Obligatory note: I do not own the concept of Sherlock Holmes, grand detective. That right belongs to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Another day comes to an end. I hear the door shut as John calls out to me.
"Good show, today, Sherlock! That Ripper fellow won't be cutting up any more ladies in the dead of night thanks to us. I will return on the morrow!" His voice sends a chill down my spine. That was decidedly odd.
I rose and stalked to the bathroom, placing my gun carefully into a secret holster behind the wardrobe. Excellent place for it when ambushed, and when drawn in haste it causes a bright flash of chemical light to spread through the room, blinding any attackers.
I stared at the mirror, analyzing my disheveled appearance. Pupils dilated. Cheeks flushed. I note with some detachment that I am trembling slightly. My breathing is fast and yet I feel as though I am not getting enough air. I place a hand to my chest; my heartbeat is strong and fast. Heightened pulse and blood pressure. Mild headache. What on Earth could be wrong with me?
I return to the library, and sit in my thinking chair. In my mind I begin to reread all my medical texts. In all these texts, there is almost nothing I can find on these symptoms. The only similar entry I find is anxiety. Ridulous. What have i to be anxious about? Perhaps I am suffering from multiple disorders. I stand and walk over to the lab behind the bookcase, and take several samples from myself for testing.
As the device I invented begins to break apart and examine the samples, I wash my tools and then myself. Hair dripping, I look again into the mirror. My hair really is rather a mess; I should try and neaten it up. Maybe John would like it if I got a haircut….
What is the matter with me? Where is my preoccupation with experiments, with investigation, with the important things in life? Every day when John leaves me to go back to that woman, I sit here and think about him. I don't want him to leave!
I freeze. There is a thought, a ghastly and altogether unpleasant thought. I rush out into the library, sit in my thinking chair, and call to mind my texts on psychology. It couldn't be…But it is. I am experiencing the symptoms of that all too human emotion–love. An emotion I have long considered myself incapable of feeling. Indeed, I pride myself on being above such petty concerns as love, or any social constructs for that matter.
The tests return no results of any significance to me. I take up my pipe and fill it, tamping down the tobacco and lighting it. Today is a day for thought, and there shall be no sleep tonight. What does one do when one is in love, when all one desires is the companionship of another? What on earth does one do when that person is already involved with another?
Bah. There is no use just sitting here. I grab my jacket and slip on water resistant boots, and walk right back out the door. I wave to a grinning Mrs. Hudson, who glances back at me. Her expression fills with some measure of concern. She is wearing her nice earrings, her good shoulder-pin, and a nice dress. Her hair is up in a bun but several strands that have found their way free. There is a small smudge on the pin, looks like a fingerprint. There is mud on her shoes, and a small tear in her dress. She has no purse. I assume she just returned from a date with a gentleman, and her expression tells me it was a good one.
"Sherlock, dear boy, whatever is the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost! Come, come, sit and I'll make you some tea!" The concern in her voice is somewhat refreshing, but I find the offer repellant. I desire solitude.
"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I was just on my way out the door. I have things to do yet today. I appreciate the offer." I lie with seamless efficiency, smoothly telling her something I know will make her leave me be.
"Weeeell, if you're sure...But you take care of yourself, you hear!" She glances up the stairs, at the mud I have tracked on it. Her gaze fills with disapproval. "And you clean this up when you get back! I am not your servant!" Her joke warms my heart a little.
I stoop and give her a swift hug, shocking both her and me. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I shall return later this evening."
I walk out into the rain, shaking out my brolly and holding it against the nearly solid sheet of rain. I walked down Baker Street, thoughts whirling through my mind. Life just got a whole lot more complicated. Perhaps I should simply continue on as though nothing had changed. There are plenty of cases lately. I felt briefly disoriented, as though I were standing outside my body, watching myself walk down the street.
A carriage clattered past me. Mahogany, deep water stains, chip missing from the driver seat and several from its side. Must be old, probably a family owned carriage from a century or so ago. Young man driving, too young for a family carriage driver. Faint manure stains on the back. Country carriage. Hand hanging through the window with a slip of a maroon sleeve. Dainty fingers, glossy pink polish. A woman, not here for business but for pleasure. Hired a local man to drive to evade notice from family. Must be in town without sanction from family, probably on something illicit. I made note of these facts in case they ever become important, and walked on.
I lowered the umbrella, and stared up into the rain. Drops struck my face repeatedly.I sighed, and put the umbrella back up, walking on. I brood on my situation.
Like a burst of blinding inspiration, a plan came to me in a rush. Now I see. I can turn this all into a grand experiment, and note my findings! Every action, every reaction, can be food for thought, both for myself and future generations. I nod. Indeed, this shall be a most interesting experiment. Perhaps I may even find some amusement in it.
Author's Note: I was rewatching Sherlock Holmes, the 2009 one with Robert Downey Junior, seeing all that bromance. I had to write this as it popped into my head. i don't normally write romance between male characters, but to an extent I am comfortable with it. I have no idea if i did i good job here. It's my first fanfiction.
For those not in the know, a brolly is an umbrella. That is a UK-specific term. Its the same thing, just a different word for it.
I will put this out here right now, my version of Sherlock for this story specifically has emotions, and chooses to hide them most of the time. It is simply becoming more pronounced as his affection deepens. This scares him; he is not some emotionless robot. I will also ATTEMPT to capture his epicness from the movie; no guarantee I'll succeed.
Please, do not be gentle with the reviews. i can take the heat. Rip me a new one, I need to expand my skills as a writer!