Hello everyone :)

This is the updated and revisited version of 'Des Todes Stachel' (Sting of Death). The Original was written by the amazing Ampersand, you can find the story here:

.de/s/54a2fc850002a0de277d83db/1/Des-Todes-Stachel

Have fun with my first ever German to English translation, please review, I'd love to hear what you think about it, even if you're telling me to never ever again translate a story :D

Lovely Greetings

Melchetta

Dinner

People bore me. They are too fixed on their own little pathetic lives. They know nothing and they see nothing. Even if they see, they don't understand what they have seen. They are unable to analyse. Their thinking is simple and predictable, which is how they act. It's unbelievable how this overly facile principle of evolution could make its way through.

People repel me. I do not like them. I liked one of them. An exception. But he is gone.

I have not taken cases for a long time. Lestrade tried to involve me several times. I rejected every one of them. Not interested. Although there were some intriguing murders, and some cases seemed to have a intricacy that would have lured me in before, I rejected. Watson might have motivated me. He, his philanthropy and his sense of justice. He was able to put things in perspective for me. But Watson is not here anymore. He has got Mary now.

Doctor John Watson was my Claquer. He admired me. He adored my sharp wit. He was keen on my ability to observe and to overlook coherence. I have been able to outwit him with all that. He loved me for it, was joyous for us finding a thief or a murderer. I liked seeing him cheer and me being the suspect of it. I might have done some things because of him. For us. Both. It satisfied his wish for justice and my greed for appreciation. This was how we uncovered crime together. For me it never was about justice, this was Watson's motive. I despise people and I do not see any reason doing them any good, unless it contributes to my own entertainment and satisfaction.

My life has become chill and empty. Since he left, my impetus is non-existent. Yes. I have to admit this. It seems hollow without him. Life. Even hollower. Even more void. A blank skeleton of measuring time, where seconds rush trough like squalls. Minutes. Hours. Days. Of no matter. Empty. Days exist of nothing but surfeit and reluctance. Worthless. A night like another. Nonsense. Throwawaydays.

Sometimes there are these agonizing dinners. The O'Grady family invited me to their manor. I attend those events for free fare. I place a smile on my face and encounter small talk with horrifyingly stupid people that bore me. I am invited for being Sherlock Holmes, the genius. People like to stare at me like an animal in the zoological gardens. The great Sherlock Holmes! An odd fish, remote and moody, yet highly intelligent. In times past, Doctor Watson and I would have been invited together. We would have been the odd couple. Watson used to enchant the ladyship generously, breaking hearts with every spoken word. It was a game. We used to have a nice evening, with nice food and good fun. Since he has left, I attend those events and fume. That is it. I can not handle people without him. I feel extradited. I am unbearable. There is no need to blandish it. It is true. I am unbearable without him.

That is the visible part of the iceberg.

It is within me, cold and chiseled. Every move makes the rough edges scratch harsh wounds into my soul. The iceberg reaches my abdomen, where the bulk remains. Sometimes it breaks, splits into

daggers that thrust into my body while the iceberg moves, pushing new bulk downwards, the pikes deeper into the flesh. Sometimes I can not breathe.

Sometimes I do not want to breathe.

The only meaningful reason to keep on breathing would be him. His skin. The acquainted odour of tobacco and soap, the sourness of his sweat and the sweet bitterness of his arousal. The mélange, with the components changing while we were loving. His plain presence would be enough for me, the scent of his presence, of his body, the bliss of his attention, his smile. That alone would make breathing meaningful again.

The flat still held his scent. In every thing, even the curtains. Yet the scent of his dew, his smile, his sight has disappeared now. The flat in Baker Street drowns in smell and the reek of dust and ashes. Stale stench of senseless solitude evaporates the tapestries and the walls emit the moldy mugginess of unaccomplished longing. Bilgy grief lures in all edges and corners, ascends the carpet as soon as one puts a foot on it. The decaying corpse of a love lost. Ubiquitous.

Ever and anon I imagine him coming home, like he used to. His steps audible in the staircase. He would hang hat and cloak up the hook behind the door, joyous, yet not in a haste. And he would enter the living room laying his hands upon my shoulder while I keep looking through the microscope. Then he would say, warm and tenderly "Good evening, Holmes", pressing his face for moments into my hair. I would close my eyes, leaning back on his body and putting my hand on his. I sometimes do daydream, spending hours. Then I go to bed, touch myself to release, to fade down aching for a short time. To delude myself. After finishing I feel squalid and lost. I find myself lonelier than ever and at some times, sometimes I cry. Cry like a godforsaken, bruised child. As if emptiness could be filled with tears.

I would have never accepted the O'Grady's invitation for dinner, had I known what awaited me. I had been placed between a professor of mathematics and a young, sophisticated lady, surely hoping I would enter a conversation with either. Either the complex twists of mathematics or to be enchanted by the lady. I ate what was served, listened falteringly to the conversation around me and answered questions posed at me in a remote way. I know that I was not just to my two neighbours at the table, both the highly intelligent and endearing professor and the exceptionally quick and witty lady. It was not their fault not being Watson, not being able to fill this aching hole, but-on the contrary- made me feel it even more painfully.

The scene was set in a wintry dark light, the O'Grady's had lit the banquet hall sparsely with candles, evoking a festive sentiment. I had turned to the mathematician. It may have been the reason why I did not see him before the meal was going on. He sat on the opposite side of the table, some meters away from me. He seemed tired and emaciated. Pallid. His hair dishevelled and dull. His eyes were sore and the smile he tried to send his neigbour seemed agonized. His whole appearance ill and maltreated. It was Doctor John Watson. Seemingly aged before his time. Mary was not with him.

I must have stared at him and he must have felt it. He turned his head and our glances met. I saw his eyes widen. He was as startled as I am, not expecting seeing me here. We looked at each other, through the load of people, tureens and glasses, through coiffure and hats, through all the clacking, cackling and convulsive laughter.

We stared at each other. Two lonely wolves, picking up each others scent.

He turned away first, pardoning himself, rose and left the dinner and the hall. I sat crestfallen, staring at the table and into my plate. My hand refused to move the fork any further to my mouth. My body refused to swallow. My head resigned on thinking. John. John was here. I closed my eyes, trying to calm the clamour of my heart. Something burned in me like acid and injured me. I tried to force myself to remain seated, but I failed. There was no possibility to act as ever. John was here. And had left, as he had done before. Without a word and just leaving a burning pain. I had to see him.

Oh, I felt the deceit of my doing! I left my seat and looked for him. I was a fool. A hopeless fool. I wanted to see, to scent him. Wanted to hear his voice, look into his eyes. I craved for his attention lying on me, for just one glimpse of an eye. A single encounter. Some few words. He had been the man, conquering my whole self, capturing everything, incorporating me through and through. My thoughts were with him, still, day and night. I wanted to see him. Even if it turned out to be excruciating meeting him again, the anguish I suffered without him could not be any crueler.

So I looked for him. Thoughtless. Forced forward by anxiety and instinct like an animal.