The Game Is On
I was alone in the flat at 221B Baker Street again. It had been awhile since I’d last come here but this time, I was certain, would be the last time. It was emptier than it had ever been; all of my possessions had been packed up years ago and moved into a different flat. Half of the flat was empty, but the other half was still cluttered with his possessions.
The leather chair was still in place, and it still held an odd imprint in the seat, from where he would tuck his feet beneath him and hover like a hawk on the chair.
The kitchen table was still covered with his last experiment. The microscope was still resting in its place on the edge of the table.
Some old mail of his that I had never touched was still pinned to the mantelpiece by a pocket knife.
The skull still stared at me with its black, gaping eye sockets.
I still sat in my chair, a pillow stuffed behind my back, and a cane resting against the side of my leg.
The only real difference was the gun I held in my hand. I stared straight ahead for the longest time, simply running my fingers over the barrel and toying with the trigger. This same gun had been fired only twice before. Both times were meant to save his life, but it didn’t matter anymore. He had died anyways. My fingers tightened around the gun and I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears fell down my cheeks again, for what I was determined to make the last time. I didn’t want to miss him anymore. I didn’t want to hold onto the guilt I felt for leaving him at St. Bart’s. I wanted it all to end. I wanted nothing more than to stand beside him again.
Mrs. Hudson was out. She had left not long ago and went next door to have a cup of tea with Mrs. Turner. She didn’t know I was here, and she probably wouldn’t find me for some time. At least not until she wandered up here for the sake of memories. For a moment, I almost regretted this decision. I didn’t want to hurt her more than he already had. She was a wonderful landlady to both of us. She didn’t deserve what we were doing to her. And for that reason, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent a text to Lestrade. It was a simple note; much simpler than the “note” I had been left with three years ago.
“There’s a body. You’ll want to see it. You know where to find me. –JW”
I knew as soon as I typed out my initials the way he used to that Lestrade would know it was important. He would hurry here, so I didn’t have much time left. But at least Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have to find out like this.
With an air of finality, I placed the phone down on the table beside me. Without any further hesitation, I lifted the gun in my hand again. I stared at it for a moment, frowning, and then raised it slowly to the level of my mouth. Why couldn’t he have done it like this? It would have been much faster. Much less painful. I wouldn’t have had to watch him fall for those sickening six seconds that felt like minutes. Angry now, I thrust the barrel of the gun into my mouth, nervously clamping my teeth down onto it as my finger found the trigger. All of this pain and all of this anger would have been over in less than two seconds, if that bloody voice hadn’t stopped me.
“John. Put the gun down.” I stopped immediately, my eyes closing as I bit down harder on the gun. My finger twitched involuntarily against the trigger, and a sob shivered through my body. “Put it down, John.” That deep baritone voice. That beautiful, unexpectedly deep voice. It always stopped my previous attempts, but this time, I wasn’t about to let it pain me again.
“Why?” I sobbed with the gun still in my mouth. The resulting sound was more like a whimper than an actual word.
“It would be so unnecessary to have to clean up after you.”
