Scarlet was the color of the blood that coursed through our veins, as far as the general populace was concerned. In fact, blood was a few shades darker. Said darker shade of red covered the walls of my mind in violent splatters. I suspected it covered many of my flatmate's nightmares as well, though I have never asked, only heard him tossing and turning and shouting in the dead of night.
Scarlet was the color of love, filling the heart - it's popular symbol - like blood in the organ. I found it to be a fitting comparison.
Jefferson Hope had died of an aneurysm. His victims - Enoch Drebber and Joseph Strangerson - had both suffered a much less bloody, but equally, if not more, painful fate - it had been Hope's blood upon the wall.
And it had all been in the name of the emotion that they called "love." This was not the first blood I had seen spilt for love and nor, I was certain, would it be the last.
And they wondered why I scorned the emotion.
Hope had died a happy man for all he had done.
I should not have been surprised that my flatmate took a much softer approach to the matter. He saw the world in scarlet, so attuned he was to romance. How many times had he told me to "have a heart?" I was almost loathe to disillusion him, but I had seen the scarlet splatters on the wall.
Scarlet like my cheeks when he gave me a compliment that was much too kind, or when we had found a hiding place that was just a little too close as we waited for a criminal to fall into our trap. Scarlet like the blood that pulsed through my heart much too fast when he was in danger or when we took another step closer under the moonlight. Scarlet like the flower in his lapel on the night when I took his hand when no one could see us and we danced the night away where no one could find us and then it was too late.
Scarlet like the blood that would inevitably splatter the walls because even though I knew, even though I had fought it tooth and nail, it hadn't been enough to stop me from falling into the room with blood splattered on the walls.
It was years after Hope and Drebber and Strangerson that he took up his pen to write the tale of "A Study in Scarlet" - a fitting name if nothing else. He had taken a cautionary tale and turned it into a romance.
Scarlet like my vision whenever I thought of Miss Mary Morstan. Were his dreams still covered in scarlet as he lay in his marital bed?
And still, life goes on. Another person is dead, murdered for love. The walls are covered in violent splatters of not-quite scarlet. I hope in vain that I do not recognize the face, but I know that it is only a matter of time.
And they wondered why I scorned the emotion.