Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 23*offering

Didn't all prophets preach that hell was an endless pit of blazing flames, where each sinner was consumed and regenerated for further harm?

If so, why am I solely touched by tentacles of murk? Why am I unable to envision contours and shades, silhouettes and penumbras? Is hell only utter dimness? No, it cannot be. I am too still, too silent. I am neither writhing in pain, nor screaming in agony. Therefore, I must be somewhere else; but where?

M-maybe I am not dead; actually, I believe I am not even at the gate between life and death. Maybe clinical death? Well, I have not seen any angels advising me to fight and return to my beloved; on that account, it must be something else. Coma? Well, I have not heard anyone crying beside my bed while holding my hand, so this version is out of question. Actually, it is impossible, for my brain function is sharp as a needle, and last time I checked, comatose people were pretty much vegetables.

"Sherlock, I know I have not been the most edible brother so far, but giving me the silent treatment is really hurting our bromance." Mycroft's faint voice blurred in the background, holding a strangled emotion I could not quite grasp. Was he crying?

"Brother dear, have you recently turned into an ogre so ugly that my eyes refuse to see you?" I inquired, my tone a mirage I could not recognize.

I heard a chair being dragged across a presumably wooden floor and Mycroft's coat sweeping its surface. He must have took a seat, although from the pressure he used, he was about to launch an information I would most likely not fancy.

"You have survived Moriarty's explosion, obviously. He is dead."

And where is the bad news, my awfully entertaining relative?

"Hold on a minute. Dead for real? Nice catch, lad, but I have known that villain for a significant amount of time, and death is simply not inherent to his future plans. There must be a trick you failed to anticipate. After all, why would I be the survivor?" I scoffed, rather irritated that I could not see my arms getting thrown in the stale air. "And don't you dare tell me a miracle was performed on me. I believe in God now, but He definitely does not believe in me. I am still a sinner to Him. Therefore, you need to come up with factual information before you fabricate such a ridiculous outcome."

Well, that was a long speech.

Another sound passed my auditory system. It was a door opening. Once again, Rhea's distinctive summer-meadow scent sprawled in the entire room, shifting the insipidity of the air with the vibrance I always longed for.

"Did you tell him?" She whispered, not aware of my hearing her murmur.

"No, I-I cannot. Talk to him, please. He cannot resonate with anyone but you." The modulations of Mycroft's voice quivered.

I soon heard the door close. He left.

Why couldn't I see him leave? Why was I depending solely on my ears, and not on my eyes? Why did I feel so, so weak?

"Sherlock?" She articulated, the eight letters in my name resembling the pulsating chords of her vocal piano. "We are not mad at each other anymore, are we?"

"After going through a before-death crisis where my heart twitched violently at the thought of losing you, what do you think?" My voice uttered immaculate sincerity.

I felt a slight breeze tickle my sensitive skin as Rhea took a step forward and sat beside me.

"I-I feel flattered." Her inflexions trembled.

No, you are not. This pains you just as much as it harms me.

"Despite the need to set things straight between us, this subject, as postponed as it has been so far, requires a little more adjournment." It impaired Rhea to suspend an urgent matter of heart yet again, but what was to be done?