Hi guys This is my first Fanfic, but unfortunately, I do not own either character's in this story. (sobsob) Please review. I'll love you forever if you do.
The game is afoot.
He lay in the dark, blinking up at the blotched ceiling of his room. Why was it that he, Sherlock Holmes, had such a sick fascination with playing with fire? He can't fall in love.
For the sake of the argument, he can't have anything tinting his brain that is even distantly related to the petty emotion. Love is for the simple-minded, he thought hazily, no doubt lingering traces of his favorite drug deluding his usual snarky remark on the soft emotion. If this is true, Sherlock, the practical side of his brain thought, then why on Earth have you allowed this..this woman to lure you into this false sense of safety and completely wreck the emotional structure you have laid out for yourself?
Sherlock blocked that side of his brain for now, he was in no mood for reprimand. But what if he allowed this bizarre feeling to take over, just for the sake of insanity? To see if he could in fact have some sort of sense of emotion past the usual loyalty to his best friend, Doctor Watson. To see if he was in fact, in love.
Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock thought. He shakily rose to his feet to find his trusty violin, his second closest friend next to Watson, but the only one who hadn't left him…He slid this thought to the back of his mental file, deciding to deal with it at a later date. Upon finding his violin, he slumped down in his favorite armchair nearest the fire and began to bow a mourning, lowing tune, no doubt reflecting his current mood. "We need to deal with this rationally," he mumbled to himself over the drone of the instrument.
" Irene Adler is a criminal. She has charmed and seduced many a man to get what she wanted. She was just playing the same game again." Oh, but how he loved the games. His thoughts clouded over, and eventually he flung his beloved violin to the floor in frustration, his elbows seeking their usual resting place upon his knees. Why is it that he had met many women, but none of them could ever send him into such a whirling frenzy as this Adler could?
It just didn't add up. He'd never see her unless she wanted him to, she'd cause him to fall into such a state as he was in now, and then she'd retreat and marry and divorce a random man. Where was the logic? Why was it that by the time he'd start to recover from the last time she'd come, she'd reappear and he'd end up in the same drug-induced haze as always? But the most import question was, why did he love her game? Here came the playing with fire bit again. He'd always prod the flames, but in the end, he'd always get burned.
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in the armchair, his eyelids heavy with the need for sleep and escape from this madness he so often had to deal with. The last waking thought that tumbled through his mind before he slid into a silent reverie was that Irene Adler was the only woman he'd ever want. And the only woman he could never have.
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