a study in unrequited love

A brief enquiry into endearment.

A lone and wailing singer making his way from the top of an alpine peak is the only way I can compare my love for that man. A strange metaphor, I know, but hear me out before you conclude on my confusing outlook of fondness for him. The singer is in hazardous territory, attempting to navigate his way through the rocky outcrops of stalagmites that emerge menacingly from the ground, weaving between and dancing around, trying his hardest to remain unscathed and safe from tears in his unkempt clothes caused by jagged rocks. Tall, newly sprouted trees surround him covered in thick layers of snow which linger for the most part of the day. 

Making his way down the faint track that swerves and loops around these saplings is a long and tedious process, but one that comes with reward; and one that cannot be neglected.                  

The aforementioned wails of the singer are what I shall come to next. 

Picture, in your mind, a small German village tucked away in the shadow of this alpestrine wonder. Big enough for many to live in harmony, but not too small that some shall see too much of each other and grow loathsome of the same familiar faces. Now imagine that this singer, the one trudging down the mountains, is without familiarity in this town. For reasons unbeknownst to us, he is alone, in every sense of the word. This loneliness is only exaggerated by the silence which follows him around, hanging over his head like a persistent cloud of agony that refuses to back down and pursue another unlucky soul. The individual's only way of feeling more himself is with the help of the words he expels in song. In more ways than one, it saves him. It envelops him in its melodies and soothes the racing mind as well as reconnecting him with the things he had lost sight of; Nature, architecture; Simple things that bring contentedness but are rarely appreciated as much as they deserve to be.

Now you can see. I am the singer. The mountains are who I once was before I met him. And the music, the pain-filled wails, the words that release the singer's tension and sorrows, that helps solemnity fly free from my burdened brain, is Sherlock. 

Without him, present me would be a mere unfathomable thought that sits in the back of my mind. His existence intertwining with mine has significantly impacted the person I have become the past few years. I often sit and ponder upon the possibilities that I have been granted due to our friendship and how if I was still who I was in '76 could have navigated his way through life without the flashlight that has been Mr Sherlock Holmes.

- Dr John H Watson