John Watson was about to break.
He knew it.
He knew it the moment he sank to the ground in a dark alley, holding a half-empty bottle of scotch loosely in his right hand.
He knew it when he vomited grossly in the dirty waste mountain before him, observed by a skinny stray cat, which stared down at him from the lid of a garbage can.
He knew it when he curled up, sobbing and trembling, while the alcohol from the open bottle slowly spilled into the gutter.
There was no answer.
The cat stared at him for another moment, and disappeared into the darkness with a jump.
John looked up at the night sky.
Concealed by clouds and the smog of the city.
Eventually, he dragged himself home, to the small apartment he had rented for himself, far away from Baker Street.
Far away from the voice which still sometimes spoke to him in his head.
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