Okay, this one...I am not sure at all about. First of all, I've never tried writing in Sherlock Holmes' POV before (movieverse, I mean), and so I was sort of experimenting with that. And secondly, I beta-read my own work, and this time, I simply cannot trust myself to look over it a second time, because I'm afraid I'll back out of posting it, and I really need to post something, right? *chews on fingernails*
Anyway, my dear, wonderful readers...please don't be too harsh...please? *hehe* And I hope someone likes it at least a little...??
Content
I have been described by a certain half-crippled physician as a cold, calculating machine, a creature so unlike the rest of his race that surely he must not be human. I see, I observe, and I deduce, and when I am not seeing, observing, or deducing, I am either experimenting or attempting to tune my faithful violin so that I may amusingly awaken the testy residents of the surrounding abodes.
For most of my life, I would have certainly agreed upon this point. For twenty-odd years, I was content to see, observe, deduce, experiment, and play off-key for my unwilling neighbors. These were the things that held my emotions, the things I could not bear to lose; they were what made me - the reason I rolled out of bed every morning. I had no one, no one had me, and I was more than willing to live in those solitary conditions for the rest of my many-times threatened life, with no emotions or feelings or ties to loved ones to cloud my world - only petty problems to solve and hissing chemicals to mix.
Those lifeless, unfeeling objects were the most important thing in my isolated existence.
It almost makes me laugh aloud now - or at least, shake my head at my own ignorance.
I don't know when, how, or even why, but one way or another, the separate gravitational pulls of each of those things suddenly shifted and combined, attaching themselves to one thing and one alone.
He sits across from me now by the fire, sipping on his tea as his bright cyan-blue eyes - always with a twinkle of mischievousness and adventure - skim over the newspaper in his other hand, his brow furrowing at whatever he is reading.
And I am sitting here, watching him, my violin sitting silently on the settee, my chemicals untouched on the desk, all having been somewhat neglected. Even the alcohol doesn't quite call for me like it before did.
Sometimes, I loathe myself for it; I do not understand why my rational mind would allow my affections to shift from objects that would never hurt me, could never leave me, to something that would, and could, and has.
He is leaving me all alone in this cold, dark, deadly world, perhaps never to return to my side again. I wonder what will become of me after those vows are stated on that horrid day in the near future. He will come around in the beginning, naturally, to see about the cases and such, but it will not last for long - a year, at most, is what I deduce.
I wonder who would grieve for me were I to die on a case gone wrong, when there is no stalwart doctor to watch my back.
No one would, I fancy. He would read it in the papers, perhaps pursue Lestrade for details, pay his respects at the funeral, and then go about his life as if he never had once lived at 221b Baker Street.
And I could not blame him for it.
THE END
I've also never ended something so sad before...wow, a whole lotta new stuff for me. Oh, boy; that cannot be good. I'm thinking about adding a second part, to perhaps make things not so morbid? Or I might just remove this altogether. I'll let you all be the judges! (Go easy!!! LOL)