[ WP/MP ] Write a story reimagining a character from another piece of fiction as down-and-out/washed up/past their prime .

In honor of Benedict Cumberbatch's most recent AMA. 
 
 He knew he was missing something, and turned to Sherlock, exasperated, yet hopeful. 
 
 `` Holmes, are you sure you do n't remember anything from the crime scene?'' 
 
 London's greatest detective slowly looked up from his arm chair, his dark hair thin and receding. His eyes were glazed over. They had lost the razor-sharp focus they had once held. Wrinkles lined the once-angular face, lines of age and worry and concern. Watson repeated the question again, realizing Sherlock was not paying attention. 
 
 `` Sherlock. Do you remember the crime scene?'' Holmes sighed and blinked slowly. 
 
 `` Yes, John. I told you already. You should look into the man with the green hat. The newspaper in his hands was from two weeks ago -'' He stopped short when he caught the worried glance I exchanged with Dr. Watson. `` What is it? What's the matter with you two?'' 
 
 I coughed and addressed the detective. `` Holmes, that case was solved 8 months ago. We're talking about the house we visited today... Do you remember the Bretonmoore Estate?'' 
 
 `` Of course I do. I'm the one here with the brilliant mind and memory, and I would appreciate it if you left me to think in silence, Mr. Chief of Police!'' 
 
 I turned back to John and shook my head. Watson pursed his lips, and swallowed hard. It was increasingly difficult for him to see his old friend, once brilliant, cunning, and sharp-witted, succumb to this sluggish mental decay. The doctors and psychologists had all theorized it was a result of increased brain activity that caused the premature aging, but here was a man, barely in his fifties, suffering from the onset of dementia. 
 
 `` Watson!'' shouted Sherlock. `` Do n't stand there looking so glum. Pour me some tea, and tell me again why this man -'' He pointed in my direction. `` -is still in my living room.'' 
 
 `` Alright, Sherlock, I'll leave you alone.'' Turning to John, I added, `` If he remembers anything, give us a call. Anything at all could be helpful.'' 
 
 Watson shook my hand amicably and I offered him a meager smile of condolence. He seemed on the verge of tears, or rage, I could n't discern which at the moment. I'm not sure he could either. The two had been friends so long, it must have felt as if he was losing a part of himself, as Holmes drifted further and further from reality. Now, in the last few months that process had accelerated, and very little of the calculating sleuth was left, the man reduced to a shell of his former self, battling demons, facts, figures, and details from his past. With a mind that held every detail to be important, Sherlock could n't decipher memories from reality, and cases, names, figures, and sights blurred together into a maddening chaos that left him with headaches and nightmares. 
 
 I turned and nodded again at the loyal doctor and left the company of Sherlock Holmes for the last time.
