The Private Blog of Doctor John Watson – Irene Adler, The Woman

I don't know what to do about Sherlock at the moment – he isn't eating, isn't sleeping, and simply refuses to talk. He hasn't been the same since the news of Irene Adler's death – anyone else and I would say he was grieving – but this is Sherlock. I know he thinks that all other minds are inferior to his own, and I might not be able to tell a farmer from a grass stain or an airline pilot from his left thumb but I can tell when something isn't right, especially with him. I can tell by the pallor of his complexion that he hasn't eaten, and by the dark circles under his eyes that he hasn't slept in days. I can tell that his state of mind is suffering every time he picks up that violin of his by the melancholy way that he plays, and I am not ignorant to the fact that every time I so much as try to bring up her name with him he turns his back, to conceal his own tears.

Mycroft is worried, and I have done everything I can to keep an eye on him, but I cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day. Both myself and Mrs Hudson have been through this flat from top to bottom every night since the night we received Mycroft's call, just in case he has somehow managed to sneak a secret stash of narcotics past us during the day – not that this is likely though as he never seems to leave the flat anymore, and nobody ever visits. I stay with him for as long as I can stand it, and then Mrs Hudson takes over the rest.

Before the Miss Adler incident Sherlock had been doing quite well at giving up smoking, I'd even managed to get him to listen to me and he'd started to heed the recommended dosage of one patch at a time laid out on the back of the packet – but now I make sure that I always have a cigarette to hand just in case he feels the sudden need to light up, in the hope that this may stave off the urge to use the narcotics as a way to fend off the pain.

Of course I only have Mycroft's word that this is to be his most likely course of action, but he has known Sherlock longer than me and I am sure he only has his brother's best interests at heart. Who am I to argue? I am only his friend and flatmate, and as such am liable to allow my judgement to become clouded with sentiment and concern. Mycroft is just like Sherlock – cold and rational – despite the fact that an understanding eye and a few sympathetic words might be all that is called for.

Mycroft doesn't deal with issues of the heart.

The truth is that I have never seen Sherlock like this before , he's usually able to remain so detached from his emotions, but I am beginning to think that maybe Irene Adler might have been the only woman Sherlock Holmes ever loved – and if that's the case I have no idea what affect her death might have on him in the weeks to come, and how long this might last. I can only be there for him, when he's ready to talk (if he's ever really ready to talk to me), and hope that for his sake this is only a brief descent into melancholy and that he's back to his normal, restless, petulant self soon.