Staccato.
The problem did not lie with the aftereffects of the narcotics. It was still torture, a year later. Sherlock could handle torture; he had inflicted and received it several times, frequently concurrently. Know the deductive procedures of thy enemy, and how you may surpass them. The problem was how everyone else saw him afterwards. The insinuations of the other people, regarding his unique way of seeing the world (It was unique; there were no counterexamples, that was proof enough). Every compliment, or sneer of envious disdain sounded the same, triggered the same voice. The voice was not seductive. Apparently, the song was seductive for many other people – a call for comfort, for memories and sensations beyond the reach of the lucid mind. Of course, lucid was the key. Sleeping addicts lapsed. They got lost. Sherlock did not find the thoughts comforting. The voice did not promise happiness, or glory, or peace. It simply, matter-of-factly, stated that he was not as good as he was when his veins were playing the violin, rather than him. It was increasingly hard to argue. He was so slow nowadays. Still the platitudes came, when puzzles were solved in through the most convoluted, obfuscated route that was still, somehow, recognized as genius (as if a genius could be followed so easily), recognized as inhuman (as if that was insulting or flattering), recognized as a shadow, come on poppet, you can be better than slow, you were much faster when you gave me a home let me in poppet.
Blink.
Confusion? He closed his eyes and walked into his garden. His garden was not beautiful; the garden was there because a house of this magnitude needed one. It was shaped like a semicircle in a fashion that might have been reminiscent of one of the old Victorian stately Homes, but it had no detail and no character. One might imagine it the garden of someone who had glanced outside once, found it dull, and planted trees and bushes in places carefully chosen to transmit that same apathy to guests who had come for the main attraction. The house had detail, on the inside. Corridors of images and bubbling shouts. Take a right at the walking stick, a left at the drawers of spiritualist iconography. Sherlock stood there. In this room, there were mirrors with people in. Every palace needs courtiers. And one of the joys? Of seeing what box people fit into at a glance is that they are welcomed in the palace with a box crafted for the purpose. Scratches on the mirrors show dates, times. Some faces were clearer, snarling, but boring – archetypes for future reference. He was here for two people, less substantial than the rest.
He looked at the face of Watson. He looked at the empty mirror, feeling scratches blossoming down his left arm.
"What has changed?"
Do not ask me just think SLOW. slow. it makes you slow you know that 'detective'.
"Seduction is not our forte, we see past it, at least with each other. Why then, do you choose to make such a ploy? It is not your place."
Would you be happy being like that. Forever your companion would have you live a sleep ing life. REMEMBER how bright you shone.
"I keep things I want to remember in this palace of mine. Things that may be of use to me one day, and things that I cannot live without. You are not the first, I doubt you are the second. And while you may always be the third, I do not have to listen- I am good enough for any challenger that comes my way, and I will not resort to fighting myself."
Sherlock picked up a linen covering from the floor.
"I have a more interesting project."
He draped the cloth over the cracking mirror, glancing briefly at the locked door in the corner of the room before spinning on his heel.
Sherlock walked out of the gates and up to Paddington station, basking in the sunlight.
"Ticket please."