A Flash of Red Hair
I recently watched the 2009 Sherlock Holmes, and I then finally read the books and short stories, something I always wanted to do but always put off. I love the books and the movie, something that doesn't happen often for me—books generally tended to better—and felt the movie added depth to the characters and stayed truthful to them (even though they were a different interpretation). Also, I love the Irene Adler twist to it—the portrayal of romance between Sherlock and her because I think it shows his "human" side—plus, they fit together. I say this not to bore you, but to say a warning: I know many don't like the interpretation presented through the film, but this fanfic follows the movie in some aspects (like the more eccentric sides of Holmes and the Holmes/Irene romance), but will still stay true to the books. I hope in this fic I can bind the movie and the books together.
Prologue
Most of the time, I felt I bored Watson. I felt selfish for dragging him everywhere. I felt it was an amazing thing that he hadn't left me some time ago, like everyone else had. Sometimes I wished he, too, had my powers of deduction, so we would be equals. But sometimes I was supremely glad my brother and I were the only ones in England to have the power of deduction, to see things others didn't notice, to be so much more supremely gifted than the others. Because that way, Watson couldn't see the one thing that I wished to hide from him. Because that way, my secrets would remain that way-my secrets. Because if he did have those powers, he would notice. He would notice that flash of red hair in the crowd, or that deep colored gown, or that glimpse of that most graceful face as it turned into an alleyway, or those hands (filled with old wedding and engagement rings, but none, indeed, on the ring finger of the left hand)—all of those things which would, in effect, show him the occasional presence of her.
Ah, but he was learning from me, the dear Doctor. And I hated that too, sometimes. Because what he saw would eventually lead to one of his insufferably accurate theories of how I felt, or how something had affected me, or some load of ridiculous horseradish such as that. Damn his knowledge of the human emotion. Admittedly, it was probably instigated by my being flung in what Watson called one of my "black hole fits" or one of my "moods". He insists that I seem to be melancholy, that my violin produces only lonely sounds, that I finger the sovereign on my waistcoat, that I refuse my meals, that I waste my days in front of the fire and am constantly in a daze of ill-advised drugs. I cannot help it in any way. Only that when I see that flash of red hair, or that deep colored dress, or that graceful face, or those hands that simply call for, and simply are the presence of Irene, I can only think of her and that very adventure that led me to her. I cannot face reality, and I seem to fall into a kind of slumber, where I wake to find myself after a certain amount of time, staring into flames, the soft kiss of cocaine still impressed upon my mind. He jests that it's the lack of cases or that my mind is simply too great for this world or some such theory, but I see it in his eyes—he knows, or suspects, her. It's a pity he's so intelligent; yet I don't know what I would do if he wasn't. I thank the Gods he has the sense to not include it in his biographies.
My instinct told me something was amiss. Other than those flashes, I haven't heard of her since our last adventure. She was coming back. That much was for sure, especially when I found the handkerchief lying on the table, for the third time.