Sherlock reminds me so much of a vulture at times, it's almost eerie. There he is, always circling around the edges of a crime scene, around the edges of my consciousness, just waiting to strike. To tear into my skin and gnaw at the organs, break open my bones and suck the marrow out. And it does feel as if he's sucking the life out of me. He keeps flying, he keeps swooping in at the most inopportune times, he keeps casting his shadow over my life's work.
Contrary to popular belief, I'm not an unintelligent man. I can tell what animal has been scavenging a crime scene by the angle of the tooth marks. I can readily and easily determine cause of death just from a few looks, a sample or two. I worked hard in school and I got my forensics degree, and I joined New Scotland Yard and kept my head down and did what was asked of me. I am not perfect, nor am I a god, but I've struggled to get where I am and sometimes you want recognition. You want to get to the carrion before the vulture does. And it never happens.
I'm tired of a man who has no reason to be at a crime scene just bursting in, shutting me out of my own work and bloviating the answer just by looking at the victim's fingernails. It's frustration embodied to have spent half my life studying to do what I do, and then watch as all the recognition, all the glamour goes to someone who never took a single test. And then to have to endure his taunts, his slander and his hate just because Lestrade feels desperate enough to need his help! He knows I've always adored Sally, and that my monster of a wife refuses to let me get a divorce, and he keeps shoving the stake in a little bit harder because he knows it enrages me.
Anyone under these conditions would snap, would feel resentful and hurt when everything they've worked for is thrown to the dust and their name is trampled under the feet of some effeminate sociopath with a drug habit and a powerful brother. I've done what I can with dignity and I've done my best, and apparently it's never good enough – not for Lestrade, not for Sally, not for my wife and certainly not for Sherlock.
I keep showing up each day for work knowing I'll have to endure more abuse. I keep going to crime scenes and doing what I can to help knowing that at any moment, that bastard will burst in and insult me, show that unnatural ability he has that we mortals couldn't possibly face up to. And I keep growing dispirited and frustrated and just damn tired of the way I'm treated, and I keep putting on a brave face, because the last thing I need is for him to know that it fucking hurts, the way he treats me.
Forensic pathologists have few natural predators, the vulture being one of them. I feel the comparison is apt, then, when I say that I am his favorite prey.