The Scrapbook of Sherlock Holmes: The Laudanum on The Sugar (15)

The Scrapbook is a graphic novella.

All pictures on this page are thumbnails – please click them. Unlike the other stories on this site, the words serve to string the pictures together, rather than vice versa.

This project is my baby, my passion. Thank you for reading.

Beta-reader is the amazing Alicia

~ KD

Titles ~ ~ Part One: The Fool ~ ~ Latest

Front Cover

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Title Page

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~ ~ Part One: The Fool ~ ~

the flare from the burning sugar lights up
the room’s only occupant
a pale thin man

That man is me.

And as I sit, in the dark glow of the dampened gas lamps, the glass slips from my fingers, and joins the sugar-encrusted spoon on the floor. It rolls, disgorging the remainder of the pale green opalescent liquid into the carpet. Ah, the level to which I have sunk, as that fluid sinks into the pile. My mind does not quiet, it flutters, twists and turns, feeling somehow above me, as though consciousness can become separate to the matter of the body. Already I feel the tingle on my skin, feel its tendrils sink into my flesh and work their way through to the bone faster than alcohol alone can merit…

And then suddenly, I know. Know that I am not alone in the room. Know that I never have been.

But she smiles at me, and the blooming of flowers is in that smile. The tendrils that crawl through my limbs are her roots, and she pulls me to her. I cannot escape. I cannot struggle without her binding me further. I am the moor pony struggling in the mire, and I cannot break free. I draw my head back, trying to maintain as much distance between us as possible. But her green eyes enchant, and I am falling… falling into her….

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She speaks. It is alternatively the unfurling of leaves in the spring, and the crunch of the dry broken shells beneath my feet in autumn.

But I am not joking and I do not know of what she speaks. Of dreams and desires and visitations. Ultimatums. Machinations. Secrets in the night. The chambers of my heart. The beating of that same organ drums out a tattoo that accentuates her speech. There will be no release. I am to stay in this half-light, this twilight world, this dusk of despair. But, oh, and but! There are conditions. There is freedom to be won. There is a lesson I may have of her. Find it, and she will release me. Fail, and this dream-land will be all I ever know.

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And then, I am alone again. Or rather, I believe myself to be alone, when in reality I merely cannot see her. But my solitary state is hardly to last, for the door is flung open, and who should be framed there, but my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. It does not take moments for his eyes to flick to the glass and the seeping green stain, to the dropper bottle still uncapped on the mantle. His eyes dilate with disappointment, and I find, to my horror, that I feel… guilt.

He throws his doctor’s bag aside. And he rushes to me, and his fingers find my radial pulse, and I smile dreamily and close my eyes. I know I am not lucid, and that I should worry for that. But I cannot, though I feel a shame, a great remorse. I have endeavored not to indulge in cocaine in his presence, but I have never felt the need to defend my actions. Now I feel as a child caught with his hand in the sweet-jar.

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The chair and the room on the front cover were by Death By Canon and Madame M respectively. Since then, I have sworn off anyone’s stock but my own.