He was inhuman. There was no other word for it. No other plausible explanation. None other than a complete lack of understanding of emotion or sentiment or anything that might vaguely prevent a man from allowing his best friend to grieve for two bloody years before prancing back into his life, completely unabashed, expecting to be forgiven entirely and let into the lives of the people he'd left behind.
I told Mary all this as we rode away in our cab, straining against the urge to turn around and catch a glimpse of the subject of my angst all the while. She noticed, of course, and didn't even attempt to wipe off the slight smile playing at her lips as I blustered.
"Your moustache quivers when you're angry, did you know?"
I glared at her.
"So now you're comfortable with telling me how disturbing it is? I only kept it for you, you know!"
She shrugged.
"Sherlock Holmes has a weird effect on us humans, doesn't he? He says such outrageous things, nothing you or I can say afterwards could ever come close. Makes you feel sort of invulnerable, like you can say anything on your mind around him, because it'll pale in comparison. I really like him, John. Do forgive him."
"But-"
"Oh, don't go on again about his lack of humanity. You loved that about him. And you missed him so much, John, you wanted him back so desparately and now your miracle has happened and you can't let your pride get in the way."
"I'll think about it."
"Drama queen," she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
