John knew he was lost when he looked into the eyes of the attractive woman in his arms, noted the dilated pupils, and thought of belladonna. He thought of the case with the string of prostitutes going blind and dropping dead across the country and, as always with memories of a case, Sherlock.
“Belladonna,” he had said, after taking one look at a still-living woman in one of the affected brothels. “Slightly outdated as a cosmetic, but still widely available. It’s an ancient poison, famously used by the wives of Roman emperors. Folklore says it can make a witch fly, if mixed with opium and other plants, but that’s irrelevant. The case is solved. Come, John, before your pupils start dilating for an entirely different reason,”
Thoughts of Sherlock were still painful. He had fallen from Bart’s almost six months ago, and the gossip was only just dying down in the media. John had choked on his breath and been forced to leave his Bella Donna prematurely alone. Once again leaving the embrace of a woman to enter one of memories, grief and anxiety attacks.
He found himself in the embrace of another belladonna two days later, swallowing as much as he could stomach and lying back on Sherlock’s bed to wait, cradling the bottle in his palm, waiting to fly.