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𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲.

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— 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ࿐࿔

             ➯♯ 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐 ⵓ Hello, how are you?

              I hope you're okay. I decided to

              write some in my diary. Have fun

             reading.

— 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ࿐࿔

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ London had become

unbearable. Not because of the city

which had always been kind to her

but because of the internal climate:

a creeping fever, a persistent fatigue,

and something else… a taste of iron at

the back of her tongue that refused

to leave.

          ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ She tried everything: private   

           doctors even in Paris, a Swiss

           hematologist, a pharmacist friend in

           Munich. Each gave beautiful names

           to her decline: autoimmune syndrome,

           mild intoxication, psychosomatic

          exhaustion.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ Then Anthea cool as ever

mentioned a doctor in New Jersey.

Didn’t travel. Hated people. But

would be interested. Not because

she was Irene Adler, but because

no one else had managed to diagnose

her. And apparently, he hated imperfection.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ She crossed the Atlantic wrapped

in woody perfume, determined to visit

the only place in the world where genius

still wore a lab coat and cursed life

at every step: Princeton-Plainsboro

Teaching Hospital.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ No appointment. No warning.

Only an envelope bearing the British

Intelligence seal and the initials MH,

handwritten. It opened doors even

money couldn’t. Adler never asked

favors from the Holmes but

she had her ways.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ Gregory House received her like

a wounded predator. He walked poorly,

but thought faster than anyone alive.

To every question she posed, a cynical

answer. To every breath he took,

a hypothesis forming.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ This game had happened before.

Only once.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ He greeted her poorly.

  “I don’t take patients who come

with dossiers and expensive perfume.

If you want to seduce a doctor,

go find a cardiologist"

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ He kept her for five days. Not

          protocol. He claimed she “radiated

          inconsistency.” She lied about her travels.

          Omitted names. Spoke in riddles about

          substances. He knew. He always knew.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ On the fourth night, he storme

          into her room with a portable ultrasound

         and a bitter coffee.

          “It’s a parasite. Rare. Usually in British

           waters. You’ve been to Scotland?”

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ He treated her with surgical

          precision. His tone, his posture it echoed

Holmes. The sharpness, the disinterest,

the unbearable genius.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ Dual medication. Hepatic

          monitoring. Controlled diet. Between

          instructions,they traded insults like vows.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ It felt like speaking to Sherlock’s

reflection older, still beautiful,

and cursed with that irritating

American accent.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ He rarely showed up.

She spent most of her time

charming nurses. Emily, the blonde

one, liked her. That would matter.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ When discharged, she left behind

a red silk handkerchief with her scent

and a note. No gratitude only style.

Emily made sure it reached his desk.

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ "You didn’t save me.

You merely kept death

from getting bored too early.

– Adler.”

         ➯♯ 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ⵓ He never replied. But she knew

the treatment must continue. Two months

           later, she received a bottle of pills and a

           post-it with impatient handwriting.

"Don’t die. That would be predictable.

You’re far too beautiful and clever

for that.”