The smoking habit seems to have returned again. Tenfold.
Rather a fair amount of events have taken place since my last blog, recently one which persuaded me to return to this small pastime.
Over the past few months, so much has happened and a chronological order, I feel will only make sense despite my sheer desperation to be free of the guilt I now carry. The sense of drowning beneath the weight of a crushing claustrophobia, brought further about by the support of family around me.
Well, how to start? I'm sure Brother would make some form of spiteful comment here about my uncertainty. Strangely it would be appreciated.
Ah, I know.
James Moriarty. Otherwise known as 'Jim'. When does a story ever not begin with Jim? Or end with him, for that matter?
It was supposed to be a quiet month Government wise, thank the heavens, and yet I managed to be put in care of a young baby which James had decided to create by combining the DNA strands of my brother with his own. This was the beginning of life for my two nephews Eoin and Ewan. Both of whom are now in my care.
Using the want he'd developed to see Ewan for his excuse - true or not, I am unsure - Jim attempted to persuade me into a relationship with him upon discovering that I didn't entirely hate him, despite he being the reason for my elder nephew and Sherlock to be sent into a coma.
Naturally, I declined.
The next thing I knew, he had taken me to a tropical island; a holiday, apparently. Kidnapping more like.
I shan't go on about the details during this time, it's something my mind was quite determined to lock out.
Several months after my return, I received a worried text from Gregory Lestrade stating that 'Somebody knows'. He was referring to our few brief affairs, and unfortunately a certain woman had managed to gain pictures and footage. Irene Adler, actually.
When she finally decided to text myself, rather than the Detective Inspector, a rather unexpected source had decided she had gone too far. Later that very day, I opened a text from Jim. He had found the photos and, I admit, I genuinely saw the devil surface. The eyes like coal, ablaze in their anger and the last human elements that became James Moriarty were drowned by the jealousy painted across his face. After a great deal of reasoning, and a frankly stressful argument concerning the possibility of him cutting off his ear, he came out with the unexpected words; I shan't displease him by repeating the first few, but they did end with 'I love you' and he was serious. You could see in his eyes, the toning of his voice.. How I miss that so. This was the start of my relationship with James Moriarty, the Consulting Criminal; everything I was against. Everything that could ruin me with a mere click of his fingers. The worst part was that I returned these emotions, I'd come to love Mr. James Ardan, after all we'd been through.
With emotions in the way, I'd lost security of my family, I gave him a clear path to my little brother.
A month or so into our relationship, I found myself sitting around the conference table I am accustomed to within Parliament when Jim's brother sends me a text urging me to call him. That phone call was the most crushing moment of my life. The deepest slice within my heart... My brother and my lover had committed suicide. Jim had shot himself and Sherlock had jumped from the hospital rooftop.
I visited my brother in the morgue, looked upon his body and... I realised that I had done this to him... I had killed my little brother, and it should have been me. I'd failed to do the main task I'd set for myself; I failed to protect him. And Jim... why did I have to lose them both upon that day?
Father was surprisingly there for me, I informed the close relatives and the funeral was arranged. John, naturally cannot stand the sight of me now, I can't blame him - he made it quite apparent that I had taken Sherlock from him. That it was my fault. That I knew it was.
And here I am now... Sitting in my room of silence... blogging simply to be able to think straight, to keep track, to pull myself away from the stabbing hurt within my gaping wound.
Still, the cigarette companies must have made quite the profit, and as the phrase goes; life must go on.
Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty.
My brother and my love,
May you feel peace at last.
~Mycroft Holmes.
