I bought another Sherlock Holmes book yesterday! :D The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, I have four of the books now, and will look forward to reading it :)

Anyway, this chapter was a request for Dimmock (from The Blind Banker) I hope you enjoy!

Please review :)


The Darkest Moments, Chapter 9

An Inspiration

Let's face it, when Sherlock Holmes walked into the room and opened his mouth, your brain suddenly became the size of a pea and your ego so small the consulting detective would have to observe it under one of his annoying microscopes. You wouldn't think such a man would walk into a crime scene from the street and be able to do that, especially to a detective (not a Sergeant, as I had to find myself pointing out to Sherlock). But clearly there was someone, and it just so happened to by my luck that it was my case that Sherlock Holmes strode in on and pretty much took control. For those who may not have noticed, I was not impressed.

Well, I suppose that's not going to happen any more, with the famous and notorious Sherlock Holmes now being dead and buried.

I wonder how people at the police station expect me to feel about this. Relieved, uncaring, pleased, slightly amused even, by the whole thing? Because Sherlock Holmes drove me, and many others, up the wall, so we should be glad to see that he's gone.

But I don't feel like that. Instead I feel confused, saddened, and even a little lost about the whole thing.

Because although I never told anyone, I thought Sherlock Holmes was a great man, indeed, he was an inspiration.

True, I didn't like him when I first encountered him, this strange 'consulting detective' taking over my case and telling me everything I believed to be true to be absolute nonsense, pointing out that I was doing everything wrong and coming up with some insane theory about a simple suicide actually being quite a complicated murderer.

However after a few days I had to confess that Sherlock was right about everything he said in our first encounter. I had got everything totally wrong and it certainly wasn't just a simple suicide. Although I was not the one to have solved the case, at least someone did, and the murders ceased. For that we should all be grateful for Sherlock Holmes, but instead we turn green with envy and start believing that there must have been some other way for him to have worked it all out. Then the theory about the detective possibly being a fraud comes out, and everyone who had heard Sherlock say one bad thing against them jumped at the chance for revenge.

Maybe you would think that I was one of them, as he did make me feel like an idiot. But I was not, I did not go against Sherlock Holmes. In fact if I had the chance I would have stood up for him, but I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was busy solving a case in Edinburgh, and wasn't there to help the consulting detective as he was driven so close to the edge by all the accusations he ended up throwing himself off a building.

Whatever anyone else says, I still believe that Sherlock was not a fraud or a cheat or a liar. I saw him at work, and there was no crude game afoot, it was the work of a true genius.

Sherlock Holmes told me that if I followed in his footsteps, I would go a long way. I waved the comment away, just trying hard not to give him a rude gesture for taking over my case and making me feel like a complete fool. But, and I don't tell anyone this, I did follow Sherlock's advice in the end. I picked up on his original detective skills and used it in my future cases, I questioned everything I saw and took nothing for granted. I sort of became my own miniature version of Sherlock Holmes, and I did end up finding myself going a long way, solving cases that stumped other detectives to the point they thought it would remain unsolved. I continued to get promoted, going around the country to solve the toughest of crimes and to keep people safe. And I owe all of that because of Sherlock Holmes.

But now he's dead, and no one seems to care.

In the darkest moments I feel completely lost, confused, even angry, as if I had depended so much on a living idle I don't know what to do with myself now he is dead and I hate everyone who is glad he is gone. People are foolish, they don't realise how much we need a man like Sherlock Holmes, and I believe it was because of other people not having enough faith in him that Sherlock killed himself. What a waste.

I wonder how I am able to return to London with the streets full of people dumb enough to belief what was said about Sherlock in the newspapers. They had never met him, they had never seen him do his work, if they did I think they would realise he was a true consulting detective, he was not a liar. The liars were the journalists trying believing in a fairy tale to try and sell some more newspapers.

I met Sally Donovan one day, one of the first things she said was that she was glad Sherlock was gone. I glared at her, clenching my fists, but said nothing. She expected me to agree with her, she also had experienced what it was like to work on a case with Sherlock Holmes, how useless it makes you feel. But I could see that Sherlock was really a great man, despite his thoughts, and I knew that Sally didn't mean what she said, because there was a glitter of sadness in her dark eyes, as if she regretted every dark thought that came into her head about Sherlock Holmes.

Perhaps I should move somewhere else, get away from London and their crude comments about Sherlock, and get a job as a detective in Wales or Scotland or somewhere where his name is less heard of. Or maybe I should stay here and help spread the word that Sherlock can and was a good man, he was an inspiration and changed many lives, mostly for the better. People need to hear the truth about him, because I don't believe a word the newspapers say.

Either way, I feel a pang of regret that I never got to speak to Sherlock Holmes properly again after working on my case with him. He may be annoying, irritating, bossy, rude, ridiculously clever and insulting, but I needed to say to him: thank you. Thank you for the inspiration.