A Morning After

Toronto looked no cheerier in the daylight and the previous evening's event replayed incessently in Michael's mind. When sleep eluded him, he'd set up a divination. It didn't ease his mind any to see the blood spray. He eventually passed out with his hands in the divination bowl sitting naked on the hotel room floor. Holmes, who had grown accustomed to the brothers' oddities, merely shook him awake and commented on the bed being comfortable.

Moving to the bed did, indeed, prove more comfortable, but the brief bout of sleep gave Michael's mind the break it needed to once again play last night's events ad infinitum. He lay still for ten minutes before telling Holmes to order him breakfast. He found he had no appetite but forced the food into himself anyway. The pain in his stomach afterward was almost a welcome break from the monotony of his obsessive thoughts. He fell back into a fitful, stress-induced sleep, clutching pillows to his chest.

The room phone ringing startled him awake. Holmes answered it in half a ring. Michael arose and mechanically went through his morning routine. He vaguely remembered his diplomatic agenda. When he emerged, he finally spoke. “Who was that?”

“A Miss Linda Dwight, sir.”

“Did she leave a number? She's supposed to be serving as my attache.”

“I told her you were indisposed. She stated she understood and would come by to collect your abstracts. They'll try to continue without your aid.”

His hands fumbled with the lock on his briefcase. He carefully went through a folder and placed it in Holmes's hands. “This is what she needs. I'm going to get dressed,” he said blearily.

Michael washed his face and went through the motions of shaving, but after nicking himself twice, he tossed his straight-edge razor aside, wiped his face off and pulled out an electric shaver. Afterwards, he realized he'd neglected to sharpen his straight edge beforehand and his hand was shaking.

“Sir, your face is bleeding.”

“Yes, I know. I should have let you do it. Is there any blood on my shirt?”

Holmes carefully straightened Michael's shirt that was carelessly laid on the basin counter and inspected his singlet. “No, sir.”

Michael considered foregoing a necktie and collar and even dispensing with a simple, single-breasted suit. His poor mood didn't seem to tolerate the complex dressing rituals he normally favored. “I begin to see why so many prefer simple oxfords and casual Fridays. Holmes, I hate to keep imposing on you, but...”

“Hardly an imposition, sir. And it's quite understandable, given the situation.”

Michael passively stood while Holmes attached and stayed his collar, folded and cuffed his sleeves, knotted his tie and gartered his socks and even slid on his belt. Michael thanked him and wandered to the door before turning and asking Holmes if he wanted to go to the hospital with him. Holmes answered he might visit for a brief period later.

As he left the hotel, he felt a keen sense of emptiness, almost a sharp echo of pain in his psyche. Suddenly, he understood his mood. The emptiness receded a moment later, fading back to the soporific depression. He suddenly moved with a more quick purpose.