Reflection

 

Emalee Andrulewicz

 

Before I met Watson, I rarely allowed people to see what I was thinking or feeling. I knew people with the Yard thought me cold, uncaring. “A brain without a heart” is what they had called me. It is from them Watson had heard the term. After I met Watson and after we formed a friendship, I started to change, subtly, of course. I shall be grateful to Watson because he had taught me how to care. I had started to care more about how others perceive me and more about what the victim’s family was going through.

That cold mask I still dawned on occasion slowly dissolved. I had dropped subtle hints and clues about my train of thoughts. So subtle that only Watson was able to pick up on them, even then he didn’t realise to what I had been referring until later.

I am always in control of my emotions. I appear cold, to let my logic work unhindered. Only twice have I let my emotions break through the thick bonds.

The first time was after Watson and I had foolishly experimented with the Devil’s Foot Root, which showed us such unbelievable horror.

The second time was when Watson was shot by “Killer” Evans a few days ago. We have been through many dangers, but never once have I considered that Watson could die. The worry and emotion I felt when he fell was strong. I had never felt it as strong as this before.

When I ripped the leg of his trousers, I felt a cold determination that Evans would not be leaving that building alive. His death would be much slower and more painful than Watson’s. To my relief, the wound was just a graze and Watson would be alright. But the cold hatred didn’t leave me, nor did that fear. The fear of, one day, losing Watson in death.

This fear was different than when Watson married. I knew I would be seeing him again, perhaps not as much as I had before, but I would be seeing him again.

I shuddered. It is not good to dwell upon what could have happened as opposed what actually did happen.

I picked up my Stradivarius that was lying on a nearby table and started to play. The melancholy tune echoed my depressing thoughts, but soothed my troubled spirit. Yes, I am very grateful Watson emerged from that confrontation with little more than a scratch. For his sake as well as my own. The tune lightened its mood at that thought for a few seconds, helping to quiet my thoughts. For now, at least.

It does no good thinking about the past, I told myself firmly. It’s much better to be thankful for what did happen. It could have been much worse.

With that settled, the tune became determined. I cleared my mind of the “what ifs” and focused on the tune I was playing. I, also, focused on the fact that my only true friend had woken up and was limping down the stairs from his room, alive and mostly well.

I smiled slightly as I heard the sitting room door open and changed the dramatic, determined tune into one of Watson’s favourite pieces as a silent apology. Watson settled in his chair to listen.

For now, all was right with the world.