Don't Be...Dead

4- Memories

I slept in Sherlock’s room that night. I couldn’t help it; it made me feel closer to him. I lay there, eyes closed, trying to forget all the wonderful things that had happened since I met him. I hoped that if I were able to forget, it would all be as if I had never met him at all. My mind reeled though, ignoring my command to forget and playing through the memories instead.

The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 2-2-1 B Baker Street.

Dear God. What’s it like inside your funny little brains? It must be so boring.

You’re not his friend – he doesn’t have friends – so who are you?

You’re very loyal, very quickly.

John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ...

I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.

Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time.

Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.

Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!

It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.

No, I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no-one else can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!!

How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?                 Late…

This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?

What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.

I’d be lost without my blogger.

This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor. Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?

Oh – I can’t be the only person in the world that gets bored.

You’re still hanging round him.          Yeah, well...     Opposites attract, I suppose.

Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.

You do see – you just don’t observe.

Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets.

I’ll burn the heart out of you.       I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.          But we both know that’s not quite true.

You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.

I’m a private detective. The last thing I need is a public image.

D’you just carry on talking when I’m away?

We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.

Punch me, in the face.             …Didn’t you hear me?               I always hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually sub-text.

Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I’d avoid your nose and teeth too.

It’s heart-warming. You’ll do anything for him – and he can’t even tell your girlfriends apart.

Who ... who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but – for the record – if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay.

I didn’t know; I noticed.

People say there’s no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.

You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.

Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true.

Always been able to keep myself distant ... divorce myself from ... feelings. But look, you see ... body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.

I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone.

It was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.

Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.

I took the pillow from under my head and pressed it to my face, trying to block out what I knew was coming next.

It really bothers you.       What?          What people say.         Yes.      About me? I don’t understand – why would it upset you?

The memories continued to come as I got up out of bed and headed for the kitchen.

Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re ...               That I am what?          A fraud.

Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.

Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day he’ll cross the line.

Looked a bit of a weirdo, if you ask me. Often are, these vigilante types.

I searched the cabinets. Finding what I was looking for, I pulled the bottle out and took a hefty swing. My mind quickly went hazy, but not enough. The memories continued to flood in.

Take my hand.

I took another gulp from the bottle in my hand. The memories continued, but slower. Somehow this made them even more painful.

Everybody wants to believe it – that’s what makes it so clever. A lie that’s preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No-one feels inadequate – Sherlock Holmes is just an ordinary man.

Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.        No. Friends protect people.

I walked back to Sherlock’s room and fell onto his bed. The second my head hit the pillow I fell into a deep sleep.