, come down to the police station and make your statement. I must congratulate you on your use of the decaying poison, though."
     Jason laughed again. "I know, ingenious!"
     As we left the camp, people chuckled. I ignored them.


     Jason Miles was locked up. Now I just needed to find certain proof.
     I knew what I'd usually have done. I would have stuck on a patch, lay back on the sofa, and let the sound of John pattering around the flat lull me into a near-unconscious state, whilst I waited for it to hit me.
     Now, even cigarettes weren't working.
     No. No, no. I wasn't going that far . . .
     I was suddenly confused. Why wasn't I? Because it would upset a few people? Perhaps because my flatmate would disapprove?
     I laughed wryly. Yeah, didn't have that problem anymore.
     I walked into my bedroom. The bottom draw of my bedside table had a lock. I searched through my safe until I found it. I unlocked the draw, then removed the piles of diaries that blocked the view.
     I carefully stared at the wooden box for a full five minutes. Then, swiftly, resolutely, I pulled it out, lifted up the hypodermic needle, one of the small bottles, filled the needle with the clear liquid in the bottle, and in seconds had my sleeve rolled up and the well-worn leather strap binding the top of my arm.
     I raised the syringe, and gently flicked the edge. Drops went flying, and my pulse raced. It had been long … so long… I used to use it for the thrill, to stop boredom when nothing was happening, but recently, what with John, why would I have needed it? And besides, I knew what he would have said if he'd discovered my not-so-legal past time.
     But now, I craved the clarity it gave. I needed it. More than I could put into words.
     Some part, some professional part that never left, said it was displaced addiction. I didn't need the drug. I needed something else.
     I think the rest of me might have been close to tears. But with a steeled resolution, I turned my mind to the case. To the problem at hand. I closed my eyes, and moved my hand only slightly.
     I rejoiced in the sharp pain. I relaxed as I felt the drug begin to flow through my system.
     It was like a rainbow of colours had shot through my mind. Like a film flashed from black to platinum.
     And the voice faded ... it was like peace. Slightly. It was still there – almost – close – muttering – snakes – disappointment – tricks – love ... it flashed between my thoughts and the case, every word of what it said a lie.
     I withdrew the needle, and set it back in the box. I let out a deep breath, and pressed two fingers onto the trails of blood now weeping from my arm. I closed my eyes, and fell back onto the bed.


     I came to my senses some point later on. Possibly early morning. I took another cigarette, and began to smoke it on my way to the police station, pleased with myself.
     "I have your proof," I said to Lestrade. He looked upset – not another one going to give me the lecture about how smoking is bad, I hoped. "Well, I will have your proof, as long as you let me talk to the younger sister, Lizzy-"
     "Sherlock," Lestrade said carefully, "Sherlock, we found the body of Lizzy Adler this morning, along the body of James Chase and a suicide apology note…"
     And it was yelling. The pain was yelling in my head, calling me a fool. And idiot. My head was pounding, my heart was falling apart . . .
     Of course. Of course. I was never going to get anything right, was I?
     I ignored Lestrade, and walked out from the police station.


    I'm a fool. A complete idiot. I'm mad.
    I thought that Marian had tried to break it off with Jason. I thought he'd killed her for trying to get away. I thought she'd been sketching the pattern of the band in the mud. I thought Jason had used one of his many cheap and nasty poisons to kill her . . .
    No. No, no, no, no . . .
    It had been Chase. It had been Chase all along. He'd found out that she'd been sleeping with Jason, and he didn't know she'd been trying to get away. He'd used her sister to try and get back at her, had slept with the kid, but the sister had told him she wanted to tell Marian. Chase lost it. He was going to lose both of them anyway. So he first killed Marian – he used one of his snakes with a long working poison to kill her. Two punctures to her arm, who'd notice them? She was druggie, her arm was covered with punctures. Then he'd come back later, and pumped cocaine into her…
    He thought the sister would then stay put but – but my mention of her when I spoke to him must have set him off. He must have panicked, then gone and killed her, then himself with … whatever it was.
    I'd – almost in a clichéd way – thought of my head having two voices. A right one, a wrong one. Rational and logical, irrational and emotional. I'd always been able to tell the difference.
    What if there wasn't? What if there was only one? Or what if there were thousands? And how can I tell which is which? They sound so similar . . .
    Before, I'd known. I'd always got it right. Now, twice, I'd picked the wrong one. I'd thought I'd picked the other one this time, and look what had happened –
    What am I going to do? ]

[extract added 29th march by MH

    Yes, even though I said I wouldn't add any more to this 'blog', it turns out they have more power over me that I anticipated.
     After the . . . 'split', I'd tried visiting John, however he'd been – well, the lovely Ms Sarah Sawyer had phrased it as 'unavailable'. I gathered that John hadn't wanted to speak to me. Or hadn't been up to speaking with me.
     The second time I'd visited John, I hadn't exactly given him an option.  Essentially, I'd ambushed him in his own lounge. He'd looked happy to see me – Ms Sawyer hadn't. Perhaps she'd thought that John wouldn't want to see me. Perhaps she was worried John would go back to living with Sherlock, and was jealous. I know very well that not everyone's perfect.
     I'd asked John for his view on the situation. As far as I could tell, he'd told me the truth. Well, he hadn't lied. If he had wanted to lie, he could have said something more … well, more than his little outburst, and something that didn't make it so clear that wasn't – to be blunt – so infatuated with my brother.
     Anyway, I'd listened carefully as he'd got positively weepy about Sherlock's heartless ways. "Right," was all I said at the end. I gave him my condolences, told him not to be a stranger, and to visit me if he was ever in need of assistance.
     I hadn't contacted Sherlock. I knew he'd need someone to talk to, but if he didn't want to, then not even I could make him. With most people, John include, they need to be encouraged and pushed. Pestered, if you will. But my unique younger brother was a law onto himself.
     I knew I'd have to wait a week or so whilst he got his mind in order, then I'd be able to get to work in fixing the pair.
     But, two days after Sherlock had called me, I'd received a visitor. One I rarely got.
     "Sir? This young man wishes to see you."
     I looked up from my desk to see my secretary shooting suspicious glances at the boy she'd brought in. She clearly distrusted him – possibly because of the stereotypical badly fitted jeans and hooded jumper – however, I recognized him instantly.
     "Thank you," I said, dismissing her. After the door had shut behind her, I turned to the young man. "Simpson, what a surprise to see you here."
    "Mr Mycroft," Simpson said, sounding a whole lot calmer and more serious than he looked, "You've got to help."
     "Of course, my young man," I said, and I have to admit, my mind jumped to gang debts and criminal records he could have accidentally acquired. "Sit down, and we can discuss-"
     "I don't think we have the time," Simpson muttered.
     "Then tell me what's wrong, and I'll see what I can do," I said calmly, scanning Sherlock's protégée to distinguish the cause of his distress. "What type of trouble are you in?"
     Simpson shook his head. "It's not me. It's Mister H – I mean, Sherlock."
    Oh gods . . .
    "I've just been told, he's gone and bought some cocaine. A lot of cocaine," Simpson said, his voice close to failing at the end.
    Oh, no  . . .
    "When did you get this information?" I asked briskly, rising from my seat, and reaching for my jacket. "How long ago did Sherlock buy the cocaine!" I repeated desperately.
    "About half an hour ago," Simpson muttered, now sounding terrified.
    I realised he'd come to me for reassurance. For comfort. For me to tell him not to worry, it was fine.
    But it wasn't. And I wouldn't lie to the young man.
    "We still have time," I muttered, striding from my office, knowing Simpson was following me. I ignored anyone who tried to talk to me. "Do you have any idea why he bought so much?"
    Simpson licked his lips nervously. "Walk and talk," I instructed him, and I started off at a fast pace down the road.
    "He was on a case," Simpson said, "the Marian Barnes case. He's been asking me to do some work for him – and yesterday, as far as I heard, he went and arrested Jason Miles. But, early this morning – the sister was found dead, too, and Marian's boyfriend, with a suicide/confession note."
    I gasped with honest shock and terror. "Sherlock got it wrong?" Simpson's silence said all. "And two people died because of it. . ."
    "The sister was fourteen," Simpson muttered.
    This really wasn't good.
    And with everything else I knew – with what had happened with John . . .
    I needed to get to John. Quick. ]


For me, (John Watson), the last few days . . . hadn't been good. I'd stayed in Sarah's flat, and it was clear she was glad to have me back, even through her sympathetic smiles. That made it slightly easier. But I can't deny how great it was to speak to Mycroft. It was like a momentary relief. For a few seconds I'd been allowed to relive a memory a remnant from a dead world.  
     But it wasn't the real thing.
     I was realising, steadily, that life wasn't really better without Sherlock. I'd been too irrational, I hadn't really remembered all the brilliance living with the sociopath had brought me. But I couldn't bear the thought of Sherlock's smug face if I came back. Perhaps I'd be able to contact him, eventually.
     I'd already started to plan how I'd work myself back into his life. Leaving him forever wasn't an option. I knew that, within a week at least, I'd have to talk to him, or see him, or something . . .
     Then Mycroft had visited a second time.
     I opened the door – Sarah was at work – and smiled as I saw him.
     Then frowned as I saw his face, and the young, dirty-looking man behind him. they both looked petrified. "What?" I asked.
     Then he'd told me something I couldn't believe. That I didn't want to believe.
     I slipped on a nearby pair of trainers, not even wasting the time to check if they matched, before I followed the two outside.


    "Don't you see, John?" Mycroft asked in the car. "Sherlock mixed up fear and instinct. It's easily done – fear is only a type of instinct, after all."
    "I'm really not following," I muttered, looking out of the window. Bloody, bloody rush hour – I couldn't lose time, not now.
    "Sherlock isn't heartless," Mycroft said softly, "Far, far from it. He loves, just rarely. He's learnt to live without love. But it doesn't mean he doesn't love people. He loves me, even if he doesn't wish to admit it. He loves his uncle, and cousin, a little. He even loves Simpson, in an uncle like way. And John," he said, leaning forwards and catching my eye sternly, "he loves you."
    I looked at him. I was thankful that the kid had left a while back. I listened to what he had said echo through my head over and over again . . .
    "I don't care," I said suddenly. "I really, truly don't. But either way, I'm not going to let Sherlock do this to himself."
    It didn't matter anymore if Sherlock loved me. Because I knew I loved him, and that, for the moment, was enough.


[extract added March 27th by SH

     I didn't know shit anymore.
     Well, I knew I was stupid.
     I knew I'd never be able to think again.
     I knew I'd never see John again.
     I knew there was no point to anything.
     I was curled up on the sofa, my arm bleeding slowly where the needle had gone in. it was bringing relief – some small relief – to have the drug in my system. It dulled the yelling, the berating, the mocking taunts of my own thoughts. You are your own worst critic. And I was destroying myself right now.
     Every mistake I'd made in the last few days came back with a vengeance. I wanted to go back, back to before I'd come back, come back 'to life'. After that, everything had gone wrong.
     That one night with John had been perfection. Holding him, sleeping, peaceful, in my arms, had been . . . so perfect. So heavenly. I should have known that someone with my past, my morality, would never have someone so like an angel. It was like Lucifer, lusting after souls he'd never get. Always wanting a soul, never getting it…
     I'd tried to help. I'd tried to catch a killer, and in the mean time had ended up killing two others. A child.
     Her blood was on my hands.
     But it wasn't. Mine was. Smallest droplets of mine. I looked down at them, and rubbed them between my thumb and forefinger. Unthinking, trance-like, I ran the tip of my finger along the inside of my arm. I tried to sketch out in my blood how my arm had looked that day I'd been shot.
     If I could go back to that moment, I wouldn't bother trying to save myself. I wouldn't let the doctors save me. I'd tell Mycroft to put me down. Then John would be able to live without me.
     And my eyes trailed down to the pile of bottles I'd arranged on the floor beside me.
     Who needs bullets to die? I asked myself.
     Slowly, I picked up the needle, and pushed it into another bottle.
     I pushed the filled needle back into the hole in my arm.
     Then I refilled the needle, and pushed it back into my arm.
     And again.
     30ml. That should just about do it.
     And I could feel it flow through me. The relief, dulling the voice.
     Oh, John, why did you have to leave me . . .
     The case didn't matter to me anymore.
     John, why didn't you stay with me… John, why didn't you understand me… John, why didn't you love me…
     I love you, John. . . . .
     And the world started to darken. I couldn't think, I could barely breathe . . .
     I knew I was dying, because an angel came.
     He almost knocked down the door, and stood there, his shape filling the doorway, casting its light over everything.
     "Sherlock!" he yelled, "Oh, Sherlock – no, no, Sherlock, please god no . . ."
     I smiled weakly up at the angel. The angel was crying for me. I didn't deserve to be cried over. But still, he was crying for me.
     The weeping Angel ran over to me, and leant over me, knocking the empty bottles to the side. He took my hand. Or did he take my pulse? Perhaps both. The Angel bowed his head over my arm, his tears flowing over my fingers, feeling like cool silk on my numb skin.
     And as sight and feeling finally faded, I breathed "John . . ." ]