Irene Adler

First, let me make this clear to you John: I have never felt, or will ever feel anything resembling love or sexual attraction for Ms. Irene Adler; not the faintest stirrings of anything remotely similar to either of those two conditions (and I am intimately acquainted with both, John, since you came into my life). I know for some kindly, but woefully misguided reason you believe otherwise, but you could not be more wrong (Good God, John, never mind that I love you to distraction and am completely incapable of noticing anyone else − at the very least, you know I'm a fastidious man and Irene Adler was a career sex trade worker. What on earth were you thinking? The mind boggles, it really does).

So let's reason this out shall we? Allow me to ease your mind of the concern that I am secretly pining for the…er, love of Irene Adler.

Irene was placed in my path by my malicious and meddling brother for some selfish reason of his own; most likely that of undermining our relationship, John, of which he has disapproved since the moment we met. For once and for all John, I'm telling you that Mycroft is a malevolent, scheming man who has tried to mould and control me for his own ends since the day I was born. For the most part, until now, he's been more of an annoyance than anything else but so-help-me-God, if he ever does anything again to try to come between us, it will be the last thing he does−British government, Secret Service and CIA be damned!

But back to Ms. Adler. Mycroft calculated that if anyone could seduce me away from you (whether I was a consenting party or not, apparently), it would be Irene Adler. So he set it up; the trip to the palace, the lurid pictures, the sado/masochistic titillation (which, in case you are concerned, is not to my taste at all, it's much more consistent with Mycroft's sexual proclivities than mine).

I can only assume that he has a very low opinion of my intelligence if he thought I'd be fooled by the story of compromising photos and blackmail but I do like to mess with his head and I wanted to know what he was up to, so I went along with it.

The case was far more interesting than it first appeared, with more possibly going on than even Mycroft knew in the beginning. Irene Adler appeared to be an extremely intelligent woman for one thing, and initially she seemed a worthy intellectual opponent. But as has been all too frequent lately, I misjudged the human factor. It became quite obvious, quite quickly that her intelligence was of the feral kind; based in instinct, not reason. There's a difference between wiliness (that street-smart, fear-based instinct for survival) and intelligence (rational, pure logic based on the correct organisation of facts). Disappointingly, Irene Adler's intelligence was of the former type. In short, she was not a worthy opponent, in fact, quite the opposite; someone in need of assistance more than anything else.

With my usual conceit and in hindsight I can see, condescension, I took it upon myself to rescue her. Not really my duty, I suppose, but I knew my brother would not think twice about throwing the fox to the wolves once he had obtained what he wanted from her. Maybe I was expecting gratitude or hoping for admiration, probably I was. But a cornered fox will always bite a helping hand and in doing so can draw as much blood as the wolf. And that, as you saw, is what she did to me.

My visit to the morgue on Christmas Eve to identify her body was characterized by a sense of failure not sadness, John. I know you and Mycroft expected grief from me (met with compassion on your part and satisfaction on his) but I didn't feel it. At most, I felt pity for her and of course guilt since I had convinced myself that I could, and should, save her.

I did not (in my usual over-confident fashion) expect her to con' me quite as thoroughly as she almost did. I knew early on that she had no actual affection for me; she may have thought so, but lust is a very different game from love, as I learned from Moriarty, so that revelation was no trouble for me (in fact, it was a relief). But as I say, in my conceited manner I expected gratitude and admiration. What an excellent lesson receiving neither was.

Now, let's talk about you and Irene Adler, John. I should be extremely annoyed with you, but since I find being angry with you impossible to sustain for any length of time, a mild lecture will have to suffice. You had no business trying to push her on me and you had no business discussing my feelings with her (or Mycroft for that matter) when you were so completely wrong about how I feel. In fact, you have no business interfering with the workings of my heart at all. Well, okay, I suppose you do, since you are my heart, but certainly not in that manner (and just as an aside John, I fail completely to see why you think every woman you meet, including one such as Irene Adler, is a potential object of romantic or sexual attention, either for me or for you.)

I heard everything you said to Irene at the factory and although I recognize that you thought you were doing me a kindness, at the time, it felt more like a betrayal, John. How can you not know that it's you I love and you I want? Even Irene knew it for God's sake! It hurt to hear you say you had no idea of what's in my heart. I asked myself for the 100th time, how could you not know how I feel about you? It's clear on my face every waking moment and likely every sleeping one as well. The people around us see it, but not you. That day I despaired that you would ever love me the way I want you to. That was the cause of my unhappiness John, not Irene Adler!