C. Relations
Sherlock and I do not always get along. Although we come from the same background, there are many philosophical points on which we disagree. One is the treatment of the body. Sherlock believes that you can ignore the body completely. He tries to live on thought alone. Now I am a realist. I know that we cannot completely ignore the needs of the body. Each of us must eat and excrete, and even occasionally indulge in other pleasures for our continued health and happiness.
Another point that we disagree on is the use of the mind. It is our responsibility to use our mind to the fullest. That is why it aggravates me no end that Sherlock refuses to go into public service. He has a very interesting and insightful mind. He may not think it, but I do appreciate his skills, I simply do not like the way that he wastes his talents on solving problems that are unimportant in the greater scheme of things.
That is why it was with irritation as well as concern that I left my modest fare, (A steak and salad with a roll and sliced carrots,) because Sherlock had almost been killed once again.
Agnes and I sped toward the crime scene to see Sherlock. We didn't park too close to the police cars. It is best to avoid publicity in these cases. I could see Sherlock sitting in the back of an ambulance. He rose and walked over to John Watson. They talked. I called up the police report that had just been uploaded.
It read: Cab driver, suspected murderer, found dead from a gunshot wound. The bullet came through the window from another part of the same building. The distance was...
Only a crack shot could have done it! I ran through the list of gunmen at large in my head. None of them were known to be in this area. The wound description said hand gun. Who had the skill to use a hand gun accurately at that distance?
Then I remembered the file on Doctor John Watson. It mentioned that he had competed in the Army Operational Shooting Competition. Only one thousand from the combined armed forces of Britain and Jamaica were allowed enter the competition. Only the best, and Dr. Watson was one of them. John Watson certainly did make loyalties quickly.
Putting down the report, I turned in my seat to look at Sherlock, and saw something shocking. Sherlock was laughing. Laughing as he hadn't done since he was a child.
I'm not saying that Sherlock had a sour disposition. He did not. He was often excited, occasionally manic, and he could act very self-satisfied when he had solved a difficult case, but he was laughing and smiling as he walked with John Watson. It was extraordinary.
I mentally measured the distance between them. Sherlock rarely stands within two yards of anyone if he could help it. I usually stand one yard and a half away from him. But as these two approached the car smiling together, they were not only within one yard of each other. Their shoulder's could almost be touching.
It was clear to me that Sherlock was in love!
This was a serious matter indeed. Sherlock was totally enraptured with a dangerously unstable doctor who had already killed a man to save him. I could see from their expressions that this was no passing fancy. I might as well start looking at china patterns.
I left the car to talk to them. Sherlock was his irritating self. John Watson had somehow mistaken me for a criminal mastermind.
"Close enough." Sherlock said
I don't understand how it happens, but when we are together, Sherlock acts as if he is ten years old. He insulted me on my weight even though I am the thinnest I have been in years, and he accused me of...
Pardon me, I don't mean to complain. it's just that Sherlock always affects me that way. I could tell that he was perfectly fine by how irritating he was, so I wasn't worried about him. It was the Doctor that I wondered about.
I watched him. In Sherlock's presence, John Watson wasn't hostile. He showed concern and curiosity. He even tried to proposition Agnes. I thought, 'he could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever.' Sherlock and John walked off the best of pals even though they had known each other for less than two days.
If I had to put a name to how I felt, I suppose the most accurate word would be...jealous. I felt jealous. I wanted someone like that for myself. Someone who would kill to protect me, not because of my importance to the British government, or because he was paid to do so, but simply because he liked me as a person.
I don't suppose that someone such as yourself could truly understand the significance of this development. For most people friendships are part of their childhood. But we had been taught to view attachments with suspicion. Truth be told, Sherlock Holmes had never had a friend, and neither had I.