Jules 1 Geraldine Jules English 12 Mrs Peel April 20 2013 Spectrums A to Z: a narrative essay Dont touch me.

The words shoot across a bow. I jerk my hand away from Sherlocks bony shoulder nearly tipping the tea onto the untidy table. Sorry? Is everything okay? I ask, placing the china onto the stack of files next to him. Fine. I just need to think. Sherlock stares intently at his computer screen, occasionally comparing the open article to the first of a bulky pile of files. Shrugging with apathy, I sit down across from him at my own laptop deciding what to write for the next blog entry. My shoulders unwind and I echo my companions breathy sigh. The case had gone badly. So badly, in fact, that Sherlock hadnt said a word about the case since. Even when the murderer was arrested, he had buried himself into another case and appeared to live and breathe like a fish in paperwork. I open a new entry as I wipe a salty hand on my pant leg.

Condolences to the Davies family of Wokingham on their loss. I dont have the heart to write more at the moment.

The entry wasnt good enough, nothing I can think could ever be good enough, but I hit post anyway. John. I look up and Sherlock glowers at me. Shut up.

Jules 2 I roll my eyes and aim for levity. Sorry. Did I type too loud? Was I breathing? Just be quiet. I need to think. Sherlock tangles his fingers in his curls, brushing them off his furrowed brow. I need to think, he repeats. No matter how badly I want to say something, I dont. I close my laptop to give him some room, and take my seat next to the fireplace. I had spent the two previous days feeling the prickling tension rise, and speculated if I could do anything about my partners infuriating self conflict. I settle myself in the plush chair as a storm of its own broke outside. As soon as a clashing thunder breaks our silence, Sherlock sweeps the masses of paper off the table, sending them spiralling onto the carpet. Loose paper flits in white drifts and tea coats every single sheet with sticky droplets. Damn it, John! I jump out of my seat, and I can only imagine how I stared at my friend. I cant think. I cant focus, Sherlocks hands wave with jerky, fluttering movements like a frantic bird battering itself against a cage, as he articulated his speech. Youre right there taking up space and getting in the way. I dont think I can handle this any longer. I try to calm him down; silently pleading the storm outside would stop. I asked Sherlock if he needed me to leave the sitting room or take a walk. No, John. It even happens when youre not here! he points a slender finger at me. Youre inside my head. I cant tuck you away when I need to think; youre always right there this is a terrible idea. What is a terrible idea? I ask. Sherlock frenetically waves his hand between the both of us. THIS. You and me. Its not working. Each syllable slams into my chest, nearly knocking me back into my chair. Sherlock, if this has to do with

Jules 3 It doesnt. Youre just inconvenient. I swallowed the betrayed reply sitting on my tongue. I knew this was coming from the moment Lestrade called us with the news about the Davies. Fighting to keep my voice steady, I ask: What do you want me to do? I want you out of my head, he states. I want you out. Its surely not the worst case scenario I had imagined, but it was impossibly close. You want me to leave? Yes. No. Sherlock tugs his fringe once more as if it were to help pull the answers out of his skull. I dont know. He then strides across the room, grabs his coat, and leaves me standing alone in the sitting room. Where are you going? I call out to him. Sherlock did not reply and vanishes down the stairs. After I hear the door slam, I find Im holding my breath. Returning mobility to my limbs as well, I go round to tidy the calamity of tea and paper at my feet. While cleaning I try not to think about Elise Davies lying in the hospital. The doctors claimed she might eventually recover; her husband Hugh was not so fortunate. This is the first time I have seen my friend have all the evidence and still fail; consequently, if he broke the code holding the threat sooner, then the Davies would be unharmed. This is worse than Baskerville, worse than the doubt Id seen on Sherlocks face, and a thousand times worse than hearing him deny our friendship. Because, of course, our friendship is more than that now. After I bin the last of the earl grey shards of broken cup, I go over to look out the windows. The unpleasantly cold glass is soaked to the bone; I can practically taste the dewy droplets racing down the panes.

Jules 4 The dark diamond of a city looms contently through the curtains of spilling rain. Sherlock stands under a streetlight seemingly oblivious to his drenched coat. He is like a dragon with ashen smoke pluming from his nose; I cannot tell if its a fag or the vastness of the cold or both. Nevertheless, I will not let that idiot get a cold as much as Id like to leave him out moping about. My companion smothers his cigarette butt as I address him, and he exhales the last of the smoke with his face turned up against the downpour. Its my fault, he whispers distractedly, tilting his head over, as if his joints were made of porcelain, so his eyes connect with mine. It really is not, I reply. I was an army doctor; I obviously know how it is. Sometimes no matter what you do its not good enough. You cant be responsible for everything, Sherlock. I should have been decoding that message, but all I could think of was you with Mary. And now that man is dead. I did not have an answer for that. What do you think? If Mrs. Davies ever wakes up, well apologize to her: Terribly sorry your Hamlet of an ex-boyfriend shot you, but my flatmate had a wonderful date with a fine young lady! His lips curl back sarcastically from his teeth making him unrecognisable while my gut twists so uncomfortably I physically cant smell the dripping rain at the tip of my nose. All right, it was a mistake, Sherlock. Everybody makes mistakes. I dont. The sound that escapes my mouth only approximates a laugh. Yes you do. You make mistakes all the time! I rub my forehead against my sleeve, wiping away a layer of water; Sherlock shakes his head.

Jules 5 Not before this, he warned. Not before you. Sherlock wipes his own mouth with the back of his gloved hand as if he could smear his distaste away. This ... involvement. Its a distraction I cannot afford. I want to argue. I want to list all the ways Sherlock is better for having me around; in fact, letting emotions in once a while would be the first line. The words didnt come. I keep seeing Elise Daviess face the day she came to the flat to ask for our help. I keep seeing the way Hugh Davies watched his wife with worried eyes. Those same eyes were sightless and staring up at the ceiling of the Daviess sitting room when wed arrived, and Elise was lying on the floor bleeding from a gunshot wound to the head. If I thought it was the right thing, I would start looking for a new place tomorrow, I murmured slowly, but audibly. What if Sherlock was right about our companionship being inconvenient? Perhaps you should, Sherlock coughed. I ask him if he was sincere. He doesnt say anything but gave a small nod without a spare glance. The ground is giving away beneath my feet as if the pavement is crumbling away by the weight of the pounding rain. Yeah, my throat aches and I run my dry tongue along my drier lips; I feel my coat start to cling to my body, which is proving less water-resistant than advertised. I conclude its stupid to keep standing here. Um, dont stay out long - all right? Sherlock didnt phase. Ill leave you be then. I pray my legs dont give as I turn away. John, he stammered with a voice so gentle I nearly miss the call beneath the roar of the rain. Im sorry.

Jules 6 I nod once, a soldierly sharp jerk of my chin, then stiffen my spine trying not to drag my cowardly feet when pacing back to the flat. I didnt bother to change clothes after I peel off my coat. My legs take me as far as the sitting room sofa before I collapse onto it, lay on it, and before I knew it, I fell asleep. Sometime in the early morning, I wake to the sensation of damp curls press against my shoulder. Sherlock, sitting on the floor with his back turned to the sofa front, is breathing deep and steady. I feel a flash of anger at his presence that faded into a deep ache; I want to kick him away from me and fall asleep on a proper bed. My mind is a needles piston that can never be satisfied, he sheepishly affirms. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse puzzle, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own personal atmosphere. I crave mental exaltation and thats why I do what I do, John. Being either my doctoral empathy or my sympathy, heartstrings vibrate in my chest. I want to hold this man to all the hurtful things hed announced outside, and yet, feeling his head lean back on my shoulder in the darkness of the flat, leaving is unthinkable. I couldnt sleep, he mumbles. My laugh is a short, sharp humorless sound. I hate it, he continues. Needing you. Its messy. Turning on my side, I lean on my arm to look down at him. Sherlock swivels curiously to face me from the floor straight on. I know. Thats why Im leaving, remember? I dont want you to, he quietly confesses with a face of stone and childs eyes. My mouth tightens, holding in a You did earlier. I ask him what he really wanted. You, he proposed. The work. All of it. I dont know how. Sherlock slowly brings his knees to his chest now avoiding my eyes. Is this what people do? Spend all their time thinking about other

Jules 7 people? Or about even more ridiculous things, like worrying if someone remembered their cab fare because its raining outside and theyre just getting over a cold? No wonder the world is full of idiots. I smile against the tightness of my throat. So many irrelevant things... Okay, so tell me what is relevant? I propose myself. Sherlock frowns, like he usually did when I had missed an obvious point; thats not unexpected. Work is the most important thing. He pauses, clearly holding something back. But? But its not the only thing. Not anymore. And thats bad? Its impossible to reconcile! Sherlock throws his hands into the air. Having both seems impossible. Not having both seems unbearable. What if both arent an option? I keep my voice soft. You asked me to leave. Did it occur to you that just changing your mind isnt enough to undo that? Of course not. Why wouldnt it be enough? You dont want to leave, he croaks. I dont want you to leave. What happens the next time a case goes badly, then? I cant no, you you cant hold us hostage against the work. I hate what happened during the caste. Its eating me up, but even if you do everything exactly right, you could fail again. And this is going to happen then too? Sherlock turns around and returns to rest his back against the sofa. Theres softness around his posture that makes my chest go tight. When he did finally speak again, Sherlocks voice was low and harsh-edged. I made a terrible mistake with the case. I made another one tonight. Dont - dont make me suffer for both of them, he takes a deep breath. Please.

Jules 8 The please hits me the hardest. I dont want to go, Sherlock, I admit. But I cant stay if youre going to throw a tantrum every time something goes badly. I didnt throw a tantrum. I lay back down on the sofa with a huff. Alright, I did. Sherlock swallows, his jaw tightening with the movement. Im sorry, John. I know Im difficult I snort. shut up, Im apologizing I know Im difficult, and I dont know how to do this properly but I please stay. Well talk tomorrow, I decided. Thats not a Yes. Yeah well, its not a No either, and thats as good as youre going to get form me at half-four in the morning. I smile, but just a little bit. Can I stay here? No you cant, git. Youll bloody freeze. Get up and go to your bed and Ill get up and go back to mine.

Jules 9 9. Do we put too much emphasis on self-reliance and independence, and are we afraid of admitting that we need other people in our lives?

I chose to write a narrative (with added description, obviously) because the question I chose to go with is one I can relate my interests to. By definition, a narrative essay is a story, or account of events/experiences, whether true or fictitious. Authors of essays often use them to explore and find the meanings of important events in their own lives. Narrative essays look like short stories, and can be defined as short stories, rather than traditional academic essays. A proper narrative essay includes a plot, setting, protagonists, antagonists, a problem, and a solution. The essay I wrote for this assignment is fictional (a fan fiction) and does not have a physical antagonist; and this case, the antagonist is literally Sherlocks ability to balance his work and his one and only friendship.