Disclaimer: I don't own anything
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
The Secret Life of Sherlock Holmes
It was a quiet night on Baker Street, and Holmes had every intention of spending it with his pipe, his music and perhaps a dose of his favorite poison. The brilliant detective was growing increasingly tired of Watson's lectures on his dangerous lifestyle, not least of all his dependence on cocaine to ward off the loneliness and depression that overcame him from time to time. Holmes had very nearly convinced himself that he was not addicted; a man such as himself could not be addicted. He was beyond such base desires, and merely used the cocaine for recreational and restorative reasons. Then, just as quickly as he had become secure in this assessment the magnificent logic he was capable of would pierce this façade and Holmes was forced to face the ugly truth of his desperate need for his medicinal escape.
Then his practical mind would fall under the grip of another base need, his maddening fondness for … the woman. Ever since their brief encounter during one Holmes' more infamous cases involving a certain Bohemian nobleman she had wholly possessed the once cold and composed detective. He had at one time believed himself beyond the pull of beautiful women, and he had been wholeheartedly mistaken. His memories drifted away lost in crystal clear images of her golden hair, her upturned nose and those blazing eyes which had so easily stolen his heart. He held himself to a different standard than most of her adoring fans. He wanted her for her lovely face and figure; it was true, but his desire – he refused to call it love- stemmed from so much more than mere physical attraction. She was the only woman (very nearly the only the person) to ever outwit him, and he had to be impressed by such deceptive brilliance. She was a master of disguise, and it had to be difficult to hide a beauty like hers. Part of him, the analytical part, wished she was an empty, but gorgeous shell. Then, and only then, he might be able to rid himself of her completely. He knew that he needed to purge himself of her in some way, but telling, someone, anyone, was unthinkable- reprehensible to Holmes. The fact that he was capable of this foolishness was infuriating, but the images he conjured up when he imagined Watson's glee were enough to push him over the edge.
He hated this. Hated his weak desires. Hated her, but most of all he hated himself. He should have known better than to fall for such a woman. One who was blatantly out of his reach. A woman who would never look his way except to view him as an amusing unfathomable creature. Most who knew him and some who didn't viewed him as a ridiculously, brilliant, talented and patient man, but the fact of the matter was he was the furthest a human being could be from patient. When, as a school boy, he had not mastered the violin in a few days he very nearly smashed the instrument to bits. He had only been stopped by Watson's supremely timely entrance. Since that day Watson had been his dearest friend, and only confidante, but this information was something he could not share his new weakness with anyone, not even John. This realization made Holmes feel even more isolated than he normally felt. Although his many accomplishments typically filled him with a sense of pride, he was suddenly bereft of this security as the emptiness of an accomplished life led alone dawned on him.
Resigning himself to his fate, Holmes wrapped his long, elegant fingers around his violin, lifted it up and began to play. His hands seemed to move of their own accord, drawing out a mournfully beautiful tune. Closing his eyes, he let himself slip into a world of pure expression. Every painful, angry or desperate thought was poured out into a song both sublimely human and simultaneously unearthly. However musical escape was effective for only so long. A mind so wildly acute and active could be distracted for only a short time before painful thoughts began to sink in. Holmes tossed the violin onto his armchair and crossed the room in two powerful strides. Grasping the handle of the old mahogany dresser and whipping it open, he dove in searching desperately for his syringe. Finally his frantic fingers latched onto the object of his desire. Pulling the needle out he began to prepare it. Becoming more frustrated with every passing second, he was readying his needle at lightning speed.
Then he was jarred back to reality by harsh, relentless knocking at his front door. 'Damn him. Damn Watson. He had to come now. When Holmes most wanted to be alone. Then it occurred to him, that knocking was atypical of John who knock usually could have passed for a metronomic rhythm. Finally Holmes crossed the room and flung the door open. "Wha-" his words were cut off by the beggar who stood before him. Although he was sure he had never this middle aged woman before he recognized something frighteningly familiar about those eyes, those blazing sapphire eyes. " Holmes" then the reality of the moment struck him with a force that nearly destroyed him.
"Come in Irene".
Be nice that's my first work with Sherlock Holmes. I hope you enjoyed it.