My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am a dead man.
Well, I should be dead, and it's widely believed that I am. Word hasn't gotten out yet, and the only one that knows my secret is the woman that helped me plan it- The Woman. The Master of Deductions, me, Sherlock Holmes, easily the most brilliant man in all of Great Britain had to reduce himself to asking the help of Irene Adler- a Dominatrix- to get out of something. Once Moriarty shot himself, as I knew he would, there was no other way out than to just jump off of that building. But I didn't do the jumping. That was the best part.
And now here I am- in Irene's apartment, long legs draped over the back of her sofa and a nicotine patch on my arm as she steps into the room.
"You do realise that we're both supposed to be dead, right? I've died twice now, but yet here I am. You, you're just an innocent little child at these things." She says, "And why don't you just smoke if you want that buzz?"
I glance at her- no clothing, sat forward on her chair with her elbows on her crossed legs. She wants something. She's desperate, needing something, but I can't decode what. That's the great thing about Irene- I can never tell what she wants. The bad thing too, though. I dislike being unable to tell.
"It's a disgusting habit." I say to her. God, why couldn't she just understand that.
"Well then. I remember one time, John.." She says, I snap my head up to see where she's going with this. "John said you use them when you need to think."
"Clearly, that's the case. There's nothing else I can do around here." John, I thought, sweet, noble John. I missed my darling John. I needed him like he needed that drop of coffee in the morning. I missed the way his unshaven scruff would brush against my cheek when he murmured something in my ear. I missed how his soft lips felt against mine in the late hours, after Mrs. Hudson had gone off to sleep and he could come into my room without her knowing. How I so craved his touch- even just something as simple as a brush of his fingertips across my cheek.
"Well that's certainly not true," She said, breaking me from my thoughts, "You could do me, for instance."
"No, thank you. I'd really rather not." I say to her, resting my head back on the couch and sigh. "I think I might go out today."
"Go out?!" She squeaks. "You can't go out! People will recognize you!"
"Well it's going to happen eventually. And people didn't know me for years. It's been five months, for God's sakes, Irene. I'm sure I can manage a trip out without people saying, 'oh look, it's that brilliant consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes!'"
"Well you can't be sure," she snapped, clearly tired of my sarcasm. "Fine. Go out. Don't come running to me when someone shoots your beloved Molly, Mrs. Hudson, or John."
"Oh, that's not going to happen." I say and run a hand through my thick hair- full of cmall curls today, just as John liked it. In the last five minutes, I'd had several dozen plans run through my mind.
"And how are you going to avoid it?" She says, sitting back in her chair and dropping her arms, her breasts now in plain view.
I smile at her, "Oh, just keep a sharp eye out, Ms. Adler."
And with that, I walk out the door and down the stairs to leave.
The air outside is unusually warm for June, everyone is out and moving. The mood around is one of reckless optimism and though most would see it as beautiful, I saw it as an annoyance. Humans were constantly seeking temporary happiness because they couldn't find something for a more permanent solution. Every time they would let themselves relax in that simple environment of emotional protection and a continuous feeling of uplifted confidence, someone would come along and crush them. I suppose, in a way, I was that person that came along to crush their happiness. I've had numerous people imprisoned and several others have died because of me. But, in another way, I see myself as exempt from this pain they put themselves through all in the desire of a constant. I foudn my constant as just a boy when I started solving puzzles.
These thoughts kept at me as I walked up Baker street and unlocked 221B, forever glad that I'd kept the key. I slipped inside and didn't remove my hat and glasses until I was up the stairs.
"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, there's no need to go through all the trouble- I'll find us a new flatmate, don't worry."
"Dear, you have to let it go. I know he was your friend, maybe a little more, eh? Well, he was your friend and I know you don't want to, but damn it, John, he's gone! Sherlock. Is. Gone."
"Am I?" I said, leaning on the doorframe. "Am I gone, Mrs. Hudson?" I allowed a small smile creep onto my face as she looked up at me. Her look was one of complete disbelief and then- anger.
"Sherlock Holmes!" She shouted at me at the same time as John whipped around the corner from the kitchen- still just as cluttered and full of experiments as I'd left it. As soon as his eyes met mine, I swear, there was no one there but the two of us, and it was beautiful.