<short story based on the above cue provided by WriteWorld>
NB: This is my first attempt at fan-fiction so be nice. 🙂
“You are ridiculous,” I exclaim, shaking my head in disbelief as he twists this way and that, admiring his new look in the mirror. The apartment smells of bleach and it’s giving me a headache. I massage either side of my head with my fingers.
“How many times must we go over this,” he replies in his usual aspirated tone, “I am a high functioning sociopath.” He glances back at me through the mirror’s reflection. I find it hard to meet the gaze of the unnatural, startling blue of his new contacts, “After all this time Watson, honestly, I expected better.”
I sigh. There is no talking to Sherlock when he is in one of these moods. He scratches at the brushy bar that sits above his lip.
“How do you live with this thing?”
I sigh again. “It’s not going to work Sherlock. Mycroft said —”
“Mycroft is in idiot.” I roll my eyes internally. Intolerable, self-serving and completely untrustworthy were all words I associated with his brother. Idiot was not. I had been a fool to think keeping Sherlock Holmes in one place, out of sight, out of mind was going to be anything other than impossible. I try again.
“Sherlock, perhaps —”
“There is a dead man walking the streets of London and I am the only one who can find him.”
So many questions bubble to my lips. Memories. They had found a body. Half its head missing. The ID had been positive. I could still see as though he were standing ahead of me, the expression on Mycroft’s face as he had told us of the impossible. I had never seen the man look scared. Not until that moment. A dead man hunting a dead man. They had both died that day.
“How Sherlock? How is he still alive? It’s impossible.”
My long-time friend just shakes his head, “How many times have I said to you when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”
“You really think it is him?”
“We must go. How do I look?”
I take that to mean yes. He turns so I can take in the full show. His hair is bleached blonde and cropped short. His nose is twisted and bend, recently broken and obviously fake. His eyes are a startling blue that cannot exist in nature. He wears a formal suit ironed to the point that I am convinced its creases will cut my skin. The only thing he would not sacrifice is the dark scarf that hangs around his neck. He reaches out to the left and places a black bowler on the crown of his head. He spins around once.
“How do I look Watson?”
I shake my head.