Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 19*return

One month. An entire bloody month has passed since my last sight of Rhea. During those dreadful 43829 minutes, I have been summoned by Scotland Yard to solve a case that knackered them. Despite my poor state of spirit – more precise, a different type of drug withdrawal – I accepted it.

What fell into oblivion was that my intuition betrayed me mischievously. I solved it in five full, treacherous days, when normally, I would have figured it out in a matter of hours.

Every officer observed my sluggish demeanour, but my ego rested untouched. What was the point of vile retorts if the one that kept me afloat was so out of reach?

I practically locked myself in 221B Baker Street. And when I say "lock", I literally mean it. The bloody tosser who was facing his reflexion in the mirror barely opened the window to let light shine through.

It was childish and immature, of that I was beyond sure. I was ashamed of my steadily crumbling willpower, yet I felt no impulse to pursue any drastic changes. Alright, so I have not sent my coat to the dry cleaner, or freshen up my fridge supplies, but my self-irony remained. Wasn't it a lovely compromise?

"Get your fanny off the couch, you silly ankle-biter!" My brother's high-pitched tone woke me from my reverie. "I know you refuse to pick up the bloody phone, but I have news you might fancy."

"If it does not imply my elopement with Rhea, bugger off." I exclaimed to no one in particular, my phone still on the opposite side of the room.

Holy rusted metal, Batman! Have I just pronounced the word "elopement" loud and clear, bearing no shame whatsoever? Oh, the horror!

"I know you can hear me, Sherlock. Pick up the damn phone or I'll bust in your house – my house – and throw a bloody punch straight in your jaw! Pick up!"

Oh, bullocks. I lazily stood up from the sofa, dragged my feet across the floor and strengthened my fingers on the metal case of that twat.

"Brother dear, shall I call the Exorcist?" I inquired, my voice laced with bitter mockery.

"For you, definitely!" Mycroft responded. A hyper-active Mycroft was always a pain in the arse. Actually, Mycroft period.

"What news do you want to present?" I shifted the direction of the conversation, distressed by the possibility of him mentioning Rhea.

Mycroft renewed his serious tone and explained: "Monique and Rhea are putting the plan into practice in a few hours."

I stilled. That bloody brick of a phone would have collapsed if it wasn't for my recently uncharacteristic reflexes.

"How nice of you to fill me in. Lovely brother I have. Thank you, dear God, for bestowing such a blood liaison upon me." I may not have been the most inspired to use such diplomacy-lacking words, but the mere thought of catching Rhea's sight made me have a... funny feeling in my stomach.

I could hear Mycroft's audible sigh across the phone, yet I chose to give ironic responds no more. I was supposed to focus, wasn't I?

"It was Rhea's order. I will pick you up in a few minutes and we'll drive to the new Elysian field John has spotted."

I could distinguish faint honks and furious overtakings in the background, which meant that Mycroft's time mention was actually precise.

I did not bother to end up the call with a proper "Farewell, brother dear!", but he was already accustomed to my lack of manners – which, before meeting Rhea, did not nag me at all.

Once again, you pronounce her name. Can you be less like a pussy and more like a man?

Of course, who would not listen to the voice in his head? Because that is completely normal, to converse with an unproven entity.