Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor his faithful companion, John Watson. I do, however, greatly enjoy toying with them.
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A Study of Man
His mouth hung open in a rather distasteful fashion, allowing a small amount of liquid to drop from his lower lip onto his unshaven, ruddy skin; it had been six and one-half days since Watson had taken the liberty of cleaning himself. The smell was becoming somewhat distracting. Clearly, he and Mary had quite an argument; that was the reason for his presence. I deduced that it concerned either his uncharacteristically immoral addiction to betting on horses or his inability to pay for a certain pair of ladies' stockings; I would never understand women. However, I was much too bored with the mediocrity of the subject to decide which was the actual topic of discussion.
Friendship is an odd phenomenon; perhaps it seemed odd simply because I had never quite experienced it previously. I have had many acquaintances throughout my life; I even allowed myself to regularly discuss chemistry with a few select men in college. My particularly singular choice of employment has allowed me to craft the study of the human race into a refined art. No, I understand the intricacies of man; I have mastered his motivations, hopes, and dreams and have always prided myself in these accomplishments. But, I will be the first to admit that have never actually come into true contact with man. My life was nothing but the swinging door of a flat, the mirage of faces, and the symphony of stories until Watson.
I stared at the good doctor soundly sleeping for the first time in two days in the velvet green armchair and could not help but admit a chuckle. Before me rested the epitome of the human heart and I, the self-proclaimed thinking machine, had fallen prey to its warmth. God help me.