My name is Sherlock Holmes. The following account of my life and times is entirely true.
I can, in all honesty, say that I am sorry to those I have hurt.
I recall the night with precise clarity. This is one of my many inborn traits, and it is of paramount use to me. My own recall of actions is quite astonishingly purposeful, although it may not seem so at first glance. Though, your perceptions of my intellectual capacities are really not of concern to me in this moment. I have set out to describe the horrors I have committed, and do that I shall.
As I recall, it was a September night. The cold had begun to creep into the flesh of those trapezing about London, and I was no exception. After a forcibly genial conversation with my 'agent', I settled backstage and began to apply what I had come to call 'war-paint'. In actuality, it was reflective foundation and small amounts of other cosmetics.
This, once more, is of no use. I have been told I am meant to give some sort of background, to make the reader feel more or less informed of my activities, but this seems to be of no use to me. Still, I will comply to satiate the masses. As I always have.
My history is none of importance. I was a boy. I am now a man. Any wealth I have achieved has been done so from disturbing means. I am fully aware that my actions are primarily selfish.
I do not sleep well at night.
Nor did I then.
The crowd, that night, was particularly usual. In fact, I had known many of them quite well. This often would make for an extraordinarily boring night. Closer to the back, in the seats, was a couple I had not known.
The man was certainly older, older than her, with well worn skin. His jaw was defined as he stared up at me, with his eyes narrowed. Obviously, skeptical to the paranormal. Those were always my favourites. Both because they aren't quite so gullible as my normal crowd, and they provide something of a challenge. His hair is cropped short, this, particularly when combined with the authoritative way he holds his shoulders, easily implied a soldier. Considering his age and hair, it is easy to assume he held a higher position than a foot soldier.
The woman is a stern woman of African origins. Her hair is short and natural. I assumed this was a recent decision, probably not one of relevance. The chance the cut was emotionally driven is high, considering she was at my 'show' (I had doubts they had come for the man's sake - by his gaze, it had been made apparent that he had no intention whatsoever of believing any of the bollocks I was about to spew). There was a sort of hollowness in her eyes, as though something had stolen the sun from her. Considering statistics as well as her mere presence, I felt safe in the assumption she was not here for a husband (not to mention, she was clearly on a date with the man beside her, holding his hand with both of hers) but for her child. Statistics would suggest a male child, though that is not always relevant. In the case that I was incorrect, which I was not, most of those seeking comfort quickly forgive.
The lights went down, slowly dimming to settle the audience toward me. As the stage lights turn on, I casually adjust my microphone and give my audience a small smile. It is entirely forced. I realised I was quite a whore in these moments, and was plenty unwilling to enjoy their undivided attentions for such menial acts. But it softens the crowd, charms them further to me.
After I gave my introduction, which I hardly even pay attention to, I step back from the edge and close my eyes. This moment is entirely theatrical. In actuality, I am doing nothing at all. I breathed in, slow and deep as the lights dimmed slightly around me, merely for the effect. I inhaled sharply through my nasal passages, creating a sharp echoing sound before I exhaled and stilled. As I surveyed the crowd once more, I found the couple again, and gestured toward them through the pack of familiar faces.
"M'am, I can feel someone here for you. A young child, a boy, I believe," I say softly and slowly as I maintain eye contact. A box of tissues is passed through the crowd and handed to the woman to whom I spoke. She takes one and releases the man's hand as she moves to her feet. He holds the box with both hands and watches her face, not mine.
She nods and clears her throat, "Yes, he-" she begins but I shake my head.
"A car accident?" I offered. It's statistically the most likely, and in this case, the correct answer.
She let out a high sound of mourning before covering her face with the tissue and nodding quickly, "He, is he scared? Was he scared?" she asks in a quiet voice.
I realised in that moment that this is not her child. When a mourning mother asks about her own child, often, her first question is whether the child was aware how much she loved him.
I maintained my gaze on her expression, "He says that he didn't mean to wander off," and as I say it, I can tell what I've said has 'hit'. He did wander off - I quickly make the assumption that she was his caretaker, a nanny or teacher. "At first, he was afraid, but he's in a better place now, does he have someone else there with him? Someone he loved very much?"
This, once more, sounds specific, but it is in fact incredibly transparent. Perhaps a family dog, or pet of some kind, even extending to an uncle or grandfather. But the woman was moved by my mention of it. She wipes under her eye and her lower lip trembles.
"Yes, the week before he...passed, his hamster died," she says with a hint of fondness for the lost boy, "He was so sad, I think...I don't know why he ran off," she says, her voice miserable as she clutches to her face, "I-I told him, I told him not to run off like that," her voice cracks as the man beside her reaches up to stroke her lower back. Softly, she mutters that she's all right, repeatedly before settling her face into his shoulder.
His fingers worked over her neck, and I can see that they are calloused. While the facts clearly convey that this man had absolutely lost people in his lifetime - quite probably a parent, even, I did not have much that I felt safe treading into.
I continue my show in a very dull manner, relaying facts I already knew about people I'd seen before. While I suppose it is selfish to admit, I don't really care; I absolutely abhor the task completely.
What I can not fail to recognise now, in my present state of mind, is that I have victimised the mourning. The people who I prey on (and I do have mind to call them my prey - this was not a fair fight) are broken, and the fact that I do such a thing is a note to my character.
I am not a good man. I was, particularly, not then.
The women, and they are generally women, are searching for a connection to what is not there. There is no afterlife. No spirits. Only death and life. Which, frankly, ought to be enough. But they are pained. They want the answers I am happy to give to them.
Perhaps it brought them some comfort, but I realise, comfort from lies is hardly comfortable at all.
I do not sleep well. I hardly ever slept then, and if I did, not without the assistance of powerful drugs. Not like the cocaine I was occasionally partial to ingesting on the more miserable nights (let it be noted, miserable nights are distressingly frequent).
But that night, the one I met John, was not one.
At the end of the show, I found this man, whose name, I, at that point, did not know. I approached him with my posture intentionally opened, a hand reaching out for his. With a low soft voice, I asked him and his date to join me backstage. That I would help with his leg.
He gave me a skeptical look, bless him (I say that with all the reverence of a self-professed Godless anti-theist). But, along he went. I am certain he found my readings captivating and impressive, though he was hesitant to believe I had any special powers - I doubt he had an alternative explanation, but, alas, he was correct in that instance without any data (to be fair, he just didn't have the intellectual capacity to discern the necessary data - it was entirely present).
As I brought him back, he stood and watched me work. I could tell from his stance that, although he leaned on the cane, he had almost forgotten the pain. As I brisked him with my gaze, so quickly as to go without his notice, I noted the position of his shoulders. Certainly, held straight and broad, as any good soldier would do. Psychosomatic. This was quite a gift to me - anything psychologically caused could easily be psychologically revealed. That is, if I could quell his skepticism. I set to work.
"Captain," I said as I extended my hand, my head turned slightly and my eyes wide.
He blinked up at me and frowned before taking my hand with one of his.
And again, without his knowing, I discovered more about him. A doctor. It is too difficult to describe my conclusion, but it is drawn both from the way his hands were calloused and the previous data I had collected.
"Yes, John Watson, hello," he says with a small nod as he still holds to my hand.
I lick my lips briefly and settle back, "I can feel injury too, and although you limp, I don't believe the injury is to your leg," I said as I stepped forward and placed my hand to his shoulder, "I can feel the pain here, something hot, ripping through flesh. A bullet," I said it all in a soft breath, as though it were coming to me in a dream.
The man was completely shocked, his eyes briefly widening as they locked on mine from the short distance we were apart. That was my way in. I had his attention, and no intention of losing it any time soon.
I lead him to a stool, and asked him to settle himself there. He obliged and I fell to my knees before him. With my palms, I stroked my hands over his thighs, "I want you to focus on a patient you had, once, allright? Focus on the feeling of healing them, of helping them. I want you to recall their gratitude, do you have someone in mind?" I asked as I gingerly massaged into the 'afflicted' limb. He hesitantly closes his eyes and nods shortly. Ever the soldier. I continued my actions, my hands moved slowly and patiently over his jeans before sliding down to move along his calf, "I want you to feel the pain leaving your muscles, to have it ease and part from your tendons, until it's gone," I said in a low voice, staring up into his face.
The woman stood to my right, watching with her eyes wide, perhaps imagining she felt some energy with the lies I was vomiting. In these private moments, I always had want to tell them all the truth. My craft is a proud one, and I sullied it nightly to gain trust and finance myself.
Every moment, I degraded everything I ever loved. I made my money on the unreasonable, I demolished the one thing I loved into a mere parlor trick.
Do not think I am asking for your sympathy or understanding. I am expressing what is true, as I have failed to do for these many years.
John, as you read this, you do not need to forgive me for what I have done to you. But, what I am saying is the entire truth. Through all of this, I recognise this is more important than anything else. I have many secrets, and I no longer want this one.
You are not a fool.
I am an evil man.