Prized Possession

The picture stood on his table. The picture stood there. The picture haunted his dreams. The picture was his most prized possession. He wanted to be rid of it, but every time he touched it, he felt a burn underneath his fingertips. The picture wanted to be there. The picture would probably come back and kill him if he threw it away. Sherlock Holmes groaned as he locked eyes with the photograph once again as he paced his study for absolutely no reason at all.

"What are you looking at?" He asked it with a slight glare. He was lucky Watson wasn't there, or he'd be laughing at him for glaring at inanimate objects. "Do you take pleasure in burning into my soul and twisting it around like it's your sick toy?" The picture merely stayed where it was, and of course, it didn't reply. Holmes acted as though it did (you see, he enjoyed talking to himself to let the tension out.) "I am not your toy, Irene, no matter how many times you play with my emotions." He sighed, and sat down on his chair. "I'm rather foolish, taking to a photograph like that. Mrs. Hudson!" He yelled. Moments later, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs. The door opened slightly and then opened all the way as if the person who was opening it was hesitant and quite scared as to what she might find in there. "I am not holding a revolver in my hands today, Mrs. Hudson." An elderly woman came in, holding a tray of breakfast. "It's not poison, I hope?"
"Again with this, Mr. Holmes?" She asked, setting it down on the table. "Just drink it, okay?" He glanced down at the food and then back up at her.

"If you insist." She nodded and left the room; she had an urge to clean it up, but he would never let her touch anything or take anything out its 'proper place' as he called it. Holmes sighed as he gradually put each morsel into his mouth and chewed slowly. He gulped and grabbed the tea. He brought it to his nose; he sniffed it, decided it wasn't poisoned, and then drank it down. He remembered one of his latest encounters with Irene. It was after the capture of the Butterfly Killer. He was scared to death that night as that crazed murderer held his gun to her. He told her he'd understand if she had to leave. After all, London wasn't the place for a New Jersey girl. But, still, when that time came, he couldn't help but feel a bit dejected. Well, perhaps she was the woman he fell for, but could never have. He was a detective, she was thief. Not a good match. It was his job to catch people like her. If ever asked if he would ever turn in Irene Adler to the police if she was the culprit of a burglary, Holmes would reply with "I don't know." There were cons and pros with that. The pros would be that she would be in jail and she would have no way of toying with him from in there. The cons would be that he would most likely never see her again or she would escape jail, so there would be no point in actually locking her up.

"I'm bored," he sighed. "I need some adventure, some excitement."

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson yelled from downstairs.
"What?"
"Clarke is here to see you."
"A case?" He asked with glee. He jumped up from his chair and ran downstairs to meet Clarke.

Clarke sat at the table, with a cup of tea in his hands. He had a somber look on his face and quietly sipped.

"Hello, hello, hello." Holmes said, with a smile as he entered the kitchen. "What do I owe this pleasure, sir?" He was thinking in his mind "please, be a case. Please, be a case."

"A woman's child has been kidnapped, Mr. Holmes. We think the child's been murdered." Mrs. Hudson looked over at them from where she was washing the dishes. An emotion of sadness spread across her face.

"Most engaging."

"Yes. Well, this a case we need help in. The child is only four years old, and it's our top priority to rescue him and return him to his mother."
"Of course; if he's still alive, that is." Clarke sighed. There was a silence between them. Neither of them wanted to think of a child's mangled body in the streets of London, but whenever a child is kidnapped, they are mostly always found dead. It happens not only with children, but with teenagers and adults as well. His thoughts drifted to the mother, who he suspected was in tears at the disappearance of her son. He didn't know what the mother looked like, but he imagined her with brown hair that hung down to her shoulders and wearing a pink dress. He grimaced when she bared a strong resemblance to Irene.

"Yes. Let's just hope our assumption is wrong. If the child is indeed dead, the least we can do for the mother is to make sure the killer is behind bars for life." Clarke finally spoke up, breaking the silence between them.
"Or better, we can just kill him."

"We'll see if it comes to that, Holmes."
"Well, Clarky, we'd better get to work, shall we?" Holmes smiled, rising from his seat. He dug his hands into his pockets and took out his trust pipe. "It's been a while since I've used this on a case."

"You're really torn up about this, aren't you?" Clarke asked, raising his eyebrows.

"It's been a while since my last case, sir. Excuse me for being a bit giddy." Clarke rose from his seat as well, thanking Mrs. Hudson for the tea, who nodded, and with that, the two were off. Perhaps, they would pop in on Watson and drag him with them. Yes, he thought, Watson would have no choice but to come. It wasn't forcing since he knew he wanted to come. He smiled. Holmes was grateful for this case because finally Irene Adler was out of his mind…. Or at least pushed aside; she was still there, but now he could focus on something else.