A Viola's Song

The Woman In His Head

Sherlock closed his eyes and entered his mind palace. The first thing he saw was her, his beautiful Irene Adler; she always was the first thing he saw. She appeared naked as she always did; this only supplied by his memories of their first meeting and Viola's becoming. He would always run to her, but she never got any closer than before he started. It only worked if she decided to encounter him. She hardly ever did. To him, it was torture. Even though it was his mind palace, she seemed to have a mind of her own. Today was one of those days where Sherlock could persuade her to come closer. She walked slowly and seductively toward him. To his annoyance, she stopped just before being close enough for them to reach each other at arms length. He hated it. He reached out as far as he could without any luck.

"Irene, please," he groaned.

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Holmes. Not today, not yet."

He felt his eyes beginning to water and felt the first tear down his cheek.

"Please," he whispered, "Call me Sherlock."

She continued to shake her head.

"Come closer. Irene, please, I need you," he groaned.

"Maybe some day," she said.

"No, Irene, I need you now."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes."

"It's Sherlock, Irene, please just call me Sherlock," he begged.

"Mr. Holmes, I can't. You don't deserve it."

"How, how? You know I do, please, Irene, please."

"All your love is longing," she whispered. "You know in your heart that you don't deserve this."

Sherlock straightened himself. He understood. He remembered and understood.

"You mean, my words on that night? 'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the loosing side' and 'Love is a dangerous disadvantage.' That was years ago! Things were different! I was different! I didn't love you then."

She shook her head. "You did."

With that, she began to walk away.

"Irene, wait! Come back! No! Please!"

He watched her disappear. When she was completely gone, he opened his eyes and exited his mind palace. He screamed and cried, not soundly, just silently. He began to pull at his hair and scratch at his own skin. Finally, he just stopped, like a machine that was turned off. He put his head in his pillow and slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

It was always like this. He figured out a long time ago that trying to find information about her in his mind palace was useless. However, he still liked to see her. To actually continue finding her, he had taken to tracking her on all her social media, having his homeless network help track her down, and occasionally went out. When he woke up with a start about an hour after his torment, he pulled out his laptop and proceeded to search her social media pages for any sign of a clue to where she might be. He was currently going through her tweets when he saw something: an extremely long post about something so ridiculous that Sherlock was surprised when he remembered it was written by her. He read it through; it was something about some book she had supposedly recently read. He recognised it as one of those codes where the first letter of every line made the real message. He tried to analyse it and did. It read:

T

H

E

P

O

O

L

M

R

H

O

L

M

E

S

He inhaled sharply. The pool. Carl Powers' pool. Moriarty's pool. He shook his head to himself.

"I can't, not there," Sherlock whispered to himself. "What if it's a trick?" He had a sudden realisation. "What if Moriarty has got her hostage? No! Irene!"

He jumped out of bed, got dressed and ran out the door. He remembered something and ran back inside. He opened the drawer he hardly ever opened. He first pulled out a gun, then the phone. Her phone. He sighed.

"Irene," Sherlock whispered longingly to himself. He ran out the door.