Simplicity

Simplicity

I can’t tell you exactly when Sherlock started smoking. It was a seamless transition from nicotine patches to scattered boxes of Marlboro’s and Embassy’s. I didn’t think much of it. Better than the opium and cocaine, I reasoned, and left it at that. I admit, now, that my apparent indifference was neglectful; not that Sherlock ever needed me to be the angel on his shoulder. The number of nagging voices in the back of his head was enough, I figured, so that he didn’t need mine in addition. And would he listen anyway, if I was to show my concern? I didn’t even bother to go through the trouble - the strenuous process of care - and that, I suppose, is my one regret in this worn life of mine.

It grew, Sherlock’s addiction, to the point where cigarettes replaced the little food he ate when begged, and even the tea he drank almost religiously. He was an ash tray, dropping cigarette butts out of his pockets as he walked - the fumes of his obsession reeked from his skin.

I took note, the most I did in response to his startling incline in consumption. I should have spoken up. I didn’t think to, even when he was buying boxes in multiples of five every few days and the smell – God, the smell – seeped into everything he touched. It was stupid to be surprised when the doctor announced his sentence, dropped the gavel on Sherlock’s life; even stupider to cry when the sun retired on that day and I was left alone in my freezing bed. Lung cancer… It was such a simple thing, such a human thing that I thought Sherlock immune. Lung cancer… We had eight months.

~

You’d think him unaffected, the way he acted. You wouldn’t be able to tell, by his straight-backed posture and disturbing normality, that he was dying, diagnosed, or even slightly deterred from perfect health. You wouldn’t know, if you didn’t already know, that as soon as we passed the threshold of 221B each evening he succumbed to terrifying coughing fits that wrecked his body and brought tears to Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. And when her hands shook as she handed him a cup of tea, to be neglected we were all sure, Sherlock still produced a pack, out of nowhere, like magic, and took long draws with an unsettling dependency. Pain couldn’t cancel pain, I’d told him once, deciding to speak up for this first time on his situation. He just looked at me, with those protean eyes, and nodded.

“I’m aware,” he said. And we left the topic to die.

Two weeks after the diagnosis, the coughs came accompanied with blood. Dark red splotches spotted the cuffs of his shirts and the white napkins piled on the table in front of him as he pored keenly over a stack of papers, another mystery. I never expected him to quit his work; he was, in his own words, married to it. I could understand. I never pushed him to stop. Instead I did my part, what was requested of me, I played along, happily even sometimes; those days when a smile could be convinced onto his face, and his graying skin would light in the wake of a solved case, those days I was happy to play along, to pretend.

‘Sherlock’s not dying, look at him, old champ. He can’t be dying with that spring in his step, that smile on his face. Not with that look of unadulterated joy. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, you’ve solved a big one. Smile, yes, just like that. You see that, Lestrade? Do you see his face? Dying men don’t look like that. Dying men don’t look like he does right now.’

In the aftermath of those days it was easy to conclude that I’d gone just as crazy as Sherlock was assumed to be. My fantasies of his health didn’t dissipate even when his pains kept him moaning on the sofa, and the napkins he pressed to his mouth came back spoiled. I wanted to believe, more for my sake than his, that he was okay. But despite my illusions, no matter how much I hoped and pretended, the disease was still there. Sherlock Holmes was dying.