Update:
Chapter 1 has been updated.
Again, I reiterate I am not a writer, but I am a student of philosophy. I will appreciate any comments, negative or positive, that any of you may have.
This chapter is a bit of a rest, but everything will get more serious from now.
Cheers
/
The sting of pain subsides as I am transported into a place resembling a room. My vision is still a blur, before everything comes in focus. Blots of colours that were previously merged together now slowly extract themselves into individual blurs. Mahogany-brown, butter yellow, concrete grey, bed-sheet white. The colours then start to take shape, prompting a window to solidify into focus. Eight panels of glass, split equally between top and bottom. A mahogany frame emerges around the panels like wooden plank breaking the surface of water. The butter yellow takes the position of the wallpaper but scatters and disappears into white in places, reflecting the age of the room.
Now I hear the rain. Beating against the distorted glass panels. I cannot quite see past the downpour. It seems like moving lines of grey in many shades, which is fascinating since even London's rain can still be penetrated by sight.
"Are you enjoying the weather, Mister Holmes?" comes a curious mocking voice of Irene Adler: the woman.
"Yes, I am," I reply as I turn to look back at her stunningly beautiful but mischievous smile, "Miss…Adler? It seems your last marriage did not last for as long as you had wished for in your letter."
"Oh, please, Mister Holmes, let us not dwell in a subject that will bore both you and I," purrs Irene as she moves from the door into what appears to be a Victorian dining room, closing in on me. "Fate has done me a marvellous service, allowing me to share an afterlife with Sherlock Holmes." Her hand is now placed softly on my cheek, which is ashamedly glowing red.
…And to think she embarrasses me even in death, I truly despise you, God…
"A service for you, my lady, but it is a disservice for me, I assure you." I speak quickly and pull myself away from her deadly touch.
Irene let out a soft high-pitch giggle appropriate for a group of clueless jewellery-studded old ladies at a royal party. I turn to give her one of my better evil stares, but it seems to make her annoying laughter worse, which prompts me to give up and sit down at the dining table.
"Should I leave the two of you alone?" Watson appears through the door, asking the question with a slight upward curl to his lip.
"Please, do not leave, Doctor, I much prefer your company to hers," I plead as Irene sits down on the chair directly opposite me. Watson follows and I decide to seize the opportunity to change the subject, "So…we are dead."
"How cheery," mutters Irene as she turns her attention towards the rain.
"Yes, Holmes, I trust we are," replies Watson with tired voice, "and to think we have to tolerate that old man after death!...I should have chosen to go to heaven instead, Holmes, not that I do not want to see you," Watson lies back against the chair, an unusual pose for an ex-militia, "or you, Madam Adler, but it is simply too much! I merely want rest and the eternal happiness the Bible promised me!"
"Well, Watson, I believe it is clear holding on to the Bible is rather foolish at this time"
"I know, Holmes, I know. But I hope nonetheless…"
Hope is a strange thing…I look at my dear friend as I fall into my own thoughts…Even in the face of all the evidence against that hope, people still 'hope'. It is another enemy of reason, but also vital to our survival. It is what drives us to survive in the face of impossible odds. But this time, there are no odds; it is now an absolute that the Bible is not real…. My dear Watson, I wonder what thoughts go through your mind when you choose to hope for the impossible.
I now look down at the wooden table, observing the deep shadowed grooves of the grains.
Is it simply a malfunction of our brains? Has evolution given us the ability to hope without giving us the controlling valve? I presume humanity has not travelled far enough into the chain of evolution to develop this skill. It is an intriguing thought. We know that our brain is far from perfect. We tend to hurt ourselves with addictions because we cannot control the urges the brain asks of us – gambling, sugar, drugs...I should know.
In the same way that we are addicted to drugs and gambling, we are addicted to hope. I wonder if this addiction will bring about the downfall of our race – when all of us hope for the impossible and pursue it, instead of putting in time and effort to look for less attractive alternatives…
I can only hope humanity has enough of me to alter this course towards destruction.
The rain continues pounding the window, but the room is curiously warm. Then out of nowhere, a grey mist rises from the wooden grain of the table and solidifies into three cups of hot tea in front of us. I look around but neither Irene nor Watson seems surprised at this. I raise an eyebrow at Watson.
"Well, Holmes," smirks Watson, "with all the surprises today, I imagine you understand I am too tired to be surprised now."
"Yes, Watson, I do" I say with a chuckle.
We all look at the steaming cups, which now emits a wondrously tempting scent.
"Shall we, gentlemen?" voices Irene succinctly, her eyes darting between the cup and I.
"It may be laid with poison," I bend down to carefully observe the swirling steam rising out of the clear golden burnt-brown liquid.
"Well, Holmes, it is unlikely we can die again now, can we?" laughs Watson as he raises his cup to his mouth.
"Well, then, even if this is no liquor…To the Afterlife, Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes,"
"Aye,"
"Yes, to the Afterlife, Miss Adler…"
I blow on the steam to cool down the first sip, and slowly drink the tea. Irene and Watson follow almost simultaneously. Then a sensation of extreme tiredness overcomes me, and my eyes droop as my mind dims. The last thought I manage to hold rings inside my head.
I will get you for this, old man…
Blackness wraps my vision and everything disappears.