Ummh... a thousand apologies. It's quite rainy down here, but I tried to make my harsh mind for you all quite tender at the end of this: I don't think it quite worked. I think I don't like sad things; my subconscious or whatever, or something seems to be betraying me, how truly awful, if it was up to me i would prefer thinking of pink hearts and bears and athletics all the time.
I don't think you'll enjoy such overly tragic drama.
In the quietness of that living room, where the shadows of the leaves from the trees were a mirage… Silence with chirrups from pretty, sprightly birds. He smokes during springtime.
Ironic, he thought. But we don't know why, as it isn't an accurate word nor ample enough. He meant to say that bitterness engulfed him, and so he felt the skin of his face sucking in, which from the shadows of the leaves took him to the image of withering, but sadness feels like a hollow in the chest even more so when he was filling it with smoke, and so he pictured he was withering inside… orange and wrinkled. But nothing else but him withers in springtime.
Being such his mood, every bad circumstance seems more definite; they expand all the way of the road, a lifetime, and death seems easier to grasp.
It was all about an insignificant Doctor Watson. Doctor Watson was getting married and he didn't think that was anyone else's business, since he was so insignificant… He didn't even believe it would in the end be such a big deal for the bride in question. Mary's her name. Doctor Watson took the decision out of something of a spur that he could have reasoned as: I've spent too much time single. I'm past my thirties and everyone marries now, because you need to have an excuse to work when you're middle-aged.
He knew the Doctor's motives with astonishing clairvoyance. People have been known for their lack of understanding of their behavior, as the new science of psychoanalysis in a rather appropriate age tried to demonstrate. But he had the gift of an abnormally enhanced discernment...
And if he could have he would have returned it still wrapped.
He took everything in, classified it, memorized, ordered and then predict; and he was certain nobody liked it.
Holmes assumed he had no common interest with anyone and now that the golden Doctor Watson was gone: I will put the felons in gaol out of spite!
The smoke in his lungs twirls and almost chokes him, as his sobs try to expel it but he sucks it up relentlessly fighting breath, may it at least nurture him.
He doesn't need much to recover. The wound is a deep gash crossing his chest coarsely sewn into a scar, and it will make a scarier person out of him. In his reasoning about the world will be the imprint of his cruelty, and some important ideas in the theory of crime will make of the act grayer and colder than the warm pink hands of the candid perpetrator. There are those between the ill-bred even now who look up at the sky and try to find a God that will forgive them; he would not fully believe them, at least he would mock their idiotic antics.
Mrs. Hudson called him and Watson found him that way, in a fetal position on his armchair smoking, sobbing and wailing away.
- Holmes!, he throws himself over him to cover him like a blanket. – What on earth is wrong?!
Sobbing, the scar scratching his insides, he doesn't answer him because Oh well!, he can live with that constant little stab of grief called loneliness.