Categories > Books > Sherlock Holmes > The Personal Blog Of Dr John Watson
15/02/12
13:16
Sherlock sat there in his 'mind palace' trying to read some mystery that he had encountered early and did not think i was important enough to be graced with. I looked at him, feeling a muscle flutter in my jaw as i grinded my teeth. He hadn't spoken for the past 3 hours. He had just been sitting there looking at the skull on the mantel place. The main room of our flat was exactly as it had been when he had left. I hadnt moved a single book or sheet of paper, not wanting to move on. Mrs Hudson had checked up on me for the first week after but that soon stopped. I never did find out why. Mainly because i hadnt left the flat. I isolated myself from the world that believed Sherlock had taken his own life. That he was a false genius. All the murders that Sherlock had solved had been pinned on him, Sally Donovan claimed that he had only known because he was the criminal. But he wasnt. He was arrogant. He was sarcastic. He was quick witty. He made his own laws, but he did know right from wrong, even if sometimes he pretended he didnt. The brains he possessed were only rivaled by one man. James Moriarty. Irish criminal mastermind who had organised crime across the country, a consultant criminal who plotted the most believeable stories. Who had claimed to be an actor hired by Sherlock. And who, mysteriously, dissapeared just before he could claim the lime-light as Sherlock's helpless victim. Much around the same time as Sherlock.
"Youve got questions" I let out a wild laugh.
"Yes Sherlock, i bloody well have. How come your okay? I mean your completely unharmed. No one falls from a building and just gets up and walks away." I recieved a sideways glance that near enough told me i wasnt going to get answers. Not real ones.
"In fact John, i had 3 broken ribs, 4 bruises along the calf and a deep scratch along my jaw. Not what i would call unharmed."
I raised my arms in the air, a sign of frustration i hoped Sherlock would understand. Why did he always have to be so difficult and unhuman? Always trying to be right, always trying to be clever.
"Okay Sherlock, im obviously going to have to be blunt with you. Why arent you dead?" I looked at him, arms folded, trying to keep my temper. But as a reply he simply half smiled and looked away. This was when it all became to much and i stormed angrily out of 221b Bakers Street.
13:16
Sherlock sat there in his 'mind palace' trying to read some mystery that he had encountered early and did not think i was important enough to be graced with. I looked at him, feeling a muscle flutter in my jaw as i grinded my teeth. He hadn't spoken for the past 3 hours. He had just been sitting there looking at the skull on the mantel place. The main room of our flat was exactly as it had been when he had left. I hadnt moved a single book or sheet of paper, not wanting to move on. Mrs Hudson had checked up on me for the first week after but that soon stopped. I never did find out why. Mainly because i hadnt left the flat. I isolated myself from the world that believed Sherlock had taken his own life. That he was a false genius. All the murders that Sherlock had solved had been pinned on him, Sally Donovan claimed that he had only known because he was the criminal. But he wasnt. He was arrogant. He was sarcastic. He was quick witty. He made his own laws, but he did know right from wrong, even if sometimes he pretended he didnt. The brains he possessed were only rivaled by one man. James Moriarty. Irish criminal mastermind who had organised crime across the country, a consultant criminal who plotted the most believeable stories. Who had claimed to be an actor hired by Sherlock. And who, mysteriously, dissapeared just before he could claim the lime-light as Sherlock's helpless victim. Much around the same time as Sherlock.
"Youve got questions" I let out a wild laugh.
"Yes Sherlock, i bloody well have. How come your okay? I mean your completely unharmed. No one falls from a building and just gets up and walks away." I recieved a sideways glance that near enough told me i wasnt going to get answers. Not real ones.
"In fact John, i had 3 broken ribs, 4 bruises along the calf and a deep scratch along my jaw. Not what i would call unharmed."
I raised my arms in the air, a sign of frustration i hoped Sherlock would understand. Why did he always have to be so difficult and unhuman? Always trying to be right, always trying to be clever.
"Okay Sherlock, im obviously going to have to be blunt with you. Why arent you dead?" I looked at him, arms folded, trying to keep my temper. But as a reply he simply half smiled and looked away. This was when it all became to much and i stormed angrily out of 221b Bakers Street.
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