Sherlock: Hell on Earth

Oh, God.

I have never been so horrified. I would rather be anywhere but here. My weeks of tracking down my senseless, wastrel of a little brother undercover in a foreign country were preferable to this. I would gladly face down The Woman in utter humiliation a second time if it meant not sitting here, listening to the steady sound of my brain cells dying in agony every moment that I waste in this abysmal place.

It is, quite possibly, the most painful experience in my lifetime. Worse than enduring contact with those little monsters known as "children." Worse than dealing with constant incompetence everywhere I turn. Worse than my little brother turning up stark naked at Buckingham Palace. What I endure now makes those disastrous moments positively desirable in comparison.

How could anyone endure this? How can they bear it? Yet all around me is sickeningly adoring faces, tilted forward like mechanical drones, eyes widened and misty through absurd fits of emotion, handkerchiefs at the ready, bodies leaning slightly forward, as if their pathetic support can in any way change the outcome. As the ghastly shrieking fills the air, hands tighten, emotions stir, and sniveling is heard in the rows behind me. The hellacious noise increases as the slight, bland-looking shopkeeper's daughter from Cork spreads her hands wide and screeches an intolerable song about lost love to the heavens.

Love. What an absurd title to explain away the temporary insanity that possesses people to create more people, to populate the earth with a never-ending tide of banality. Love is a fiction, and yet I can't escape it—this insipid piece of drivel, this sentimental absurdity, this bastion of emotion and irrationality, fills the air with screeching remorse over a past life just as devoid of common sense as the audience is at this moment.

If I had any faith in the human race, this torturous experience would dash it to pieces; instead, it gives me even more loathing toward their small minds, so easily pleased, so quickly distracted from rationality by a bit of paint on a shabby backdrop and sentiment—that killer of all things rational, that urge that holds one back from one's duty, that incomprehensible thing that allows humans to "connect" to one another.

I'm so full of revulsion that my hands shake. I narrow my eyes at the stage, loathing my brother for not being here, and indulging in the same torturous misery I must face. I feel a burning need to call him, to beg him to rescue me.

Les Misérables. The Miserables. It is an accurate title for the current state of my soul.

Oh, the horror.

And the worst of it is, it's only been ten minutes since the curtain went up.