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In a world so beautifully enigmatic, the man of science and avid admirer of fiery conundrums kneels before nothing except the promise of discovering grand mysteries. Sherlock Holmes is congenitally curious. It is solely upon his judgment that the air he breathes has nothing to do with the oxygen that grips him from abiding nor does it have the right to be the reason how he still exists; he remains because of the relentlessness of human existence.
“The air the Mystery breathes are humans.”
Humans tend to gravitate towards the unknown due to their innate inquisitiveness. It’s their sheer pleasure to seek and learn and imagine concepts and ideas that every so often do not need to be substantial. They are to blame why questions continually reproduce, thus the rearing of countless theories of unknown beings and notions. Sherlock Holmes seems to be in a league of his own when it comes to being passionate about mysteries wrapped in great secrecy. He stoutly believes it is his actual purpose in life—to unravel and scrutinize every mystery that will come his way throughout his time.
And perhaps, he achingly found his life's greatest mystery within the confines of the subconscious chamber of his mind palace, or so he stubbornly believes.
It was as if he was floating; swimming.
He couldn't feel his body and couldn't fully comprehend the situation. It was like he was seeing everything move, yet the idea never reached completeness. His vision blurred; his hearing muffled.
Grasping in naivety, he thought he was floating in space—a dark abyss wherein human intellect might have let itself be sucked by a black hole. There was not a single thing to see—no planets, no solar systems, no blinding balls of fire.
The sole presence of void was the only thing he could make sense of…
Until he finally succumbed to the ennui and despair of nothingness and closed his deep ocean eyes, unable to respire any further; he felt the hands of quietus.
Then a sudden urge to unlatch his eyelids struck Sherlock Holmes.
There he saw the most breathtakingly prepossessing pair of vermillion gems, gleaming in full splendour.
Was it even close to being fair that someone could have such treasure for eyes? They appeared to have nil proximity; he almost gave up thinking it possible he was lost in someone's own universe—a stunning world of carmine. It was enchanting and undeniably spine-chilling.
Blinking, the scene was followed by a man Sherlock viewed in glistening blonde, staring keenly at his frigid soul despite their neutral countenance. He appeared to be a man; however, Holmes was, for the first time in that brief confusing time of his life, downright certain it was anything but a “man”—a creature born from the broad imagination reared by humans. A creature so commercial that even a few pages of proof of its existence could shower one in currencies.
Sherlock's attic had no space for tall tales, but he was not deaf enough to miss those silly narratives from the circles of dreamy children and adults alike. He was married to the very job of confronting mysteries; in fact, he inhaled it like a drug that awakened his blood as if there were no tomorrow. Nonetheless, Holmes had the nerve to show moderation, meaning there were certain types of mystery that only he accepted as his case.
But this ethereal beauty…
…was the kind of “puzzle” he never thought he'd genuflect just to caress a single piece.
Maybe it was a good comeuppance? A divine reward even, because of an excellent exhibition of benevolence from his past life? It was truly a blessing when that heavenly creature of the sea maneuvered to hold Sherlock's cheek and waist closer to theirs. Looking down, he saw an intricate perfection ever made by God: a tail embellished with the finest gradient of rose and gold, scales glistening in all their glory.
He was…
“..so glorious..” Sherlock disclosed mentally, unaware the other party had the power to decipher human minds.
Hearing such an erotic remark, the creature was unable to erase the delighted smirk from his lovely face; it dared him to go for the human's lips, devouring him like a fine salmon from the south.
“Posthac meus es, Sherlock.”
In a foreign hospital bed, he awoke.
In the neighboring room he found his companion, John, still recovering from the shipwreck during their solitary sail to America for his best friend's medical convention.
Sherlock was initially adamant to give credence to every mote of memory he could recall; he told himself it was his weary hippocampus doing so… only he had not the guts to push the notion further through his head.
Down with the option to a wider perception, at the end of the day, he mused that certainly, the air the Mystery breathes— it wasn't all just humans.