When I was small I cried quite often, and I felt I knew why but never did. Mycroft made fun of me for it and eventually, I stopped. Maybe I just forgot, or maybe I moved on. Whatever the reason, I would play the violin and feel better. I felt as if someone understood.
I wish someone understood.
The day I met Ms. Adler I picked up my violin, something I hadn't done in a while. I teased Mycroft in good spirits, something I hadn't done in a while. I laughed, which I haven't done in a long while.
Certainly not laughing anymore.
Ms. Adler is dead. The Woman... is dead.
I pick up my violin, and play her song. I haven't named it yet, it doesn't need a name. Neither does she, really.
The Woman.
The smooth notes fill my mind, I try focus my mind on the complexity of the song but end up thinking of the complexity of Irene Adler.
John and Mrs. Hudson are in the kitchen, they think I can't hear them. How can they think I can't hear them?
John shakes his head and says "Listen, has he ever had a, uh, girlfriend? boyfriend? A relationship, ever?"
"I don't know."
John sighed, "How could we not know?"
"It's Sherlock, how will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" replied Mrs. Hudson.
No one understands.
I thought The Woman would understand. So cold yet smiling so large, filling her life with sex and chaos to fill the void I fill with solving mysteries. We both learned to fill that void alone.
I can see John through the window, talking to a woman who is clearly one of Mycroft's.
But why didn't he send Anthea?
It's not Mycroft's girl. It's not Mycroft.
Follow him. Follow John.
Don't let him do this alone. Not like Ms. Adler did.
