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1.
The system is simple enough. You see, then you observe, then you compare it to the data already available at the Mind Palace and find the proper space for that particular new piece of information. Once in its right place, it’s easy. You make the connections and everything turns obvious, elementary.
It’s appalling how other people can’t even bring themselves to try it. Why? It is truly very simple and yet without it Sherlock is sure he would’ve committed himself to a mental institution by age 8. The system makes him stable, gives him evidence that there is order and logic in this strange Universe; with the system, he can trust his senses and his mind. So how do other people do it? How do they process every single new information that comes their way without knowing how it connects to everything else?
He brings himself to walk the halls of the Palace until he finds himself outside the nondescript – boring – room where he stores the information regarding ‘common sense’. He gets into the square white room full of steel cabinets and checks the ones on his left; after a few moments he finds some insights he had previously collected on the subject and concludes that they – other people - don’t. Process them. Just deal with every new situation as they come, drowning themselves in ridiculous and useless thoughts and emotional patterns that reproduce old, childish systems of coping, until the situation itself gets too bored and leaves them, looking for smarter creatures to pester. Maybe that’s the reason boring people have boring lives. The good, interesting things of this world won’t bother with them. He leaves the room with a sense of having wasted his time and starts climbing the long stairs of the main Tower.
While climbing one by one the wide, velvet covered steps, Sherlock ponders that people might not be able to use the system because there is a lot of information to be absorbed in order to make it work. It needs – feeds on – data. Lots of it. Thankfully, Sherlock is a natural-born master of information capture, storage and discard.
And the result, well, he is in it: the Mind Palace. An outstanding work of art, if any connoisseur that somehow could come and visit would probably say. It is very grand, with its many wings, its dark cellars and dungeons, the infinite gardens, the moss-covered little paths that lead to the wild woods on the south. If you leave by the west exit, you’ll find a lake with a submerged collection of statues and torture devices. There is a whole wing that reproduces Prince Prospero’s Imperial Suite and a small theater very similar to the opera house in Lisbon where he can revive the most memorable concertos of his life.
Sometimes (many times), it is difficult to abandon it and come back to the dull reality of common sense, common actions, routines, average public mindset, predictable people, predictable opinions and predictable reactions. How dare these people seclude from his observing eyes the wild, strange, incontrollable, bizarre and gross things inside them, as they go through life in a sad pantomime of 'normal behavior'? At least the criminals don’t hide the ugly things within them.
Not for the first time, Sherlock feels a strange connection to his so-called enemies. He doesn’t hide it either. The difference, of course, is that he shows it willingly, absolutely sure that the beauty of these things-thoughts-feelings that crawl hungrily from within himself to the outside world does not reside in the intrinsic value of the things themselves, but in the fact that there is an infinite number of them. And how diverse and unpredictable they are. Having studied a lot of human beings in his lifetime, he _knows_ that others might be exactly like him in that way (festering and bursting with so many contradictory thoughts, emotions, insights, fears, affections, dreams, cravings and desires), but they try so hard to pretend that it is not so. And so he despises them: not only for their voluntary dullness, but also for the cowardice.
He finally reaches the top of the main tower, in which he keeps his thoughts on the nature of human beings well-stored in piles of old looking parchments rolls. There he decides to stay and re-read some of Seneca’s Dialogues, while in the real world he completes the 6th hour without moving from his couch, perfectly aware, perfectly still, knowing that the chances of DI Lestrade calling with an interesting case at 8 am on a quiet Sunday are almost non-existent.
2.
Sherlock truly wants to move out of his room in Montague Street. The people there are outstandingly dull, the bathroom is full of mold, the landlord abject. He would’ve loved to be able to take up on Mrs. Hudson’s – a wonderful lady who knows exactly how to treat a criminal husband – offer and move to the Baker Street flat, but it is too large for him and the rent a bit steep, even with a discount. And who would be crazy enough to take him for a flatmate?
Since he was at the St. Bart’s lab and not at home when talking out loud about his housing woes, Mike Stamford and not the skull heard everything about it, and because of that fortunate coincidence Sherlock Holmes is now looking at John Watson, an ex-army doctor wounded in action with a psychosomatic limp, an alcoholic sibling and eyes that look straightly into his. Dr. Watson doesn’t understand him (obviously), but unlike most people he doesn’t simply put a label on Sherlock’s forehead that says ‘strange’ and treats him as such. He looks… curious, intrigued (and a little put out maybe). And that makes Sherlock feel optimistic. It’s not every day that he meets a non-dull person who was severely hurt under the Afghan skies while trying to save people’s lives.
Sherlock feels compelled to test his new acquaintance’s non-dullness a little more and is purposely vague, obnoxious and mysterious, much more than enough to make ordinary people dismiss him as a “pompous ass”. However, the doctor continues to look straight at him, even while having no idea what the man in front of him is rambling about, as if he could read something else much deeper inside Sherlock's eyes, something that not even Sherlock himself is aware of.
Sherlock makes the proposal and somehow is sure that tomorrow, at 7, the man will meet him at 221B Baker St. Surprisingly, the certainty he feels does not come from a thorough analysis and comparison of data regarding the patterns of behavior of ex-soldiers with traumatic experiences when considering a relocation. He just knows.
3.
It happens like this: first there is a Lady in Pink, then some exciting scenarios involving a psycho cabbie with a sponsor (an enthusiastic fan named Moriarty), two pills and a mysterious shot that may or may not have saved his life (he calculates a 23% chance of his being wrong about the good pill or that both pills were deadly).
Sitting on the back of an ambulance, Sherlock thinks about this last occurrence and who might be responsible for it. Maybe the dreaded Sponsor? No, he would've killed the cabbie straight away, not try to incapacitate him. But who would have wanted to protect Sherlock if not the police? Mycroft? This method would not be his style.
He starts to tell Lestrade about his ideas on the identity of the shooter and turns his head to find out quite suddenly – most unexpectedly - that the answer to this little mystery is “the man he met yesterday”. A 5 '6'' man with a history of military service, nerves of steel and strong moral principles who is calmly waiting for him on the other side of the police tape.
It is so obvious and yet Sherlock didn't see it coming. At all. Something happens inside his head as a big overwhelming silence he is not used to washes over all his thoughts.
Maybe for the first time in his life, he is stupefied.
He realizes the little he thought he knew about the man means absolutely nothing. Just a few deduced facts: a depressed war veteran with a physical disability and family problems. Because of that seemingly predictable pattern, Sherlock realizes he has committed one of the greatest blunders of analysis of his whole life. He was utterly, completely wrong about this man, just because of his looking sort of common and ordinary. He is nothing like that. Since the beginning, he was nothing like that at all.
Sherlock has never met someone who openly acknowledged brilliancy in other people, without envy or a hidden agenda; never met a person who could calmly hold Sherlock's scrutinizing gaze for more than 5 seconds; never met a man who so flippantly abandoned the safety of familiar things in order to jump at the chance of getting into a risky, unpredictable situation with a strange man he's never seen before, with no guarantees and no explanations, just because it sounded exciting; never met a man who faced Mycroft at his most menacing and stood his ground just because he felt contrary.
Most of all, he's never met a man who exposed these strange urges and inclinations so naturally: with no prepotence, no challenge and no fear.
It is new and wonderful.
He stutters and tries to dismiss his ideas about the shooter to Lestrade, entranced by the sight of John Watson. There he is, the man who looks at Sherlock straight in the eyes, as if communicating everything by sight alone. He is watching Sherlock right now and in this singular, dumbstruck moment, Sherlock stares back at him and quite absurdly imagines he is being told this:
I know you're a brilliant, extraordinary, incredibly misplaced creature who thrives in danger and mysteries. I know you think that, just because you take pleasure in these dangerous activities, your sense of justice and your brave willingness to risk yourself to take out a killer from out of the streets will naturally be taken for granted or even looked down upon by others. Not by me. I see what you do. I know that nobody else could do what you do. I notice how the world may be a safer place because of this brilliant, amazing madness of yours. I just did what I had to do.
It is unfathomable. He feels a sharp, acute pain in his chest and ignores it; Sherlock feels himself drawn to this man like a moth to the light, moving towards him with an eagerness in his step and a rare sense of wonder, even stranger because of the confusing sensation around his chest. The good doctor waits for him, stable as a rock, and tells him at some point that he is an idiot; and that opinion, which would easily put Sherlock Holmes in a indignant state of scorn and revolt if uttered by anyone else, makes his chest expand a little more when conveyed by this steady, courageous unexpected little man.
4.
During dinner, Sherlock starts to think about his own behavior with a sense of detachment. Looking back, it is almost incomprehensible. Not almost; truly incomprehensible.
Sherlock Holmes met this man yesterday. Today (not more than 6 hours ago) he first decided to live with him and then to bring him to his investigations; then summoned the doctor back to the flat to send a text; took the man to his favorite restaurant; tagged him along for an exciting chase around London and cured him of his psychosomatic condition.
Nothing can justify why Sherlock would take such measures to bully John Watson into doing what he wants. Why Sherlock sits at this table sort of fascinated by the sight of his new flatmate eating pork dumplings and extorting vacuous ideas regarding chinese versus japanese cuisine. Sherlock knows he should be concentrating on the exciting, incredible discovery of Moriarty, the man who is more than a man, but he can't help himself. Rationally, he knows that not even the doctor's many merits – already acknowledged – are enough to provoke such an incredible change in his own behavior towards other people.
Simply put, it is irrational. And intriguing.
Now, after arriving home, this big inescapable mystery crashes upon him like a tsunami and Sherlock simply has to chase it. He suddenly notices he has a new case, a wonderful, mind-boggling, new mystery to solve... within himself. He locks himself into his bedroom and quietly allows himself to drift to the sunny, quiet sitting room in his Palace, where he spends at least two hours cataloguing each of his and John Watson's words and actions since the beginning of their very short acquaintance, and notices, with increasing excitement and distress, that the information available to him regarding “Other People” doesn't help him one bit to understand the situation.
After many minutes of frustration and mind-fumbling, during which he conjures up a gun in his hand and starts to shatter the glass wall that separates his current resting place from the beautiful Edwardian garden outside, Sherlock leaves the room and starts to roam the corridors, considering the possibility of taking a dive into the lake just to try to take his mind off the matter, knowing at the same time that it would be impossible to do so.
He is not in his right mind, he now clearly sees. Mycroft, the bastard, obviously noticed it much earlier, to the point of kidnapping John just in order to check on the reason for Sherlock's unexpected actions. If he had asked Sherlock, the answer would be unsatisfying: he _doesn't know_. But how, how can Sherlock not know? Why is the system failing him?
He is considering blowing up the entire north wing out of frustration when suddenly an excerpt of a text read long, long ago comes to his mind:
“There is only one event in life which really astonishes a man and startles him out of his prepared opinions. Everything else befalls him very much as he expected. Event succeeds to event, with an agreeable variety indeed, but with little that is startling or intense; they form together no more than a sort of background, or running accompaniment to the man's own reflections; and he falls naturally into a cool, curious, and smiling habit of mind, and builds himself up on a conception of life which expects tomorrow to be after the pattern of today and yesterday.”
He instantly remembers the author and the book. It is a highly improbable, completely ridiculous idea, but so far it is his only clue. He starts to run towards a dark little room in the southwest part of the building. Finally reaching it, he hesitates with his hand on the door's handle - it's never easy coming here.
He opens the door and there is a strong smell of dust and old things. There are all kinds of objects lying around: a green blanket he slept wrapped upon for more than 10 years as a child hangs on the back of a small rocking chair; his first microscope, a collection of old coins and a photograph of his mother as a young woman take up the space on top of a sturdy bureau. He doesn't allow himself to get caught up in the many memories stored within this place and goes straight to the bookcase and searches for this particular tome, knowing that this room is the only one in the Palace where he could have put such information. He finally finds what he's looking for, and starts to read it avidly:
“It is a subject in which neither intuition nor the behavior of others will help the philosopher to the truth. This simple accident is as beneficial as it astonishing. It arrests the petrifying influence of years, disproves cold-blooded and cynical conclusions, and awakens dormant sensibilities. Hitherto the man had found it a good policy to disbelieve the existence of any enjoyment which was out of his reach; and thus he turned his back upon the strong sunny parts of nature, and accustomed himself to look exclusively on what was common and dull. He joined himself to was called nonchaloir; and in an odd mixture of feelings, a fling of self-respect, a preference for selfish liberty, and great dash of that fear with which honest people regard serious interests, kept himself from the straightforward course of life among certain selected activities. And now, all of a sudden, he is unhorsed, like St Paul, from his infidel affectation. His heart, which has been ticking accurate seconds for the last year, gives a bound and begins to beat high and irregularly in his breast. It seems as if he had never heard or felt or seen until that moment; and by report of his memory, he must have lived his life between sleep and waking, or with the preoccupied attention of a brown study.”
Sherlock reads the whole essay and then goes and peruses some other sources of information – less rational, more uselessly poetic – on the subject until he comes to a conclusion. He tries to remember John Watson's earnest eyes bearing into his while standing on the other side of the police tape (after killing a man to save Sherlock), and something within his chest starts once more to contort itself into many shapes and positions, like a snake trapped into a small box trying to find its way out.
There still isn't enough data, but the evidence so far strongly suggests that Sherlock Holmes is indeed experimenting the first symptoms of what is usually referred to as “falling in love” for the first time in his life.
He absorbs the idea and realizes it doesn't alarm him. Much. He knows there is a sort of choice here. If the process is halted in its first stages, it is easily overturned. Meaning that, if he really wanted, he could just toss John Watson out of his house and then take on that dull case in Switzerland and stay there for a month. Probably wouldn't take that long to forget about the whole thing.
But he knows that he would never _ever_ do such a thing. He has just been presented with the opportunity of collecting information on a phenomenon that can only be observed by a person actually experimenting its effects. Something which is one of the greatest motives behind all sorts of crimes. It would be very useful to further dwell on this matter and the scientist in Sherlock demands to know everything about it.
To be honest, he never thought such absurd thing would happen to him in all his lifetime. It is obvious why, now. He has never had any sort of significant libido to start with and the idea of a romantic relationship between himself and other person still seems ludicrous and absurd. But if people had asked him before what kind of person he would be interested in, theoretically, he would answer “a refined, artistic, intelligent sort of person, with a mysterious allure, a knack for creating mischief and fooling people around them”. Someone more like... himself. He imagined he would be intellectually interested and fascinated by such a person if she (or he, what's the difference?) ever entered his life, that they would spend many days, weeks or months trying to get the upper hand from one another until finally they would get bored of the whole thing and find other novelties to capture their interest. At some point, it had seemed something to look forward to, if he ever happened upon such a person.
But John Watson is nothing like that, and falling in love with him feels nothing like that.
Interesting.
5.
It's been a week since John Watson moved into his flat.
Sherlock Holmes has no intention of losing his mind about someone and the available data also shows that after the falling _in_ love there most probably will be a falling _out_ of love, and he has to be prepared for that. He wants to know everything about this condition, but is aware that a little caution would be advisable in order to avoid loss of control and possible decay into dependence, irrationality and thoughtless desire.
For the last few days Sherlock has observed John. It has been difficult to do so without demonstrating the unnatural strength of his interest, but Sherlock is very astute and John is so deliciously distracted about most things, so it's been fairly easy to go about “collecting evidence”.
Now he's back at the Mind Palace and decides that John will need his own room here. Sherlock has already hundreds of bits of information which need to be properly stored, filed and sorted and the old, dusty room filled with ancient and disused _sentiment_ he visited before will not do.
Sherlock thinks about the good doctor in Afghanistan and decides to build this new room in a sort of clean useful military style. He starts to imagine things to fill it with: a St. Bart's diploma (identical to real one); a photograph of the sister holding a bottle of Stolichnaya (the sister is a fan of the show “Absolutely Fabulous”); a tapestry in silk with an Afghan pattern woven in silk strands exactly like the strange mix of colors on John's hair; a phonograph that reproduces John's voice when he said that Sherlock's deduction was “quite extraordinary”; a cabinet filled with all the products that John favors.
After an hour of devising objects to store the information already available (including non-essential but interesting data such as a collection of the uniforms used by the Royal Army Medical Corps since 1898 and some rare books on the genealogy of the Watson Family) the room is already full to the brim.
And Sherlock has only just begun.
-
“John” he says.
“What?”
Nothing. It is nothing. Sherlock just likes to speak John's name out loud. One more information to store on a new chamber he's constructed adjacent to John's Room in his Mind Palace, where he files away “Irrational pleasures caused by my Dear Friend”.
-
“Sherlock, stop taking my stuff without permission!”, John shouts from his room upstairs.
He must mean the left shoe. Or the laptop. Or the hair product.
Oh, definitely the hair product. He remembered to put the shoe back in its place once he took some precise measurements and the laptop is always near their working table anyway. Sherlock combs his fingers through his own hair and sniffs the goo still sticking to it, thinking to himself that it is indeed very difficult to devise ways of storing smells in the Palace that don't look utterly ridiculous, like that flower he invented which exhales the same scent as John's morning breath.
-
John is a heavy sleeper and for that Sherlock is grateful.
He sneaks into John's room while he is having nightmares to write down John's mumblings or to collect the drool that escapes from John's soft mouth when he sleeps on his belly for some fundamental chemical analysis (he has to build another lab at the Palace to store the results of all the tests and experiments he's been conducting on his unsuspecting flatmate) .
He knows he is expected to feel like a sort of creeper (boring). So he doesn't. It is all in the name of Science and, why not, also in the name of Love.
-
Sometimes Sherlock is not able to acquire all the information he needs alone, so he requests the assistance of people who owe him favors.
This single task might be the most important of all the little investigations he has already carried out, including digging out John's complete family history and acquiring the reports of his missions in Afghanistan.
The man he contacts is an amateur detective, with nothing to distinguish himself except a 10-year experience as a wedding photographer and an impressive set of telephoto lenses.
When the results come in, Sherlock almost falls from his chair in amazement.
From his daily observations, he had already noticed that the color of John's eyes was very difficult to define. Unacceptable. He needed more data. The photographs now in front of him reveal that he should never again refer to the issue of the color of John's eyes, but the colors of John's eyes, for there are too many of them, and none seemingly dominant.
It is absolutely beautiful.
He notices he's become more and more creative when it comes to storing information about John at the Palace. For the iris' colors and shapes he decides on a stained glass round ceiling. None of the rooms seems adequate for that, so just he builds another one.
6.
One week after the case with the Chinese gangsters, Sherlock realizes he also hates John. He hates how John makes him feel.
John had been taken because of him. And taken only because Sherlock was so stupidly concerned with the woman-doctor (how to get rid of her) that he failed to _observe_ (Soo Lin Yao's notes on the code, the London A-Zs inside the victim's houses, the danger of bringing John close to the criminal's lair). Because of his being stupidly jealous, he is now useless to solve crimes. And he even put John in danger.
It's pathetic. He's pathetic. John Watson has turned him into a pathetic besotted person (he makes sure to store that bit of info inside the room marked “John's misgivings”, which contains every little defect Sherlock has identified about the doctor, from short stature to bad fashion sense, interest in group sports and boring taste in women).
He hates him, despite the feeling of not being able to breath properly when John's not around. But also because of that.
-
Sometimes John looks at him as if he knows everything that goes inside Sherlock's defenseless, feeble, pitiful little heart.
Sherlock is sure to be very rude to John when it happens.
-
The thing is – Sherlock finally realizes after 3 months; the insufferable thing about this falling in love process is that suddenly your “heart” (to use a metaphor for the irrational unreliable center that process emotions within someone) has an opinion.
An opinion, for God's sake!
And of course, these opinions are most times completely opposite to his reliable, rational, amazing (John has told him so) mind's own ideas. Why should he give it any credit? He's seen what “following your heart” does to people everywhere. And its ideas always sound ridiculous (like 'hug him', 'smell the skin between the lobe of his left ear and his neck', 'tell him he's the bravest person you've ever met').
The only thing that bothers him is when his mind reminds him of this:
You're doing this for Science's sake. For this experiment to be a methodical, controlled exercise, you _should_ explore the new possibilities that the feeling of “love” are presenting to you and test them. You should, therefore, act according to your emotional needs, regardless of fear of consequences. Test it, Sherlock, otherwise it's not proper Science.
But then his ~heart~ becomes even more odious and ponders:
He can't because he's scared to death about the consequences – if he does all this stuff, John might walk away.
-
Finally, he reaches his limit.
He feels miserable after the 'Great Game' case. He doesn't think any experiment could justify what he is putting himself through.
He never thought caring about someone could feel so awful. As if the veins were being ripped from his body. To think about Moriarty's hands on John makes him feel more murderous than that repelling excuse for a consulting criminal. And the insupportable pain, mind-numbing grief when he thinks about losing John, one way or another.
It is too much.
The way he sees it, there are two ways of ending the experiment: first, he tells John about how he feels, John rejects him, moves out of Baker St., Sherlock goes back to expensive drugs, maybe recuperates in 2-3 years.
That one... doesn't look very appealing.
Second is, Sherlock doesn't say anything and simply quits.
It's easy enough. He creates a door that separates the rest of the Mind Palace from the John-related area. Locks it and throws the key into the lake.
Interlude
Dear John,
Maybe someday you will read this letter, but it is unlikely. I've hidden it inside my room in a place to which you will only have access once I'm dead. I hope it doesn't happen too soon.
I’m only writing this as a means to put my feelings to rest, as I’ve seen recommended more than once by people who have experienced these sort of emotions before.
It’s been 4 months since you’ve moved into Baker St. You might not know this, but your moving in represented perhaps the most important event in my life so far. Certainly the most overwhelming. Before you I was a lonely man convinced that it was in my nature to be so; with you, I’ve been presented with a trusted companion, a diarist and an admirer. But also more than that.
First of all, I consider you a dear friend. I never told you about this, but I had a friend before: his name was Victor Trevor. He was a good man (we became acquainted after his dog bit my ankle and Victor felt obliged to visit me daily so as to be sure of my recovery). He had an uncomplicated curiosity for my researches and a decent enough IQ, so we got along well. Unfortunately, the circumstances of life have impeded me to carry on with our camaraderie, but I have fond memories of him. This, for me, was what having a friend meant.
Victor and I never had an argument. We never disagreed. I see today it was because none of us cared that much about what the other said or did; and we both made an effort not to disturb the quiet and maybe fragile relationship that was an agreeable distraction for us both.
You and I, we do argue. A lot. And I've never felt as though these rows could be harmful to our friendship, because I know your heart – how it is ever steady, and ever strong. With you, I can feel no qualms about being intensely myself. I wish I could express more clearly the deep gratitude I feel for your infinite tolerance for my quirks and habits, John; nobody has had it before.
Second, there is the romantic aspect.
Now John, I wish you would not feel overwhelmed if you ever read this. Believe me, it was most unexpected. It might surprise you to know that I fell in love with you almost as soon as we were acquainted (I believe it was when I realized that you had shot the cabbie - how morbidly appropriate!).
At first, I had no idea of the nature of my feelings for you: a fun little mystery which occupied me for a few hours. Then, after deducing the reason for these new emotions, I was determined to find out everything about it.
First I catalogued – you. Did you know that the Mind Palace is actually a place? Inside my head, of course, but a place none the less, where I store every information worth knowing. I roam it during my meditative times, the many corridors, rooms, gardens. It is beautiful, if I say so myself.
Well, John, you know me well enough to imagine how the combination of a violent passion and my passionate intellect would drive me to obsessive routes regarding this issue. I do not wish to alarm you, but let’s just say that it was necessary to build a new wing in the Mind Palace. There are 14 rooms in it. It is filled with your colors, your voice and your smells. I’m almost sure I know more about you than yourself (do you know the precise chemical composition of the keratin on your toe nails? I do).
Now, the exercise of indulging in these emotions was an entertaining one, but it has provoked many side effects I did not anticipate.
The first was the urges to touch you. It is difficult for me to write about this, for I'm not sure if this admittance would cause you any vexing. I do not mean it in a sexual way (I'm sorry but even my love for you has not convinced me of the benefits of engaging in such an activity); it was a pure tactile impulse of needing to be in direct contact with your skin. A delight so rarely indulged in. My wildest fantasies have me imagining the essence of you infused into my dressing gown, my bed, the air surrounding me. I wish I had more opportunities to do this; it is unfortunate that they usually involve you or me in a life-threatening situation.
Then there was the jealousy. There is no excuse for it, but it is inevitable. My dear John, I know you resent me for driving away your girlfriends, but it is the least harming alternative for all of us, believe me. Since you will not read this letter, I can confess how after your being away sleeping over some woman’s place for two days on a row, I ended up the night trashing my room, having a dangerous dose of 7% solution and planning an accident involving your precious, beloved face and some nitric acid - so that no woman in the world would look at you more than once. This horrid thought persisted for only a few drug-fueled minutes, but I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself. I then realized that it would be safer just to drive these women away, since they obviously do not mean much to you.
And finally - I’m sorry there isn’t a more accurate word for this – there is the pining. This is perhaps the most puzzling aftereffects of my feelings for you, for they directly contradict every rational thought that affirms that a relationship of a romantic nature between us is impossible. However, it has been said that love makes fools of all of us and I've come to realize how true this might be.
But to be quite honest, things have been getting a bit out of control. The look on my face you saw, during the swimming pool episode with Moriarty, was not hurt – it was heartbreak. For a second I thought you were Moriarty and then I thought that if such was the case I would be better off dead. It did seem fitting - to die by your hands. How romantic. And then the panic at seeing that I was mistaken and that you were in such danger. I barely know how I got through those terrible moments – adrenaline, I suppose. But to experience such whirlwind of emotions for the first time in 34 years is a trying thing for the nerves.
I suspect this experiment has gone on too far. I cannot control it anymore. Sometimes I literally feel like crawling inside you, imagining how it would feel to be there and consume you like fire. Morbid thoughts, disconcerting impulses like that. And you, my dear John, so utterly unaware of it all.
It is time to conclude the experiment. Many observations could be drawn from it - I certainly have a more precise understanding of passionate crimes, at least.
I've also come to know, as Moriarty made sure to remind me, that I do have a heart. It took me some time to realize it because it used to beat very quietly before it met you.
SH
He hides it very well, then deletes its existence and its location.
7.
When Sherlock meets Irene Adler, it is like a sign.
He has decided, a few weeks ago, to lay his feelings for John Watson to rest, close down the new wing of the Palace, 'move on', as they say. The effort has him feeling restless, bored, unquiet, more obnoxious than ever, testing John's limits to the infinite. The cases appear (thanks to John's poor sensationalist writing) but they are so dull and predictable; the people insufferable.
And then, when he starts to consider going back to the drugs anyway, an intriguing specimen of the female gender appears in his life, in glorious flesh and blood, with her hidden syringes, riding crops and mysterious little messages.
Sherlock is charmed. And the best thing is, Irene returns the sentiment.
His mind is ablaze with activity as it hasn't been for many months. He can't predict her, he doesn't know her resources, he can't read every detail of her actions and intentions in her wardrobe or in the lines of her face. And she's always interesting. She invades his room, sends him dinner invitations, tries to seduce him, flatters him. She dies, makes him miserable (he truly liked her, that completely non-dull person who is his perfect match) and then comes back from the dead.
She's wonderful, Irene Adler.
Sherlock builds a room for her in the dungeons of the Palace. It's an S&M luxury suite.
-
When she appears back in his room, without the make-up and the professional attire, trying to get the phone back, Sherlock knows the game must be close to its end. He isn't sure who's winning, but the stakes are too high now.
-
In the end, Sherlock realizes this: his heart aches for Irene. He feels a compassion for her that echoes deeply within him. She is not vicious, not malevolent; she's a brilliant, lonely person. She likes getting into risky businesses and looking for dangerous and interesting things to occupy her mind. She is reckless and a bit cruel. She likes torturing Mycroft. She doesn't know when to stop.
In fact, she is just like Sherlock - before John.
He saves her once and would save her again and again, if necessary. Saving her means, somehow, saving himself. It's also his way of saying “sorry I didn't meet you before him”.
8.
When the time to fall comes, Sherlock is prepared.
He could easily die for John. The feelings, he notices, don't stop, despite all his efforts in quelling them. It's no use – it is as if he has already given away a huge part of himself and now he can't get it back.
It would be too easy to die for John, specially if Sherlock's dying would mean John's living.
In fact, it would be so easy that he just can't do it. John deserves much better. He deserves a world without Moriarty. A world where Moriarty _doesn't_ win. Sherlock would do anything to give that to John Watson.
Because of that, Sherlock chooses the hardest path of all: he lives.
9.
After six weary months of running around the world trying to dispel a complex crime network, Sherlock hacks into his old e-mail account to find the name of an old contact in Russia and finds a message from John dated two months after the Fall.
It says:
Dear Sherlock,
I found your letter today. Started to read it while standing in your room, surrounded by your things, and had to sit down after three paragraphs.
I had no idea.
In reply, I say your feelings amaze and honor me. They're pure and beautiful, as you were.
But you were also an idiot. All this time, you were completely absorbed in your own feelings. Never once did you observe me to see what _you_ meant for _me_. How you were my whole fucking Universe. How could you, the smartest person in the planet, not see that?
I would have done anything. I don't know why you did what you did, but whatever you wanted, or needed, I would have given it to you. All I ever wanted was to be by your side.
I was so alone, and I owe you so much.
In Arduis Fidelis,
John
P.S. Please, don't be dead.
Sherlock is grateful for being inside a dingy hotel room all alone, for the tears start coming out of his eyes and simply don't stop.
The Latin – he remembers it from somewhere inside the Palace. He forces himself to go deep within and soon finds himself in its gardens, then plunging into the lake and searching - for what might have been hours - for the key, and finally finding it, thankful for having imagined it quite so big. Opens the door to the new wing and goes back to the room he built for John Watson so many months ago, when he had no idea about the person he would become after the discovery of his own heart.
He sees the cup on the table, the simple RAMC badge standing out and the motto below. And then his hasty translation, written in a piece of tape on the bottom.
Faithful in Adversity
Sherlock stays in that room for a long time and it is wonderful, being surrounded by all things John. He realizes he is a fool, trying to distance himself from John's warmth when he has no other real motivator for this crazy one-man saga than the hope of going back to London, back to him.
After many hours roaming the rooms, reacquainting himself with all their little details and basking in the feeling with which they were built, Sherlock decides to go back to the real world, where he has to search for his Russian contact and then try to bring down another section of Moriarty's almost endless criminal empire.
But before leaving the Palace, Sherlock realizes he has a new piece of information which has to be properly stored here. He wishes he could set it in stone, but doesn't wish to be too optimistic about his uncertain future. So he goes to the room where he stores John's faults and writes with red graffiti, across the whole wall, in big bold letters, that John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes back.
The End