Mamihlapinatapai & Redamancy (Discontinued, may one day re-write but unsure :c)

Chapter 3 - Telegrams

Warnings: Mentions of illegal substances, murder, implications/mentions of PTSD

The detective and the blogger arrived at their flat within the next half hour, Holmes immediately rushing off to write a telegram to Lestrade.

"Update on the case. It is, in fact, a drug scandal. All the victims were part of a supply chain. Currently looking for the man in charge of the operation; short man with black hair and green eyes. He's thin and pale." Holmes wrote, tucking the telegram into an envelope.

Holmes checked his watch, looking up towards the door as Mrs. Hudson knocked.
"Mister Holmes? One of your boys is here!" She called.
"Very well; send him in!" Holmes called in return, closing the envelope and moving to begin melting some sealing wax. The man barely glanced up as Wiggins entered, standing just in the doorway as to not track dirt into the partially tidy flat.

"Ah, Wiggins. Just in time. I need you to deliver a telegram to Lestrade for me. Be quick about it, now, off you go, lad." Holmes said as he walked forwards and passed the boy a shilling.

Wiggins gave a curt nod before turning and rushing out, allowing Holmes to close the door. He glanced around the room, deciding that it was not to his satisfaction at the moment. Too bland, why keep it tidy when he could string up the pieces of evidence he had already collected? 
The man set to work, shuffling through the case files and writing down notes about the codes. He still did not know who the killer was, nor their exact motive, however, he was confident that his deduction of the murders being part of a drug scandal was correct.

The detective raced back and forth between the desk and the setee, stepping on and over the coffee table with nothing but the case on his mind; pinning the included pictures of the victims when they had been alive, and some of the crime scenes. 
The brilliant man was so engrossed within his wild pacing and picture-pinning that he had not heard the footsteps creaking behind him, the mutterings under his breath apparently much too loud to be able to recognize that Watson was currently standing in the doorway that joined the kitchen and dining room to the sitting room.

The army doctor stood leant against the wooden frame, watching Holmes pace and ramble to himself. Watson's face held an amorous expression, the biographer's eyes glistening with infatuation, having taken on the same curiosity Holmes seemingly viewed the entire world with.
Though the man's mood soured slightly as he was reminded that he would never truly know what was going in the mad man's mind, his thoughts kept under subconscious lock-and-key, hidden and hoarded in the most selfish ways.

'People are naturally selfish, Watson. If they have done something that directly benefits someone else, there must be a reason,' Holmes had told him one night as they sat by the fire, the flames flickering in his grey eyes. Watson had observed him at that moment; taking the time to register the stoical sheen that had been present in his colleague's eyes, as well as the odd flickers of saddened wisdom that could only be recognized alongside the flicker of the fire's flames.

Watson had understood then that Holmes had in fact created a small world in his mind, and that his mind palace knew much more about Holmes than he ever could.
He would never truly get the privilege of understanding the man completely and thoroughly. It was impossible, really, to know everything about someone.
Usually, this may delight a young couple, as they would forever be discovering things about each other; but the two were not 'usual', and for Watson, it brought a deep ache to his chest.

It pained him to know that not only could he never truly know this beautiful man, but in that same sense, Holmes would always be trapped within his own mind.
It was regrettably impossible for someone to share every single thought they have with someone else, as not even humans recognize all of their own thoughts; but Holmes was different.
He was much more intelligent.
He saw everything, and he could filter and control his mind to learn or unlearn things on a whim; and that made him absolutely extraordinary, in every sense of the word. As much as his genius was a gift, it was also a curse. Watson was perhaps the only man, besides Mycroft, that truly knew the mind of Sherlock Holmes could not simply be shut off.

It was constantly working, thinking, and thus torture to the man, as he has undoubtedly overthought and worked himself up over small things without meaning to; his beautiful mind betraying him and causing him distress.
As Watson stood there, he understood that while it was amusing to watch the detective pace,  said detective would never know what it was to be thoughtless, to be able to simply relax and unwind, take a break from the business of his brain. His mind certainly wouldn't allow it, Watson knew this, and, oh, how very painful it was to simply know such negative things.