Chapter 1: Shock
Perspective: Holmes
I knew it. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew it. She was trouble. No doubt that was in my mind could prevent me from being of the upmost certainty that she, of all the bitches in this damned country, yet the whole city of London, was the one to bring the situation that I am in today before me. I must tell you of it or THE END? will never be solved, and all of my life will be kept hanging, forever.
I was drunk. I felt queasy and stupid. I'd left Watson's bedraggled house, leaving him, as well as half of London in the confusion of the package delivered by the anonymous source, being myself. I avoided the idea of returning to my own home, knowing that Watson or Mrs. Hudson would be present in the account of my reappearance. I went to the second best place for the night; the bar. And I paid, too, with my own money. Though now I feel horrible, depressed and slightly nauseated when I think about the events that occurred, but the show must go on…
Irene Alder is gone. She… died, unfortunately of my own mistake. So I was to be forever unfeeling of any love, joy or happiness, to only be doing everything for the good of innocents everywhere. But no longer; I the great Sherlock Holmes would do what I wanted to, for once! I would indulge myself with just a taste, or maybe even a sip of desired happiness, but then to get drunk on my joy was preposterous, at least until the third glass was poured, then I just couldn't stop.
But to wake up as an abashed drunk, with hung-over eyes and a mouth that was hollow and dry, it was torture. I felt like shit, to put it nicely. I started moaning at the bartender, who kindly told me to shut up. I didn't want to, of course, so he had nothing to do but have a few "thugs" throw me out as riff-raff. I knew Watson would say, "Holmes, do stop acting like a dog and join us for tea, I've had enough of your babbling and puzzling, you have promised things I know you intend to keep." I of course would never listen; I would likely as to shoot my own mother than to do what Watson wanted, wouldn't I? Perhaps I should go home, face my brother, and Watson and the world, and continue to bother everyone with my silly games, saving their necks in the end, of course. But that wasn't going to be my problem. It was completely different, I can assure you. Just a warning: Revenge is a sword, love is its tip, and hate is its hilt.