History is written by the victor. Had the British reclaimed their empire in the America's, people would not so wholeheartedly back the Boston tea party as necessary destruction. We only view Napoleon as a dictator rather than our savior because he lost. The same concept can thus be prescribed to my current situation. It was about eighteen months ago that the world saw the downfall of a certain Sherlock Holmes. But I had still won. No one knew, nor could ever know that I had lived. Not unless I wanted to put the only people I confided in into danger. But I was better off alone anyway. I had won.
Yet a gnat had worked its way into my mind, its buzzing wings subtle and confined to the corners of my thoughts but still ever present. It puzzled me, frustrated me, mocked me, and intrigued me, that pest of an idea. And whenever I got close to swatting it all the what-ifs would come to life and swarm around my head. So, for the sake of my fleeting sanity, I left it alone.
But that proved to be a mistake. Every ignored thought only grows stronger, more nagging when let alone. Every once in a while it would pay a short visit to my conscious thoughts, but I always hurriedly pushed it back, never giving myself the chance to fully observe or even appreciate how dominant it had become over the past months. So when that thought had completely taken over my mind, swallowing every last bit of it, I was actually slightly surprised. Things became a blur from there, as they often do when an idle brain latches to an unshakable thought. I came to in a room I recognized surrounded by graffiti I did not. Scratched into mirrors, walls, desks, every available surface were the two words that had haunted me for so long. I closed my eyes and tried not to see it. I envied the people who were so blissfully ignorant. I wished my brain wasn't so vast that I could so easily lose myself in it.
It isn't true, I told myself, it can't be true. You saw him. You saw him do it. But the thought still pushed, daring me to open my eyes. I refused. I refused to see the lies with which I had decorated the small hotel room. How could I, such an intellectual, have allowed such an obvious fantasy, a work of fiction really, to spread so far throughout my brain? "Open your eyes", the thought seemed to beckon, "see what you've created." I shook my head, as if I could somehow shake this parasite from my mind.
I heard laughter, taunting laughter. The laughter that had once drove me mad. The laughter that had nearly brought London to ruins. I shut my eyes tighter and covered my ears with my hands, as if that would somehow help. It didn't though. The noise became more defined and somehow closer. It continued to grow in my ears louder and louder until I was certain he was in the room with me. I was positive he was standing right next to me, laughing in my ear. Laughing at me. He had done this. He had driven me to this. He was laughing at me, mocking me, teasing me as he knew I could no longer control my own thoughts and that he had been the cause of all this.
The deafening beats of the madman's laugh drove me to insanity. I blindly swatted at the air and caught nothing. No, he was definitely here. He had to be. I could feel his presence. I could hear him laughing. He was with me. He had to be.
Gradually the laughter died down until there was nothing but silence and the sound of my breathing. "Sherlock, you need to face the truth," I heard his maddeningly passive voice whisper in my ear. I felt the heat of his breath on my neck causing all of my hair to stand on end. I had known he was here. "It'll set you free," he hissed, coming closer.
"No," I uttered in the most stern and authoritative voice I could manage at such a moment of confusion and surprise. I sounded like a parent scolding their child.
"Come on Sherlock. Come out and play," He coaxed. I could practically hear the sinister smile upon his lips. I said nothing, and neither did he. It was pure silence and, for at least a second, I had thought he had left. But no, it couldn't be that easy. It never was. Not with him.
"You know, we had a deal," he sounded almost upset, disappointed. "You broke our deal, Sherlock. You let me down. After all I had done for you. I thought we had something special," he sighed. "But it's okay, Sherlock, because now I'm freed from my end of the deal as well. It was such a hassle to keep my men from killing off your 'friends' for such a while. But that's a responsibility I'm no longer obligated to keep."
"No," I repeated, a little of my emotions slipping into the crack in my voice.
"I wonder how I should ask them to do it. Shooting's too quick, too impersonal, don't you agree?" My stomach turned but I refused to say anything more. He wasn't going to break me. I wasn't going to let him. "Maybe I could revive the guillotine. What a great invention that was. It's a shame no one uses it anymore." I balled my hands into fists and clenched my teeth. I would not let him get the better of me. "Then we could collect the heads of course and give that skull on your mantelpiece some friends." My breathing quickened. I was so close to the edge. "And to think, Sherlock," he cleared his throat. "It would all," I exhaled trying to keep my wits, "be," it hadn't help as I had so hoped, "you're," I could feel myself slipping, "fault."
"No!" Just then I opened my eyes and frantically searched the room for him. Where could he have gone? He couldn't have escaped that quickly. The doors and window were still locked. He had to still be here with me. I paced the room, searching for any sign of someone beside myself. I traced along the walls until I found myself face to face with a mirror. My reflection, however, was obscured by an etching. The two words that had haunted me for so long were now written across my face. The two words that I couldn't shake from my thoughts. The two words that had brought me to my wits end.
Moriarty Lives