I do not own anyone from the Sherlock Holmes cast.
Insomnia
"With insomnia nothing is real; everything is a copy of a copy of a copy." – Chuck Palahniuk
There are many things, torturously complex things requiring the up-most determined and trained mentality, which my dear friend Sherlock Holmes is not only capable of, but can pull of with the greatest of ease.
Sleep is not one of these things.
Being his roommate until Mary returned from visiting family in Carlisle, may at times be trying, considering his lacking consideration but even I have limits. Sometimes I am not quite sure whether it be sheer obliviousness, or another restless habit he cannot help, but firing off eight rounds into the wall at 4 o'clock in the morning is unacceptable by neighborhood standards, so as I sat this morning in front off my lean companion, of whom looked much worse for wear accounted for by the deepening circles beneath his usually glittering grey eyes, I prepared myself to have a nice long chat with him about his new set of habits which now included chemical explosions at ungodly hours in the morning, along with poring copper into the hearth because it 'looked amazing' and 'helped calm the nerves' (it nearly gave Mrs. Hudson a bout of apoplexy, finding him playing his violin at 2 am in front of roaring green flames).
"Holmes, you know you are my dearest friend, but this madness of yours must cease."
"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" He shot me an innocent look, his acting skills still at top function despite his sleep deprivation.
"By God man, you can not expect me to fall for your naivety farce this early in the day! You look as though hell spit you up. And I would not blame the devil for it!"
"Now, that seems a bit harsh." Holmes pursed his lips, looking down at the toast and marmalade in front of him as though it were not to be trusted.
"Eat." I demanded.
"I find food repulsive nowadays." Holmes let out a barely audible sigh, sniffing at his coffee with his hawk-like nose, putting it down with distaste marking his gaunt features.
'Then I will ask Mrs. Hudson to make you some tea." I stated gruffly, feeling fairly cheated out of sleep.
"My old chap, tell me I have not kept you up as well." He looked utterly stunned, and oddly, I could not help but believe him.
"Holmes, it is most definitely the cocaine. Tell me you are trying to at least lessen those generous doses you seem so eager to contaminate yourself with."
A hardly visible smile, as wistful as it was bitter, graced his thin lips, his pallid tone giving him an almost ghostly appearance, which was quite startling considering it was nearing 9:00. I sighed, knowing my friend's addiction was the result of a lacking high in his life. I could think of nothing to replace it beside, of course, another case, yet now after the capture of Moriarty they were seeming thin and far in between.
The only answer to his lonely existence seemed the only solution Holmes would never resort to.
A woman.
"Holmes, have you ever considered-"
"No." He answered irritably, "I would never compromise my judgment for the sake of emotional attachments."
"I was thinking…" I am quite sure my cheeks did take on a sanguine.
"Of an activity that would undoubtedly tire me, my friend? I cannot I am afraid, Catholic as I am." Holmes let out a sigh to emphasize his nonchalance.
"Not that!" I exclaimed, continuing in a huff, "Though it came to me suddenly. I mean, someone to…stay up with you, as Mary does for myself."
"You come straight from an Afghan camp with the constitution of a gorilla, Watson. Surely you do not believe there to be a member of the fairer sex that could possibly tolerate me and my moods as you have come to describe them."
"Surely you do not have the arrogance to deem yourself unlovable." I snorted.
"No my good fellow, merely pray that I am." He retorted haughtily, trying to kill this, in his eyes, dull exchange.
"You're hardly a priest, Holmes." I chortled back, prying into this subject farther than I ever had before, "Mary has several eligible friends that are quite infa-"
"If they are anything like she, I am sorry my loyal companion, but I must decline." He grumbled, sinking into his chair with dread reflecting upon his expression.
"Now what is that supposed to mean!" I sputtered, bristling with indignation.
"It is not meant to be insulting Watson, but Mary is charming, delicate, and a woman of greater virtue than most…you know I am not one of any extraordinary inhibition. Besides, I know she believes me to an insufferable arse." He muttered, "Do not try denying it."
I did not of course, quite unsure of how he had taken the exact quote from my darling wife. Despite all he had done for her, Mary was not the greatest fan of my friend…but that is because his shenanigans had nearly taken my head on more than a few occasions.
I would not hear his diversions of the conversation anyhow and pressed further, "Well, what type of woman is suitable?"
"A woman with the brain of a man." He answered carelessly, before grinning softly, "I cannot stand frivolity, Watson. You and I know there is no such woman in existence so this discourse is not worth partaking in any longer."
I sighed, "You are truly devoted to your work are you not?"
"Yes, Watson, and for that reason, engaging in any subjective activity, beyond that of playing my violin, is completely out-of-the-question." He replied, picking up the toast and carrying it to the window, opening the glass pane, and proceeding to toss bits of it onto the sill for the birds.
There was a silence before Holmes asked a most peculiar question, "Watson, what type of man, do you suppose, you should meet in an empty graveyard, in the dead of night?"
"Why my dear Holmes," I smiled at him commically, "A dead one, of course."
My companion chuckled to himself, and crushing the rest of the bread into crumbs, he persisted in sprinkling them out the window.
And for the next week and a half, until Holmes sought a new case, I was kept up late at night by all his oddities. Then finally, in an act of desperation, he decided to approach Lestrade.
P.O.V unknown
Cold.
My lips felt numb.
I watched the ice dance down from the sky, the white ballerinas twisting, leaping, and spinnig against the pitch canvass of the 'great unkown', flitering toward the grass where they were doomed to melt in the sun of the afternoon. For a few moments, I wished my life were as fragil, easily cast down into the afterlife; I was certain not to go in any upward direction after my existence ceased. My mind was tired, as was my body, yet still, even in this hour of demons, three ante meridiem, the mythical witching hour, I could find no solace; there was nothing for this wretched soul of mine.
There is a time for all things.
Yeah? A time to sing little Catholic school-girl rhymes while wasting away the hours of darkness, perched in a Mullberry tree that took root in the centre of this godforsaken cemetary? Maybe I should dance upon the raingutters of that ancient mausoleum and recite the Beatitudes. How could I desecrate this faith I so flippantly call my own? Should I further scientific theory, thrust myself into the unknown as a beacon to every evil I persue? Should I share this fire with those cast in the blackness of ignorance? Surely, not even then should the fate of Prometheus touch what horror the mortal realm would bestow upon my conscience.
To everything there is a season.
Shut up!
Deliver us from our ignorace...
No!
This is your voice, use it for only righteousness!
That is not my voice!
Love thine enemy...
Stop...please.
...As thyself.
I cannot love myself.
Love with all your mind, heart, and spirit.
I cannot!
Let your conscience be your guide.
I CANNOT DO THAT!!!
SLEEP!
"I can't!" My own voice broke the messy buzz of static trasmitting across what little subsanity I still maintained, causing me to jump and slide from my branch.
I crashed upon the ground rather unceremoneously, laying in a crumpled pile.
I looked to the side, and saw an emaciated figure with curious grey eyes peering at me.
Saying nothing, I left the graveyard, as I had so many times before.
Empty.
The morning was crisp and clear, yet the wind blew by in such a rush so as to freeze an urchin's knickers. The orange-red leaves of autumn fell upon the walk delicately, only to be crunched beneath the boots of men, bustling to their occupations, whistling for hansoms and cabs. My dear friend Sherlock, of whom contrasted the lively morning with his own ghastly appearance stood upon the avenue at his striking six feet and four inches, his aquiline nose peeking over a rather threadbare scarf, his bowler firmly placed down to his brow, and a long tweed trench upon his thin shoulders, covering him collar to toe. I straightened my hat, blowing upon my gloved hands and rubbing them against one another ferociously, the chilly air seeping in through my own coat and linen cravat. My form appeared a bit hunched, desperately trying to keep in the heat my body produced, Holmes seemed perfectly immune to the elements however, and raised his long, lithe arm up to hale us a ride.
As the hansom came to a halt, I took note that the driver, a gruff, stalky looking man, wore no coat at all; an involuntary shiver crawling across my skin at the thought of riding shotgun without any protection from the wind sank into my brain.
"Where to?" He quieried.
"Brixton, if you would be so kind." Holmes spoke, clearing his throat in the process.
We clambered in and off the man took, a rather crazed driver, that he was. I held onto my hat as my posterior slid along the bench, smashing me against the side of the cabin. I let out a muffled "ompf!" not surprised in the least to see Holmes sitting quite still, acting as though this were of normal occasion. I held onto my seat as best I could, thankful once I managed to set my feet on land once again. Holmes smiled at me in a rather good natured way, making me feel near childish despite easily being his senior by five years. We walked nearly two blocks when finally we saw the backside of the burly detective Lestrade, storming into a quaint little library, red in the face and looking highly irate. Without questioning how my dear friend new the whereabouts of the somewhat pompous man I merely followed, knowing Holmes would indeed relate all details of his investigation to me later on in our day together.
As we walked in, the chimes of bells were heard, and a welcoming heat fell against us, the sweet smell of pumpkin and the musk of some unidentified spice filled our nostrils, immediately setting me at ease. Hanging our coats upon an old oak wrack by the door we stepped into the library settling in chairs by the front desk where a very strange little figure sat, the bellowing policeman facing the, who I assumed to be, librarian.
"What the bloody devil is this!" The man exclaimed at the top of his large lungs, waving around what was obviously a stick of unlit dynamite as could be seen inscibed across it.
Both I and Holmes caught the disinterested, heavily American accented tone; reply rather apathetically, "Hmm…dunno, looks like a cigar," before it added with amusement, "Need'a light?"
I sat there in pure shock.
Such cheek to law enforcement!
Utterly horrified with this lacking respect I turned to Holmes to comment on this outrage, only to spot him doubled over. Confused and suddenly concerned for my dear friend I patted him on the shoulder a bit before leaning down to his level. Unexpectedly he whipped up in a straight back position, clutching his stomach, face flushed past any I had ever seen in my career, his convulsing manner so disturbing, I nearly began to open cry for a medical aid kit. Then it happened.
I have never heard my friend laugh so deeply and wonderfully in my life and I must confess it was one of the more beautiful sounds to have ever graced my ear.
Lestrade, of course, made an about face, mortified at our appearance and the fact that Holmes was now close to tears. I made a sputtering noise, not knowing whether to apologize for my friend's behavior or greet him in the proper fashion, experiencing an odd sort of ignominy for being at a loss on this account.
"What is so damn funny?!" Lestrade demanded of Holmes.
The same board voice returned with the comment, "I'll go out on'a limb here and say it's you."
"How dare you, you bloody worm?!" Lestrade cried, spinning to face his offender.
He turned just enough so I could see the owner of the voice, and librarian of this shop, completely shocked by such an appearance.
The eyes were very large yet evenly set, and the irises a most startling hazel green, like that of a cat. The face was soft and gentle, the lips full and a dark pink colour that stood out against the bronze skin. The hair, black as coal, was only slightly curled but more swirled and waved that anything, presenting itself hanging in the person's eyes and at the back gathering about the base of the nape in the fashion of a gentleman that had neglected to cut it for some time. The eyebrows were arched and of medium width and the nose was not big enough to be called large yet certainly not small. This head was leaned upon a big hand, elbow upon the desk, propping it up. I could see the thin form was clad in a grey worn suite, and sitting in a lazy manner.
The most outrageous detail being, that this librarian, was in fact…
"When your questions have such obvious answers the audacity it takes to reply is slim to non-existent, considering how confident I am in the presented conclusion." A small smirk settled across those lovely lips as they turned into a sneer, "Try it some time…should renew your self-importance."
A woman.
This is my first Sherlock fic, please go easy on me!
