Dr. John H. Watson - 221B Baker Street, Holmes' Living Room
What a racket, what a loud, unforgiving racket he was making, all in vain it seemed. No matter how hard he tried to plunge, it simply wouldn't go down. Sherlock's most likely newly bought plunger was simply spent, unwilling to revert back to its shape. Gladstone was still angrily nipping and barking, though his attention shifted from ankles to door in quick bouts of barks and claws scuffling against tile. The oddness of the situation, Watson found, was the fact that this was probably the only time the toilet was ever in use. And now, the flush-latch was broken, at the contents within the toilet were threatening to spill out.
Watson turned his head, eyes widened at the noise being mad behind the locked door. Holmes... Holmes was home. No, no! Watson wasn't done yet, he still had evidence to dispose of. He still had that syringe to bury along with the shattered remains of the vials. Not to mention the excuses he had to build up. He already had a prime suspect, that being the notorious Moriarty, but with Holmes home that plan was sure to crash and burn. And the toilet! The evidence was still stuck insi--the evidence was now coating the tile floor. It was liquid for God's sake! How did it clog the toilet up so much that it overflowed?! Watson whipped his body around around, eyes as wide as they could get and staring intensely at the puddle lapping at his feet, turning ever so slowly into a pool of water and drugs. His new shoes were getting ruined, he could tell by the way the water seeped into his socks, and it wasn't even higher than his--
Knock! knock! knock!
Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
"Watson! Open the door!"
Watson's head darted to and fro, eyes falling on everything in the room. He was too busy to notice Gladstone lapping at the tainted toilet water, too busy to even mind where he was stepping. A loud crash emanated from the washroom, coupled with the sound of something breaking. Gladstone's bark soon followed, cut off by a light lapping sound.
"My God, Gladstone, stop drinking the water!" Watson shouted, throwing his dog back into the corner. He immediately regretted the action as a sharp pain rain through his back, and the cuts on his hands found the wet fur to be unpleasant. Watson struggled to stand, his pants and part of his tan dress coat were soaked beyond belief. Now, what exactly was that breaking sound; it sounded like glass. Ooh, that's why his elbow hurt; it hit the damn toilet cover.
"Uh.. uh..." Watson's attention was reverted back to the incessant pounding upon the door, "Just a minute, Holmes! I'm just tidying up! Boy, was it a doozy; I can't seem to figure out how your new toilet works!"
What an utter lie. What an obviously, stupid, and now blatant lie. Holmes had eidetic memory, or at least that's what Watson had always assumed. No doubt he'd recall the letter about installing the new washroom and Mary getting stuck inside. The memory just about had Watson rolling in the drug saturated water, if not for the fact that Holmes was standing right outside.
The door flew open, Gladstone suddenly flying pass Holmes legs before he slammed it shut again. "Just let me freshen up! I just arrived from a 3 hour carriage ride all the way back. Uh, and I looked terrible, and the rain in the country! My God, Holmes, you would have hated the constant smell of sheep piss and cow manure."
He did his best to initiate small talk while he did his best to fix the still running water, whilst also attempting to keep from falling yet again. Watson sighed, grabbing a hold of the dufflebag and in one desperate act of... well, of desperation, Watson shoved the thing inside, hoping to God it would stop the flow long enough for someone to fix it.
With that achieved, Watson did his best to slip out without giving Holmes too much of an inside look on the disaster he'd just caused. He knew he'd question the obvious wetness of his pants and bottom half of his coat and shirt, but Watson chose to ignore it--make him believe he was even surprised to see the soaked clothes. Knowing Holmes he'd have none of it. That one thought stuck inside his mind as he stared at the man in front of him for a good long minute. Well, if he was going to die anyways, might as well go out with a bang.
"I'll have you know, Sherlock Holmes," his brows immediately furrowed, eyes inflamed with fury, "I'll have you know, that nothing good comes from drugs! You'd sooner die of an aneurysm than... than marry some broad on the street."
The man was being frantic now, pushing pass the man to grab his now high-as-a-kite dog. Watson sat the poor thing down on an armchair, not caring about the water that seeped into the nice cushioned seat. The drawer containing the last piece of Holmes' little collection of exotic substances. Watson's hands shot up, syringe tightly squeezed between index finger and thumb.
"Do you know how easy it is to overdose on Cocaine, Sherlock? Quite easy--it is relatively easy to overdose on your magic drugs. And what for? A sense of relaxation that can easily be achieved by one of your many methods, much safer methods I might add," Watson paused, stuffing the syringe in his coat pocket as he stroked the well-trimmed mustache hanging neatly on his upper lip, "Do you know what killed my wife? Tuberculosis killed her, though it could easily have been drugs! It could have easily been the drugs you so lovingly take."
Watson's hands shot forth, reeling the dog into his chest. Gladstone simply stared pass Holmes, eyes dead and glazed over, tongue hanging out and jaws moving up in down slowly. Were he allowed to walk, there was no questioning how quickly that canine would find himself rolling down the stairs. Watson, still oblivious to the dog's condition, made his way toward the stairs and toward Holmes. It was only a matter of time, though, and the moment he noticed, Watson made an abrupt stop mere meters away from the detective.
"By Jove, Holmes! Look what your drugs did to my dog," Watson shouted, dismay edging its way out of his voice as he held the poor thing in front of himself. His eyes were knitted together, arched in utter concern and mouth just slightly agape.
The once well-composed John Watson, was now stricken with terror and broken down by the stress and frustration that had encompassed his miserable five days. Yet, more and more things seemed to pile on, threatening to leave the man withered and broken for Holmes to deal with. Were Gladstone to overdose and leave him for a better place, Watson would be nothing. Who knows what else would be taken out of his now mockery of a life.
"Holmes..." Watson frowned, legs propelling him back into the previous room and onto a solitary couch, "I don't know what to do anymore." He buried his face into the short fur that coated Gladstone, drool slopping down onto his broad shoulders.