Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Claymore

Human?

Try as he might Sherlock couldn’t calculate how to deal with so many problems, as he muttered to himself, “John, in another world fighting demons, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs. Hudson and myself exposed to Ebola virus, no one is showing signs yet but….”

Mrs. Hudson came over and gently put her hand on Sherlock’s arm, “Sherlock, dear come, sit down and rest, you look terrible.”

Sherlock glared down at her in annoyance and then glanced around the room at the pale tense faces that looked at him with a mixture of hope and pity. Sherlock knew what they wanted to ask but didn’t dare and Sherlock couldn’t bear to utter John’s name to explain. “I am a human calculator, an amalgamation of facts, figures, I deduce, detect, I don’t worry for I am a proper genius. A proper genius not a lover…” Sherlock thought as the old familiar burning churned in his stomach and as Sherlock glanced back at the three faces that observed him, he began to panic, for Sherlock knew they knew, they knew that he was in fact destructible-human, made weak by his love for John. “John, my kryptonite,” Sherlock thought as he struggled to maintain centered. He could feel the anger starting to rage deep within him as he observed the pity that was being directed at him, for it made Sherlock feel as if he were trying to run on ice, slipping and sliding as an unknown assailant pursued him.  “STOP IT, STOP LOOKING AT ME, RIGHT NOW,” Sherlock shouted at the top of his lungs as he picked up a glass beaker that sat on the kitchen counter and slammed it into the wall, one by one he broke them all, throwing them so hard that shards of glass sprayed up in the air like fireworks.

When he was through Sherlock sank to the ground, seemingly obsessed with the piles of glass around him, finally he raised his head and Mycroft walked over and held out his hand to help Sherlock up, Sherlock was about to refuse, but thought better of it as his feet slid on the uneven floor. “Sherlock, now you know what it is like in our funny little brains.”

Sherlock wrenched his hand from Mycroft’s grasp and began to pace back and forth, recalling every fact he knew about the Ebola virus. After a few fruitless deductions, Sherlock left the room and made his way down the hall, down the hall to a room normally kept locked, a room where once a dead boy’s shoes resided, a place of mildew and neglect, a place where Sherlock could keep secrets. Sherlock took a key out of his pocket, opened the door and quietly walked over to the fireplace as if preparing for communion in Church, he knelt down and pulled out a dusty red Moroccan leather case, carefully he opened it and sighed with relief when he saw the syringe, the needle glistening as a stray ray of light from a boarded up window shown across its sharp, shiny surface. Like a religious ritual, Sherlock took off his coat, rolled up his sleeve, prolonging the waiting as he carefully folded back layer after layer of fabric, until his translucent skin was bare, he then paused for a second  took a deep breath and plunged the needle in, throwing his head back Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyes glittered like emeralds, as he felt every nerve ending tingle, and as he reveled in the stimulation the drug gave him as if coursed through his veins, Sherlock thought, “Isn’t it ironic, that John has the same effect on me. He makes my nerve endings tingle, he makes my thoughts clear, John Watson makes everything right,” and as Sherlock’s eyes watered from the dust in the room he couldn’t imagine the world without his Doctor, his blogger, his lover, his friend, the very essence of  his soul.