Devil Take The Hindmost •Sequel To Life Is But A Dream•

•The Hounds Of Baskerville: Part Nine•

Chapter Twenty: Four For The Road

"Aspen!" John's voice shook me awake. I was in shivers, and immediately embraced my uncle.
"John I'm so sorry about last night- just Wyatt and Moriarty were there - and I just heard these voices – it was so haunting and Sherlock didn't help." I pulled away to see him looking at me with concern.
"It's okay if you don't want me to come with you, I certainly don't want to if I'm going to be like this–"
"Okay."
"... and even if you do I won't because I don't even trust myself because- wait what?" I asked. John sighed and stood, myself standing with him.

"I'm going to leave you with Henry today, just so Sherlock and I keep focused, because he's really shook up-"
"Henry? For gods sakes the poor man is loosing his mind!" I exclaimed.
"He's not the only one- Aspen please." My uncle said, then went to the door. "Just cooperate, today please."
I felt my shoulders sag, and proceeded to the door.
*
"We won't be gone long, just please, I think he needs the company, and try not to say anything that might set him off. Okay, just don't mention last nigh or this hound he's obsessed with." John advised as we walked up a path to Henry's house. We stopped in a church graveyard, and my uncle stopped.
"Um, you go on. I'm gonna wait here for Sherlock." He told me.

"John-" I started.
"Aspen. Cooperate, remember?" John reminded me, and I was left speechless. With a heavy heart, I trekked on through the trail. Soon, Sherlock crossed my path.
We only locked eyes before the two of us lost sight of the other, and Henry's house came into view. I could see the young man standing at the window, looking out at the day, then spotting me. My shoes slid on the dewy grass, and I accidentally fell to my knees. Quickly I stood back up to see the man coming out to help me.

"It's fine." I said, and stood, feeling my knee bleed, as the cut from last night had busted open. I let out a sharp breath, seeing a small blood spot where the wound was.
"It's not fine." Henry assured, and we walked inside.
"Let me make you something. Have you eaten breakfast yet? Sherlock was just here." Henry began to ramble.
"I'm okay." I said, realising I haven't eaten much in a while. No reason to stop that streak now. I opened the hole of my jeans to see the cut, and took a napkin from a stack to dab it. Another sharp breath, and this time Henry heard it as he placed a small bowl of wheat flakes and milk. before me.

"I've got something for that- be right back." He said, and left the room. I flashed a small smile at his kindness, glad I had a friend in this. My eyes then went to the food in front of me. A shaking hand picked up the spoon, with it holding a bundle of flakes drenched in the white milk. I can do this. I can do this.

In a quick breath, I sucked in the food, feeling it float in my mouth, brushing against every spot, every tooth, and every taste bud. It was a revolting feeling, but I swallowed nonetheless. It didn't not give me pleasure, as eating the cereal would. It did not give me nourishment either. It only reminded me of my humanity, and brought back memories of my attempts at taking my life, and my failures, waking up the next morning to the garish sum blinding me, and the sounds of my mother teasing me.

My stomach lurched, and I stood, feeling it come back up. I burst last Henry in an attempt to find the loo in this godforsaken home.
Soon, I found it, after endless doors, I found my target, and fell to my knees, pulling my hair back. The food I had eaten a moment ago had come back for a visit, and was now in the toilet below my face. It was now mixed with tears, and my coughs were heard. When it was done, I sit back on my knees, then my shoulder hits the wall, then my head rests against it. My hand goes to the handle and I push it down, flushing. The day had suddenly taken a turn for the worst as small tears come out.

I then spot Henry at the doorway, watching me.
"I'm sorry." I said helplessly. The young man then came in and sat down, a look on his face that I couldn't help but recognise. It's then I realise that he probably went through the loneliness I am enduring, but just not as much. I also realise that maybe, just maybe, I can trust him.

"I- I saw something last night. I couldn't stop myself-" I told him, my words soft, then pulled up the sleeve of my jumper. I could hear his sharp breath of air that sounded like a gasp. He then pulled me into a tight hug.

"Please don't do that again. You don't have to do that, you know." He said, and I closed my eyes tightly, wanting to disappear.
"Don't you have friends?" I asked the man, my voice hoarse.
"Not really. But you're my friend!" He added, "do you?"
"I did once. Her name was Lucy, and we were the best of friends." I opened up, the trigger word coming from Henry. He too believed to be my friend, which was enough comfort.
"What happened to her?" He asked.
"She moved. We said we would be best friends, but she left, and soon after John. I haven't seen her since." I explained.

"Henry?" I heard a woman's voice ring out after a while.
"Oh god-" he started, and I saw a look on his face that had both fear and satisfaction. "It's my therapist." He said, then stood up. "If you have to- you know-" he nodded to the toilet, "I don't mind."

I sat there as a conversation between Henry and his therapist ensued, and stayed. I contemplated how Henry was loosing his mind over this hound, and how he had dragged Sherlock and John into it, myself being tossed into the dramatics. It had seemed that I myself had found a new side of each of my companions on this trip as well: and how perhaps it's how they've always felt towards me. I felt both dreadful and relieved at the thought of opening up to Henry, as I did with Irene those months ago. Oh, how it was a simpler time-

My thoughts were soon interrupted by a gunshot. It was enough to send my pulse through the roof, and my thoughts scattering, only a few stranded. I quickly came to my feet and hurried into the living room. All I could see was a distraught Henry, holding a gun to a figure out of my sight. He glanced to me, and I went over to him, spotting his fearful therapist.
"Henry, what did you do?" I asked, more thoughts coming into my mind.
"Oh my god- I am so sorry!" He began to babble. I spotted another gun on the counter, and silently reached for it.
"I am- I am so so sorry-" he said, then saw me with the pistol in my hand.
His therapist was sobbing as he took my arm and hurried me out of the house.