| Primary Characters: | Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler |
| Rating: | T |
| Spoilers: | A Scandal in Bohemia |
| Warning: | |
| Description: | Sometimes Holmes allows himself to remember the woman. |
He rarely takes the letter out of its hiding place anymore. It causes him too much pain. In addition, he already has it memorised and can also recall every feature of her face without any difficulty. It is the way his memory works, yet there is more to it than that. Even before she appeared in his life and vanished again far too soon, he had her face and every other trait memorised down to each minute detail.
The Woman – Irene Adler. He had never expected to feel this way about a woman. Indeed, had not wished to. Her appearance in his life had only caused turmoil and distress. Yet now, when what little did occur lies far back in the past, he would not have it any other way. Would not wish she had never been in his life, if only for a few weeks.
Most others believe that he merely admired the woman. Indeed, he may have told Watson as much. If the world believes his words, so much the better. There are times when he, himself, does not want to acknowledge his feelings for her. When he wishes to deny what in truth did come to pass between them.
That is the image of himself that he wishes to convey to the world. The great detective, the greatest mind the world has known. His brother Mycroft may disagree about that assessment, would prefer to place himself in that position, but as Sherlock Holmes knows, he and his brother apply their minds to different disciplines. It is impossible to compare two such similar, yet disparate minds. He does not need to compete with his brother, not anymore. His brother too, believes there has been no woman in his life. It is very much preferable that Mycroft does not know. How many women Mycroft has consorted with Sherlock could find out if he wishes, but does not, will not. The mere thought makes him queasy. It is enough that his secret is safe.
The world already knows the details of the Scandal in Bohemia, at least it believes it does. His friend Doctor Watson has made sure of that. This should not lead anyone to believe they know all the details of the case. No one, not even Dr Watson does. Neither, Holmes believes, does the woman. She may know what occurred between them, but never what went on in his mind. What he truly felt about her.
It might have been awkward to come to a woman’s bed with no experience, even a woman as relatively experienced one as the woman undeniably was. Unlike most men, Holmes has never wasted time dwelling on those other men. Nor did he concern himself with doubts about his own prowess. He knows all he needs to know and at the time of their – a name for what they shared eludes him and he gives up and moves on – he never for a moment doubted that this would be the fulfillment of all his dreams. Whoever he might have desired in the distant past as a young man – and anyone who asked him would find the answer was none – the woman left nothing else to be desired. She was all he could have wished for and more.
When she left she claimed to love her husband. Indeed the letter to her defeated enemy and lover said so. Holmes has his own ideas about that statement. It in no way impacts what they shared.
In his own mind he is – sometimes – honest about what truly occurred. Irene Adler welcomed him in her bed and held nothing back. Perhaps the intensity of the experience would not have blinded him so if he had been a frequent visitor to women’s beds. If he had not been a stranger to the mysteries of their bodies. While her body intoxicated him, it was the mind that produced the stimulation that exceeded any other experience, including that provided by his cocaine.
He vividly recalls, even this many years later, how it felt to devour her mouth, to find her clothing melting away as if by magic, if indeed a man like Holmes would even consider the existence of such nonsense. The touch of her skin against his and the moment of culmination – For a time afterwards, he even believed himself cured of his predilection for cocaine, for after this, how could anything compare?
A sound from the outside calls him back to reality. He remains standing with the letter in his hand, his eyes seeing nothing – if not the images of long ago.
When he found her gone – he had been gripped by conflicting emotions. There was a part of him that would have wished to continue the liaison forever, yet there was another that knew this might be for the best. Had he not made the decision long ago to forego love and domestic bliss for his true vocation in life? He thinks that Watson never suspected what lay behind his composed demeanour. After all, it is not hard to deceive Watson. It is not something Holmes gladly does, but when necessary, it is no great achievement. Indeed, he believes most men of normal intelligence would be up to the task.
There are times when he wished the woman would return. Indeed there are times he would risk everything for just a moment back in her arms. At other times, he is eager for no more than a letter, some news – anything that might tell him of her current circumstances. Is she happy in her marriage? Do they have children? Does that man love her like –
The image of her in that other man’s arms is not pleasing to Holmes and he hastily replaces it with another. If he had made another choice – to throw his life’s work away – to propose – anything which the woman might accept from him – and leave with her, never to return? Again, he realises he must turn his mind away from the appealing, yet terrifying image of himself as a different kind of man.
No, it is better this way. He would not make a good husband and father, though the thought of a son lingers in his mind, despite his best efforts. A son to carry on his work. The son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler – His face is moved by a rare smile, then he grows sombre once more. All things the mind can imagine can not be. One must be grateful for what can.
He puts the letter away and closes the drawer. It is time for more worthwile pursuits. He can not allow himself to stand here idle, dreaming about what will never be and indeed, but for a few weeks, never was. Yet he can not completely divest himself of the thought that for a time, once, long ago, there was a woman who was more than any other woman, or indeed any man, to him.
FIN
© Tonica