We forgot Sherlock Holmes.
I’m sorry to say this to you and I know a lot of you write his name on your arms and tweet about his every move and every word and every look. But we all forgot about him. The man. Not the detective. His brain is a machine that can’t be stopped. Perfect. Open. Powerful.
But what can we deduce about his heart?
Men are not born sociopaths. They don’t enjoy murder. They don’t hate people. These are wounds. You go through the world and it leaves a mark on you and your personality. A scar, most of the times.
Sherlock is such a mesmerizing character due to the ambiguity. What do we know about him? Really? Do we know where he was born? The names of his parents, the school he attended? Was he ever in love? Did he have friends? What happened to them?
What happened between him and Mycroft?
You don’t make an arch enemy by stealing each other’s toys.
I am feeling rather depressed over a picture and I feel the need to cry over the Internet’s shoulder a bit. This picture.
The sheer loneliness and cold in this drawing are heart breaking. Who is Sherlock Holmes? A lonely man, never having a friend, never having a lover, never having a family. He puts the coat on his back, but in such a way as to resemble how the arm of a loved one might lay. There is peace in frost, I discovered it on my own. He is barefoot and he sleeps with his gloves on. He doesn’t care about himself. Because in that chill, he needs to remember what he had sacrificed for.
He gave up his life for his work. He abandoned any thought of love for the need to work, to use his brain, to use all the things he knew and could put to good means for good reasons. But the loneliness wraps him closer than a woman ever could. Irene loved him, yet they never said it to each other and the only proof that he felt any remorse for what he had done was the fact that he saved her life.
John changed him as a public person. On the inside however, it is a lot more difficult to tell. He did become more open and more easy with the idea of feeling, still…..
And still… What made him so hateful of love? Theories and fanfictions are already out there, but despite every one talking about a girl who betrayed or dumped him, our only real clue is in I always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.
A man like Sherlock would be hurt, would give up on love, would disrespect women if the girl he had loved had left him. However, he assumes that love is wrong. A man like Sherlock never believes. He knows. Then there is the word dangerous…
I mentioned it before, what do we really know about his family? About his brother? About his Mother? Other than the fact she is alone and her husband had left her, nothing. Oh, I surprised you on that? Well, Mycroft was very keen to tell us that You know how that upsets Mommy. The fact that Sherlock’s feud with his brother upsets their mother makes sense, but the fact that it is childish and that people will suffer suggest that they never had a good male role model. They are so different, because they took after different people. Mycroft found relief in having power, Sherlock in solving riddles. Boys need guidance more than girls in some parts and they need that of a father. What do I deduce from here? That their father has left them. Ever more so, that the fact that their mother still loved him had put her in some sort of danger which included Sherlock and most likely marked him for life. He would have been old enough to understand. And he remembered it. And never trusted love again. Irene was his match, but the scars ran too deep and she wasn’t what he needed to heal.
And then his heart… He has been reliably informed that he does not have one. The only person Sherlock trusted before John was his brother. Blood runs deeper than mistakes and the two of them have their memories to keep them together. Mycroft was the reliable source. So what on Earth did Sherlock do to receive such a label? My guess stands on his choosing work over family. Mycroft was married and became a widower, so he didn’t give up on his life for the huge amount of work he had. While Sherlock… Perhaps there had been a girl. A perfect girl, a girl he loved. But a bullet or a letter reached her and Sherlock never pulled himself together to see her. Mycroft tried to push him, but he couldn’t. His heart was frozen under wounds and his brother could no longer see it.
He felt remorse for that. Mycroft never let Sherlock out of his sight afterwards. He regrets having ignored him as a child and he regrets that he can never forgive him. For what? Here, I will not venture. There are millions of possibilities. And I… I don’t really know what I should take into consideration first.
Is it the loneliness? Do I need to find my coat and go to sleep on the floor, with my gloves on? I don’t know what I should write. I just need to write something. Anything.
My heart is breaking and I don’t know why.