Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 8*resemblance

She was the only one preserving my last ounces of sanity. For the past two weeks – the ones approaching the end of my teaching period – I have received so many mocking references from James that I could hardly count them anymore. I knew he was uncertain of my relationship with Rhea, therefore he was unaware of my advantage. She was my weapon, even though I had previously stated that she could not be of much aid. I soon realized that it was the complete opposite.

We slept together – not the teenagers' version, bloody hormonal mites – and I was acquainted with the beauty of simply laying on the bed sheets and contemplating nothingness. I also unearthed the subtle motions of a fatigued Rhea curling around the blanket – the ephemeral flutter of lashes right before falling asleep, the puckering of lips when turning to the other side, the soft sigh of content when I accidentally touched her skin. Those subtleties were beautiful. She was beautiful.

I usually despised that adjective, for it was not thoroughly comprehensive, but in those moments of reveling at her sight, it could not have been more appropriate.

I also stumbled on another delicate aspect, although it may have seemed rather odious for herd people. Every time she removed her shirt before taking a shower, I could see her scars. Deep, snow-coloured lines gliding from her trapezes to the end of her spine. I never inquired about them, for it seemed like I was entering a private territory, but I could not prevent all those scenarios forming inside my head.

She was most likely abused. Due to the fading of the scars, her trauma must have occurred during her adolescence. Bloody hell, it was so vile of me to evaluate her like a damaged patient, like that unshaved man who tied me at Moriarty's headquarters. But again, it seemed almost impossible not to notice all those aspects.

I thought I was being subtle, but Rhea proved me otherwise, because one evening, she caught me staring at her bare back through the mirror. I was ashamed, to say the least.

"I am sorry, I... I did not intend to..." I stuttered like a pubescent school-boy.

She approached me with feathery steps, fidgeting with the hem of the recently-removed shirt.

"It is alright, Sherlock. It is awfully peculiar to notice such extended scars on a woman's body. I understand your need to find answers, you simply cannot control your analysis."

Despite the petal-like tone of her voice, I knew she was disappointed with my gesture. I reached the shirt she was holding and tossed it on the bed. I brought Rhea's hand in mine and circled soft traces on the insides of her palm.

"I do not want you to think of yourself as an experiment, a project, a Guinea pig. I genuinely desire to unearth your story, but if you feel any discomfort, I shall wait until you are prepared."

She smiled brightly, revealing an elusive mockery.

"What happened to the devoted rationalist? A month and a half ago, he could not fathom the idea of empathizing with people."

I chuckled in return, still holding her hand. I may have developed my vulnerabilities, but I also improved my strength. As stereotypical as it may sound, Rhea was both the cure and the poison. Fortunately, I mostly rendered her a curative status.

"He grew up."

"He is a big boy now, isn't he?"

I normally gagged at jokes undermining age, but with Rhea, I seemed to enjoy the things I once despised. I followed the line of her radial artery and reached her collarbone, my touch as smooth as a Vicuna wool. She quivered, a delicate blush creeping on her plump cheeks. She blinked twice, as if trying to clear her vision. Her scrutiny disbanded me in all its purity – it was always searching for humanity in my own.