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A full week of idleness and three days of nonstop rain. I have been spinning in concentric circles which are slowly becoming smaller and smaller - first around town, then around the flat; I have spent all of today on the sofa. The Veil is descending - a translucent barrier of dusky, silent limbo which grows steadily thicker around me, shutting me off from the warmth and sunlight of the familiar world, shutting me off from John, imprisoning me within myself, alone…
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I awake to the clink of silver on porcelain and have to look at the window to determine whether John is eating lunch or dinner…or possibly breakfast. My stomach is empty and stirs somewhat when I become conscious of the smell of Mrs. Hudson's curry, but I am too heavy and sluggish to move.
I mustn't do this again…
I must get up…
I must make myself get up, make myself eat, if for no other reason than to please John, but I do not get up, do not even move. I am so unusually sleepy that I drift off again without uttering a word…
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When I wake up the sitting room is empty, and I can tell from the quiet out on Baker Street that it is the middle of the night. The fire has burnt down to dull embers. I sit up and find that John spread a coverlet over me before retiring, and this detail fills me with a kind of dull, distant sadness. There is a cold cup of tea sitting on the table nearby and I swill it merely to chase the dryness from my mouth. I realize how thirsty I am, that I have to use the bathroom, but the idea of getting up to see to either one of these things is exhausting, so I sit on the sofa for several minutes in empty silence.
Finally I get to my feet, holding the coverlet around my shoulders, and totter over to the sideboard. Numbly I cut a slice of bread, slather it with butter, and eat it on the way up the stairs. I take the carafe from my bedside table to the bathroom with me and fill it with water after I've relieved myself. Halfway back to my bedroom I realize that I've left my cigarette case downstairs, but the idea of going back down to get it is tiring and I resign myself to smoking ends from the ashtray, remembering also the cigar I have on the mantle somewhere…
Once back in my room I close and lock the door and strip down to my undershirt and drawers, feeling incapable of locating my nightshirt, only wanting to burrow under the covers and forget myself once again…
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…John's footsteps in the passageway, approaching, pausing outside my room. I hear the floorboards creak as he leans in to put his ear to the door.
If I were any kind of man I would call to him, invite him in; or go to him, or go downstairs to eat - what would it be, lunch? - but I cannot. I remain silent and I don't understand why and I hate myself for all of it. I lay there in abject misery until I hear his footsteps depart again; their slight and familiar unevenness makes me miss him, and I replay the previous argument with myself. It ends the same. I rock back and forth to tighten the blankets around myself and escape into sleep once again.
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…I'm a scavenger who feeds off Scotland Yard's scraps - the leftovers of more stable and established men, with wives and families and proper careers and ambitions.
If I had any sort of functional humanity I would be on the force with Lestrade, would likely be Lestrade’s overseer, but I cannot submit to senseless authority, to rules for the sake of rules the way that other men can. I can't put together six months without one of these spells, can't build up any sort of life without tearing it all down around myself once again, like I'm doing right now, letting the doorbell ring because I am buried too deeply even to be roused by that anymore, letting it all go to the devil…
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…there is a sense of freefall during these spells which is terrifying and yet sickly fascinating. I am plunging, plummeting, and yet incapable of looking away from the black pit ever yawning beneath me; this darkness holds me spellbound like the eye of a cobra.
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…I don’t know what time it is when I feel the bed jostle, only that it is dark enough for John to need a candle. I see his shadow in its dancing light upon the wall when I peek up from the covers. I am too numb to be surprised that he was able to enter my bedroom without waking me up.
I feel a sudden gust of frigid air as he lifts the blankets, and a moment later he is curling himself against my back, hanging his arm loosely around my waist. Like a stone dropped into placid water, the sensation of John’s body against mine plunges to the very depths of me, briefly disturbing my sediment, sending little waves of groggy awareness rippling across the surface of my brain and body.
I am still alive, whether I like it or not.
Somehow John knows that to speak would shatter me completely, and for a time we lay in silence…
My lower arm has fallen asleep. I shift my weight back in order to reposition it, and when John feels me stir he slowly, inexorably begins to engulf me: levering up on his lower arm, he uses his body weight and his uppermost arm and leg to gradually work me over onto my back beneath him.
“John…” I croak, my fingertips flying to the edge of the mattress but finding no purchase, still vaguely resisting although I know not why, feeling too weak to make it matter anyhow.
“Shhh…” John whispers, his lips at my ear, then pressing against my neck while he inches himself over onto my chest. Once he is on top of me he draws his arms in close to my sides, and, not knowing what else to do with my own arms, I bend them at the elbow and rest my hands on John’s waist. He kisses my neck once again.
“John..” I mutter, cutting myself off because my voice is thick and cracking.
“I know…” he says gently just before he kisses me, and somehow I believe that he does. He presses his lips to mine, his tender little kisses silencing us both, and it occurs to me that John isn’t asking for an explanation, doesn’t expect me to speak. What does he want from me, I wonder as he kisses my stubbly jaw and throat.
Perhaps he wants me to make up my mind…John or my lonely misery. The bedroom or the parlor. Life or death. Now that I am in John’s arms the choice seems easier to make.
I wrap my arms around John’s waist, find his lips with my own, and make my decision.