I don't own Holmes or Watson.
Beta'd by my lovely ploos won, Rosey.
It has come to my attention that in one of his more recent publications-under the title, I believe, of "A Scandal in Bohemia", though rarely do I delegate my attention to such sensationalist writings as my dear Watson produces with such alarming regularity—that some few statements were made about me that are doubted by the reading public.
Firstly, I believe it to be a capital offense to the astuteness and intelligence of Dr. Watson to doubt anything he lays before the reader. Though he is, as I have said before, unfortunately given to poetics and drama rather than the presentation of methods and fact, when one dispenses of those factors that make his narratives palatable to the masses, he is, indubitably, the most reliable source of information on myself and my cases.
Thus it stands that when the doctor says that love is foreign to my nature, it would be most prudent to trust in his judgment.
Though how such a matter could possibly be of interest to anyone other than myself, since it has appeared to have generated an absurd amount of attention, I thought it perhaps best to address the matter myself and lay it to rest once and for all.
If, for some reason, the reader does not consider Dr. Watson's knowledge definitive enough, then I should hope that my own would settle these qualms. I do this solely to debunk any doubts on the matter of the reliability of the doctor's writings, as I am private man on such matters and could not rouse myself to care about the opinions of the masses on my ability to love under any other circumstances.
Dr. Watson is correct. I find the notion of romance foolish and flighty, a trivial fantasy to occupy those with no other method of distraction. I, by the very nature of my work, find myself more closely linked to the reality of humanity and the nature of the world than others could even dream, and as such, I have no need for fantasy. The world holds more mysteries than even I could solve in a lifetime, and what more do I need than that to occupy my time? The workings of a clock have more logic and beauty than do the workings of the heart.
And, I admit, I am cynical about even those. I have seen many things done in the name of love; lives ruined, lives lost. I have seen the products of years of work destroyed in a single moment of passion, families torn apart, all chances at happiness for one or both of the individuals involved lost forever because of an ill-considered affair of the heart. It seems to me that something so touted as a bringer of joy should, in fact, bring joy more often than pain.
It is a distracting, dangerous force, and as anyone who has ever given even a cursory glance to any of Dr. Watson's biographical documents should know, I encounter more than enough danger in my line of work, and as such I cannot afford even the slightest of distractions.
Dr. Watson has mentioned in a few of his case-studies that I do not eat while I am working; I find that distraction enough. How, then, could anyone think that I would allow a distraction as great as love to come into my life? Putting another's life above my own in importance is one thing; putting that person's life above the work is entirely another, and one I am quite adverse to. Certainly I have made concessions before, in the case of Dr. Watson himself, but that was merely because he has a life outside my work, and does not deserve to suffer for it.
The syndromes of love, so I have heard, are such frivolous and childish things as a rapidly palpitating heart, dilated pupils, a sense of peace around the object of one's desires, and a constant urge to please him or her. As such, I can say with complete and utter conviction that I have never experienced these as caused by love. Naturally, as I am human, I have experienced the first two, as the often harrowing cases Dr. Watson and I work on can cause a quite natural excitement as the body's reaction to danger, and the lights of Baker Street are quite dim. Never have I found a sense of inner peace around an individual, for, to be entirely honest, I find the presence of others—saving, of course, Watson himself—to be quite chafing. Especially since his accounts have been published, the fame it has garnered me is quite unbearable, and I am always relieved to be off the streets and home at the end of the day. Though I've had to make certain adjustments to my lifestyle since the arrival of Dr. Watson to Baker Street in order to keep him content, I've found them all well worth it, since the companionship he provides is an invaluably refreshing change from the sordid and mediocre I find myself forced to interact with otherwise.
My fascination and curiosity towards Miss Irene Adler was caused only by her intelligence as a worthy adversary. I experienced none of the so-called symptoms of love, and desired to keep her portrait for such reasons as future recognition. I saw her for but a very short time, and should she ever appear in London again I would like to be aware of it. Were I 'in love' with her, as seems to be whispered aggravatingly loudly among certain circles, would I not be able to recall her features by memory alone? The precise blue of the eyes, the creasing of the brow as a frown of concern crosses it, the exact location of a scar and knowledge of when it will ache—these are the things lovers can recall with perfect clarity about one another, is it not? Then, since with the aid of the portrait, my memories of Miss Adler are a fleeting impression of sharp, dark eyes and rather reddish hair, it would seem logical to conclude that I was not, and am not in love with her.
With this small piece, I have done my utmost to quell the rumours about my private life. There is no reason to further besmirch Dr. Watson's name by doubting either his honesty or his accuracy; so I'll thank you for your time and hope this statement was enough to ease inquisitive minds and restless tongues.