BREAKDOWN

01 Feb 97

The irritating, staccato drumming on the window ledge, the occasional under-the-breath sniggers, snagged my mind from sleep. I opened my eyes and for some moments stared at Holmes' nervously dancing fingers. Immediately I knew the agitation was a symptom of the dreaded cocaine. I flinched with anguish, an emotion which overwhelmed me each time my friend indulged in his destructive habit. More and more as the years advanced, Holmes' need for the drug increased. At least these days he did not openly bring out the needle in my presence, yet, I was not sure if it was for regard of my opinions, or because of his wish to avoid my condemnations.

We were on a London bound train, returning from Kent, clearing away a few final details on the Abbey Grange case. I had hoped we could linger in the country as a holiday for my friend. Instead, Holmes used the short respite as an opportunity to voice complaints of his aversion to country life. The return to London marked uplifting in spirits for him. Why then, did he engage in the artificial stimulants? With increasing frequency, it seemed the drug was not just an escape of the mundane, but the fulfillment of his addiction-needs.

As best as possible, I ignored his little chortles of amusement at his unnamed, private phantoms. As we pulled into the station, his unacceptable behavior became more overt.

"Observe that lady's absurd hat, Watson." His condemnation ended with a snort of superiority. "Did an entire rose bush sacrifice itself for her headgear? Vanity, thy name is woman!"

I did not even bother to glance at the woman in question. "Holmes, that is unconscionably rude," I rebuked. Good Lord, I hoped this would not bring on yet another waspish diatribe on womankind. The cocaine seemed to exacerbate such behavior.› I removed my bag from the top rack. When I turned round Holmes was already out the door of the first class compartment and sailing through the terminal. I gathered his bags and struggled to catch up to him.

"Wonderful day, isn't it, Watson?"

He breathed in a huge lung-full of the damp, sooty air found only in London. We stood at the curb while Holmes hailed a hansom. When the cab pulled to a stop, Holmes blithely leaped into the seat, leaving me, and the cabbie, to load the bags in the rain.

"To Simpsons, cabbie!" Holmes shouted through the top trap door.

"Simpsons! Holmes we are fatigued and wet and --"

"Come, Watson, we do not want to indulge in Mrs. Hudson's simple fare when we have not tasted Simpsons' for these long weeks."

Knowing better than to argue with Holmes in his state, I kept silent. We sent our luggage ahead to Baker Street and once inside the familiar and comfortable restaurant, I felt much better. The excellent luncheon put me in a more positive humor. Holmes, however, did not touch his food, but sat at the table puffing an endless chain of cigarettes and engulfed inside his own mental world. Fame had given Sherlock Holmes a certain amount of public notoriety. We never seemed to eat at peace in Simpson's anymore. To my great embarrassment, Holmes treated several visitors to curt dismissals. As I ate I noted Holmes' frenetic, drug-energy agitation subside to be replaced by lethargy.

"Really, Holmes, you must eat," I tersely remonstrated at last. The cocaine I could keep silent over, but his eating habits I could not. "We did come here for food, remember."

He waved away the suggestion.

Irritated despite my better judgment, I signaled for the check. Holmes' drug abuse, his lack of proper nutrition and irregular sleep had brought him to a low physical ebb. Fatigue was as sudden and extreme as his high energy, and I knew a limp reaction would be upon him soon. As if unknowingly following my predictions, Holmes stubbed out his cigarette and rose, announcing that it was time to leave.

The sagging slope of his shoulders; the weariness of his gait, the turgid movement of his steps, indicated his energy plunge had hit rock bottom. His body seemed to collapse into itself. I jumped to catch him as he folded to his knees.

I was obliquely aware of the sensation this scene had caused in the restaurant, but my concern was centered upon Holmes. Within moments, I had him into a cab and on our way back home. He leaned his head against the corner of the seat -- exhaustion covered his lifeless form like an old sodden cloak. Out of habit, I took his pulse and did not like the rate I counted. My initial, instinctive compassion and anxiety were pushed aside by anger at his irresponsible habits.

Unable to contain my pique at his disinterest in his own well-being and his lack of care, I lectured him on the cocaine. I sternly warned him he was courting disaster with his reckless and imprudent behavior. With blunt and graphic explanation I outlined his ultimate end should he continue.

My agrivation was countered by Holmes' diffident and superior manner. He claimed he was driven to this by his very nature. I disagreed. I demanded he forsake the poison once and for all!

"Holmes," I implored, I begged. "Holmes, allow me to help you, please!"

The agony in my voice effected him. He raised his head with exhausted effort and turned to me. I was chilled by the ice in his glare.

"Your medical concern is unwanted, Doctor."

I was hurt and unbalanced. My friend was the commanding and decisive leader of our friendship. I was a mere shadow in comparison. Yet in medical matters I would have to assert command. I would have to lead him -- push him -- from this course he had chosen and set him on the right path.

"Then another physician --"

Holmes snorted. He observed me under heavy lidded eyes of malice. "Never! And that is the end of discussion, Watson."

The expression, the cruel voice, struck me like a cold, jagged blade to the heart. The only thing which saved me from complete despair was the knowledge the drug, not Holmes, was talking. I summoned the tattered edges of resolve, ignored my wounded sensitivities, and forged on.

"I know of a specialist who might help."

He turned away, his entire frame was stiff with resistance. "Desist, Watson!"

Anger and hurt warred within my breast. If he was so dedicated to self-destruction, then why should I stand in his way? Why should I submit to the agony of his slow demise? Perhaps I should just abandon Baker Street!

I tried to block from my mind the wrenching consequences if I were to leave our rooms -- leave Holmes. It would be heart-breaking for me, but far worse for my friend. Without my bullying as his conscience, I was afraid he would loose his tenuous grip on thready control of his life. His plunge into the abyss which he ever tempted would be almost inevitable.

In the flickering, pale light of the gas lamps we passed, the light showed his profile taut and sharp. His thin, angular features were pale and colorless. The hand which was knotted on the side of the hansom trembled imperceptibly.

My own hands shook and I clenched them into tight fists. In that moment I knew I could never abandon him. Never. Not when I knew so well what it was like to be alone. I was not, however, compelled to endure his belligerent behavior tonight.

The cab came to a stop in front of our digs. I alighted, unlocked the front door and guided Holmes inside. Assured he could manage on his own, I returned to the hansom and ordered the cabbie to take me to my club. Startled, Holmes turned and speechlessly watched as I left Baker Street for the night.

JHW