May 15th, 2009

Being an excerpt from the memoirs of the most esteemed A. Kirkland, M.D.

People are funny things. Always dashing about, absorbed in their own little dramas, never taking any notice of the things around them, yet they still claim to be genii, professionals, masters of observation. And yet.

So many things go unobserved, uncomprehended, or flat-out ignored.

Including (and especially) those who do the leg-work.

No-one ever notices the men behind the scenes.

I suppose that was what made it so easy to pull off such a trick, to fake the brilliance of the man known as Alfred F. Jones.

Not that the man wasn't brilliant, oh no, he was a very smart individual indeed. He was not, however, the genius the media made him out to be. My Alfred was certainly a brilliant man, but he was a man of science, a man of cold, hard facts. And that was where I came in. I, with my literary upbringing and my solitary childhood, had the ability to delve into the deepest corners of the human mind, to manipulate them to any extent I chose. We were, to all intents and purposes, complete opposites- two people whose paths would never even dream of crossing, if it weren't for an old classmate (read: subordinate) of mine who was inclined to meddle.

Upon meeting and subsequently getting to know each other, we discovered that we both had something the other wanted- he his shot at fame and glory, and I a chance to exercise my skills whilst remaining completely anonymous. So we became roommates, and donned our façades. They were, to a certain extent, the complete opposites of our true natures, not unlike the stereotypical theatre symbol of two masks. He became heartless and insensitive, a man of ice, whilst I played the friendly dullard, only kept around for my worth as a blogger.

He was the man in the spotlight, the media's golden boy, the name on everyone's lips. And I was the go-fer, the one who ran around dark alleyways collecting information, the one who talked to people. The one who extracted information from those who would not talk, the one who learned people's secrets without them ever realising.

Come to think of it, I would have made an excellent criminal. Pity Ivan went and killed himself. The havoc we could have wreaked together would have been simply breathtaking to watch.

But I suppose he wasn't as smart as he led people to think, otherwise he would have seen through our pitiful little show, and he wouldn't have wasted his genius on a silly little gambit that did nothing but take the life of a man so enmeshed in the power plays of the rich and famous that he couldn't bear to get out.

And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be as painfully bored as I am now. Keeping up a façade is so utterly tedious without the distraction and excitement of a new case. I daresay taking Ivan's place would be rather easy; after all, there are few people in the world possessing that level of genius, and even fewer wanting to fill those blood-red shoes.

Yes, I think I shall add that to my limited range of options. The life of a criminal might turn out to be rather fun.

That is, I shall think on that option after I have recalled when (and why!) I began to refer to Alfred as mine.

I… uh… hi, there.

So.

I… uh… decided to start another multichapter.

Please… Please don't hurt me.

I promise I will update the others sooner or later.

So…uh… just to clear things up a bit, I switched the roles 'cause I'm a total hipster like that and I'm too cool for your Arthur=Sherlock canon. So yes, Arthur (or England, or Britain) is now John Watson and Alfred (or America) is now Sherlock Holmes. HA.

I'm kind of mixing the movies with the BBC series with the original books so it's kind of murky and horrible and stuff. (I still want BBC Sherlock's coat. That is an awesome coat.)

OH GOD SO MUCH OOC WHYYYYYYY

Does anyone else like the idea of England and Russia teaming up to destroy/take over the world as much as I do?