The Phone of Sherlock Holmes
Right. Poem, verse, random assortment of words, useless babbling.. if you want to be particular about it.
SH
My phone and laptop had been confiscated from me. But yes, I am ‘holding up’. As soon as I can stand again I’ll be announcing myself publicly and finally ridding the world of Richard Brook, the last annoying piece to the puzzle. Should be easy enough. People do love a good story.
SH
My lungs still feel like they’re on fire and my leg is shattered. I’m fantastic.
SH
Oh, how I’ve missed your threatening banter. There was a time when your words may have disturbed me on some level, but I’ve recently made a gallant escape from a burning cathedral against all odds so please, humour me.
SHOh yes, very gallant dear. I particularly liked your exit. The one where you were bodily dragged after swooning.
VH
Taking off your heels would have helped.
JW
Yes, THAT was of course the problem, not the burning building, the gunshot wound, the smoke inhalation, or the unconscious skyscraper disguised as a man. How silly of me.
VH
You are hardly in a state to remember anything properly.
SH
Oh, how I’ve missed your threatening banter. There was a time when your words may have disturbed me on some level, but I’ve recently made a gallant escape from a burning cathedral against all odds so please, humour me.
SH
If the human body could react as fast as the human mind could think, John Watson would have been able to reach his destination in 2.4 seconds with a loaded gun and an army of followers. Music would have swelled in the air and his first few steps in to the cathedral would have slowed down for dramatic effect as he rushed to his flatmate’s side, ready to die fighting with his head held high. This was the glory that poisoned the minds of millions, the glory that only pixilated screens and carefully written words could create without any interferences besides a paper cut or a small headache from too much editing in dimly lit rooms. This was the glory dreamt by those who had not bathed themselves in the blood of war, destined to spend the rest of their lives scrubbing the sadness from their skin. Glory was a chemical defect— a myth. And John Watson had shed himself of this myth at an early age, freeing his mind from the fantasy and hopes that were expected to come from the death of the one and only napoleon of crime, Jim Moriarty.
The entire trip to the famous cathedral filled Sherlock with a rush unlike any other— truly the most remarkable chase, finally coming to a close. The promise of resolution, of justice, of /revenge/ nearly intoxicating his clever mind. He had hardly been able to sit still since he had found that letter among John’s pile of bills and junk mail and decoded it, too exhilarated to care that his companion had hidden it from him in the first place. After everything, after so long, the fall, after everything… This was long overdue. No time had been specified in the message, but of course he knew they would need to meet after dark so as not to risk any interruptions. Oh, this would be good.
