Chapter One
The Man.
I know you are watching me from a certain angle, I always know that, giving that I'm a medical doctor recently returned from a long journey in Afghanistan, and sharp enough to tell different injuries and situations apart, I can tell that you are bored and confused with plain emotion; or literally anything at all.
My life is a venture when it's bloody violent and goes back to bland when it's a settled norm.
I can tell by your collarbone that you just finished eating your lasagna on a dinner table with blue cloth, and you weren't totally satisfied by it. You are also desperate for a good book, and you hope someone could read it off to you in a manger, etc. etc.
OK, I'm exceptionally bad at businesses like this, and I know that, at least not a bit good as someone.
Someone named Sherlock Holmes, and according to anyone at all. He is not just a high functioning sociopath, but also a downright freak.
Life is the biggest thing that could happen upon a human being, and you only get the chance once. You live at a constant, certain, and homogeneous cycle.
This may not be every single case, but broad enough that you can just assume how the process runs.
Who will assume that, by the time of his or her death that the failure could've happened to anyone else at the same time. Who would assume that so-called immortals would suffer from the same fate as mortals like us, with all his glories and accomplishments behind his head?
Life is just a child, like Sherlock used to be, they were equivalent to each other. A child with a pair of cheekbones high enough to attract anyone within 10 miles radius. Like a hopeless psychopath, it will never ever give up; you lose that last spark of fire, the whole world went dark, and you are the ending of the whole game, and life will play on, just like the legend of Sherlock Holmes under the spotlight of publications and newspapers, it will live on forever more, under the moonlight and beside your fireplace.
But, to hell with all the blandness before he comes along. Life has given me some bloody amazing experiences that I will never live again.
Oh glorious, oh legendary, oh perfect. There he sat, stubbornly, no need to pour him a cup of tea, just a story would be enough, and he will take a little time to catch you the key of the event.
When the concept of one's life dies off, people will notice that it was just a little child with a funny disguise, and its disappearance was merely just child murder. It's weak, ignorant, and nothing.
Just like the freak, he is next to nothing when it comes to general ideas of normality. He thought the fact that the sun was the center of the solar system is as useless as the fact that zero is not one, and he thought clouds was part of the element table instead of gases. Am I skipping my mind again?
You can compare such a person to the broad idea of life, the evergreen leaf that will always be at its finest form. It does not have a rational mind; it simply defines the word rationality. It does not have complicated emotions, because its apprentices and followers always took their share away and used them up as fast as possible, just like those people did to Him, the Great Consulting Detective, The Inhumanly Smart Sherlock Holmes, The Freak. They always took away his emotions as if it doesn't exist, but no one knows how deep it hurts him. The greatest human being I have ever met.
His life goes on forever, because even after he dies (I doubt that he will because I don't think he's mortal), his glories and his works will live on; like a bloody hateful never-ending machine that he already is.
If logics and rationalities and deductions dominates pretty much the whole of his personality, that's not even half as much the meaning of existence. To me, Sherlock Holmes is nothing like the man I just described, and you might find it odd because I just said so many bad things about him. But, frankly, He is the most amazing man I have ever encountered in my whole life, which is in fact pretty much bleakness at its finest.
I was so alone, and I owed him so much. I was the bachelor inside my own little closet of mind before I admitted my heart. I still remember the thrill of the chase, the fierceness of blood pumping through my vain, and the heartbeat the speed of infinity. My life was strangely luminous because of him.
Rumors say that he is in love with Irene Adler, the lesbian dominatrix who rides on top of the royalty. He said that she is the woman, but that's when he is drunk and he was also doing the chicken dance when he speculates that, (co-ka-co-co-ka-co-CO-KA-COKA-COKA-CO!) Apparently you never trust a drunken man, for he who dances that type of dance is most likely living the most oblivious time of his life. Go back to the topic. To me, he is The Man, and I could not live a day without him.
I will let the rumors and gossips and legends about Irenlock survive, and live on forever and ever more. Because this world is not as flat as the Greeks thought, and acceptance is something we really need to learn.
For the sake of him and me, please do not spread the stories around, because one day you will fall hard on the ground, and the fire of the bottom of the pit will burn the heart out of you. My words and my perspective is as exclusive and narrow as that strange ally by your home country, and you won't be stupid enough to lease that ally away, or would you? (Ok, enjoy the complicated and confusing sarcasm of this sentence, and the cheapness and uselessness of my words.)
The story goes, the thread pulls, and the wheel turns. The story of the legendary consulting detective goes on and on, and the sound of the typewriter and the obviousness of the characteristics of a journalist are annoying. They always have wrinkles in their arm, especially when their deadlines are just a little way ahead. Their strained eyeballs are barely turning, writing fancy stories about a sociopath and a retired soldier. (Cue Laurie in front of her laptop) I am strangely observant, and please, please, please, do not mention this word to anyone else, because I am so ashamed that I just told you a lie.
Omit the bullshit about my induction and deduction talent.
Sherlock Holmes has the real thing, the only one on Earth, that is, the talent beyond any known or unknown psychic and fortune tellers in this world- the talent of which only he himself possesses.
When polices and detectives are done playing smart and are at the fringe of giving up a certain case, Sherlock will appear on their mind, like a piece of wind falling from the sky in a distorted form and they somehow seized it, contains no figure or volume, there is no general rule or guideline of his work. He was there when they needed him, taking only the matter of time of one plus one equals two over a brief dinner, and earns his pocket fee. This is the most understandable way I could describe of his job, because my mind was full of last night, when he gave me a little sugar to my coffee, my stone cold coffee, and I liked it. Now, replace the word coffee with heart. Go figure.
The case is often closed like a children's book, and he will be in the mood of plugging me some of his violin. He is a very good violin player, when he is done shooting bullets to that fancy wallpaper I bought him as a celebratory gift of our new "flatmateship". He was hyper that night, because he had just solved a murder case, and he even drew my face upon it, such simplicity it possesses that I could just laugh my arse off. It was a circle, two points, and an arch. I don't even remember if there's a nose.
His deduction is stunning enough that eventually people will just naturally assume that he is the one who planned the whole thing out beforehand. The complicated foul play, the seamless method, the revealing of the truth thousand miles away from possibility, and the details down to each and every pieces of evidence. But every time they tried to put a cufflink on his hands, he always points out the improbability of himself committing the crime. And although the whole thing always sounds like a perfect scheme, they often ended up releasing him because the reasons of his innocence are ample enough even though the precisions of his deductions are nowhere near a human's normal mind.
He is not guilty; he is just so far beyond brilliant that no one thinks being such a man is humanly possible; an improbability but a postulate.
But, like I said, he is a freak, and freaks are not human. He is not a psychopath, technically speaking, more like inhuman at its finest.
Thus, he barely has friends, and by barely I mean one, and that person is me. Because of one simple reason: No one is brave enough to get close to his radioactive vibes and his inhumanly strange habits. Shooting bullets to the wall in the middle of the night is one thing, but putting dead bodies where there's food is another. He is incomparable, however, compares to my other weirdoes, I'd rather have him than having anybody else on this planet.
The radiation literally elevates as the distant between you and him shortens, thus no one even get as far as shaking his hand, which is full of chemical stains and marks because of his passion at Art and Chemistry. But the lethalness of him could eat you raw, and licks your bone dry. It kills people's soul and leaves no trace at all.
Even that little boy called life is his enemy. He is gigantic in front of destiny. He is so brilliant that his own body is always betraying him by using all sorts of tricks to remind him that he is still human no matter what. He is the king of all the underestimations; because you won't believe how many seemingly undefeatable enemies he'd conquer by just talking to himself.
He is lethal, brutal and mentally unstable, even, when he became a specialist in crime.
Some says that he is an escaped patient from Hammersmith Mental Hospital, locates in the city where he spent most of his childhood, for he was so smart and so brilliant that people just naturally assume that some part of his brain must be missing for him to put that many stuff into his detective area. Some says all of those things combined is his shield, that he was just a detective story writer or something, and he spares his own free time by doing things he likes to do-fooling people around with those hardly probable sentences with a weird structure and grammar. It's like he was born to be a Victorian Era hero.
When Sherlock heard those rumors, he laughed like there is no tomorrow, and this is a very bad thing, because that day he laughed like the devil, or the son of the devil, because it was not the way that will warm your heart, it's the way that will split your heart in half and rip them into pieces. Not out of love, but out of confusion.
Just why the hell is he laughing about, when it was later revealed that this genius detective has its hilarious and foolish side too, but it was only in front of the people he cares, which you can count with almost no hand.
"Humans, not me, but the normal ones. They are always so funnily exposed or disguised that you couldn't even tell one face to another. Running about in their own hopeless circles, like a bunch of seals that needed water but found out they lived in a sealed tank. Shattering themselves in front of sugarcoated lies and mere desire, and never once are they aware of their mistakes. They have moods like a clown, and always wanted to take a stroll down the street, as if it could help with their gaining weights. They are so simple, tedious and hopeful, isn't it just hateful?"
I don't know if it's illegal to quote someone without telling his or her name, but I don't think there is an understanding issue going on here. We have became agreeable friends, I can see, for you can easily tell that this is pretty much one of the least annoying conversation I have with him. (I'm too tired of dealing with your slowness, my reader. Get it together, if you want to get to know him.)
Now I think we are getting somewhere, you already began to question my relationship with him, aren't you? We are really in a deep conversation right now, as if you are my therapist or something. You want to know about his sexuality, for every single details I speculated about him was somewhat attractive and charming to you, it even creates an irreversible force field that will pull you into something horrible out of nothing at all. You want to know one single word, a word that will often define the whole of one's sex:
His sexuality.
What is the person that he always likes? Not Irene Adler, not his Mommy or Daddy, the latter one whom he ensured his death and the first one living downstairs with a good-for-something oblivion. What is his sexuality?
The answer to this question is easy, he is asexual, which means he is not attracted to anyone beside the necessity of creation. But there is one person that he is strangely attracted to, one person that he understands the most, one person that will go crazy for him and die for him and dodge a bullet for him, and will conquer the world for him if he wants him to.
One person, who just told a lie about his husband's homosexuality.
It's me, hello, my name is Dr. John Hamish Holmes, or you can just call me John. Five months ago I became his, and this is the fact that does not seems to change by any means. I am that mysterious man with a bad leg and with another mysterious man with a funny hat.
You might have seen us before, we live in 221B Baker Street, the room upstairs where the light is always turned on, because Sherlock Holmes has a strange addiction to his passion about observing certain things in the bedroom even when he is off duty from being a private eye.
Life is a plane with so many congruent and crossed and zigzagged lines that it became so boring.
But thank God he exists, that my days finally had meanings.
Like a bloody animated 4-D cartoon.
"Is that what you normal people call it?"
Cue one normal afternoon. His words.
I love it. I just love it.