Sherlock
“She’s not dead!” Watson snaps, ripping the blanket off my head, assaulting me.
“Ah, Christ,” I groan.
The light is so bright through the big window that it stabs through my eye socket and into my frontal lobe. The sun gives me an aggressive lobotomy, a morning skull f**k. The one day it isn’t foggy, and it had to be the day it feels like I ate a sandwich made from two pieces of hot hangover with a thick slice of drug withdrawal smashed in between. I wanna hit something.
“Jesus, what were those pills you fed me?” I moan, fists over my eyes.
“Black tar heroin,” Watson answers, banging pots and pans together in the little kitchen like he’s trying to turn my brain into a smoothie for his breakfast.
“What?!” I screech, throat aching.
“They were muscle relaxers, Sherlock, not ev
