Hmmmmmmm, What to do during a 2 hour lay over in the Huston airport? Why, write sh22 fanfiction of course! The narrator changes to a neutral 3rd person in the first part of this chapter, so that we can hear Holmes's perspective. Is he really thinking about Irene? Or are his thoughts focused more on a certain inspector we all know. Well, I'm sure you all know the answer, but you should read this anyway…
Disclaimer: Ding! You are correct, Anozira does not own SH22.
Sherlock Holmes left 221 B in less than his usual composure. His Inverness hung loosely about his shoulders, unbuttoned and wrinkled. His deerstalker sat crookedly on unkempt dirty-blond hair. For a man so scrupulously neat the vast majority of the time, this uncharacteristic show of carelessness clearly reflected some inner turmoil.
As he left the flat, Watson called out to him, "Dinner will be ready soon, Holmes," but Holmes chose to ignore him, shutting the door to the flat behind him softly.
The cold New London air hit him like a hammer. The cold mist of the fog condensed on his skin, chilling him far more effectively than mere rain, and the brisk wind stank of fish and burning petrol from countless hovercars in the sky above. A useless waste of the earth's resources, he thought to himself. He turned and headed down towards the waterfront on foot, walking slowly and relishing the feel of the cold air on his flushed skin.
He stared into the brackish water, moodily. "Why did I react that way?" he asked a seagull who perched on the railing and looked at him curiously as if to ask what are you doing here? Holmes fed it a piece of cracker he found in his pocket. "What on earth prompted me to tell her that?" The memory of Irene had haunted him these last few days, he could hear her laughing at him as he talked to the seagull. He thought about Lestrade sitting back in 221 B staring at the door. The atmosphere had changed drastically after he had confessed that memory to her. He had seen Irene sitting in his sitting room where Lestrade had been, Irene's usual small inner smile replaced with Lestrade's mocking expression. He had run away from the vision and did not relish the idea of going back soon. Instead he pulled his Inverness closer around himself and fended off the persistent seagull.
Lestrade did remind him of Irene in a way. They had the same irrepressible spirit, the same haughtiness and lack of respect for conventions, the same desire to be self supportive. They were neither of them afraid to show their intelligence, unwilling to act dumb to please intimidated men. He had respected and loved Irene for her independence and rutheless disregard for convention, and he felt the same way about Lestrade.
Wait a minute now, he thought, do I feel the same way about Lestrade? He had admitted to himself that he respected her. She was intelligent for a Yardie. But, then, Scotland Yard had made some impressive improvements over the years, despite much that was still the same. I'm evading the subject, the yard is not what's in question here, Lestrade is.
The seagull had grown bolder and was currently searching for more cracker bits among the spacious pockets of his Inverness. "Let us examine the situation, shall we?" He said to it, ignoring the fact that reasonably sane men did not talk to surprisingly friendly seagulls on the shore of the Thames. "I reread Watson's account of the Adler case. I had Diedre print out a picture of Irene to hang in its old place above the desk. Lestrade noticed my uncharacteristic behavior and investigated it, and when she confronted me with her knowledge, I told her the entire story without hesitation or regret. Then something happened, the mood in the room changed, and I left. These are the facts of the case." The seagull pecked at his sleeve, and he shook it off irritably.
"But that still does not answer why I spent so much time remembering that year in Montenegro, nor why I felt the need to tell Lestrade about it. You've ignored the obvious, Sherlock, there's only one reason, and you know it. He turned away from the seagull, wondering why it had suddenly sounded like his brother Mycroft.
But, could he really…No, certainly not! He respected her, they worked together. Theirs was a professional relationship, nothing more. And yet, the atmosphere of that room…
"Stop it!" he said to himself You're talking to yourself, now. If you're not careful you're going to end up in a cell. That would be difficult to explain to Lestrade. He shook his head to clear it. But he couldn't seem to get the image of her standing staring at him expectantly with her hands on her hips as she asked him what had happened all those years ago in Montenegro. And he had told her. And then…For a brief moment in that room he had felt as if he had been transported back 200 years to his hotel room in Montenegro the day Irene showed up and asked him what he was doing in Montenegro and why was alive. How odd. Both times he had clung to the deception. He had run away from the unsettling feeling. "There was only one Irene Adler." He told himself, softly. "But she is not Irene Adler, she's different. She's presumptuous, rash, and stubborn as hell, but she has a sense of humor that Irene never had." He stared into the Thames, battling with himself.
"Damn!" he said suddenly, startling the seagull which squawked indignantly and flew away.
This is only half of this chapter, but I'm posting it anyway. What do you think? Do you like the 3rd person? Or would you prefer I write it from Holmes's perspective (this always scares me, I'm afraid I'll never get his perspective exactly right...)The next half is on its way. I'm now completely out of school and moved out, so I have lots of time to devote to writing until my summer job starts up in Mid June :-)
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ps: BIG thank you to all reviewers, I will send you all replies as soon as the chapter is completely done.