Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a fan- one whose pastime doesn't result in a body count for a change.
A/N: Once again I have to resort to fic-writing to shake off my obsession. This story is the result. Some spoilers for 'A Study In Pink'.
The Improbable One
A Sherlock Fanfiction by ntc
Comments posted on the personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
of course if i was sherlock's colleague we would have solved the case much earlier. how could you not realise the suitcase would be pink?
theimprobableone 07 February 15:26
Who the hell are you! ? ? ! And what kind of name is that! ? !
Harry Watson 07 February 15:30
xXxXxXx
His fists itched every time Sergeant Sally Donovan sneered the word 'freak' right in Sherlock's face. But it was the word 'psychopath' from Anderson from forensics that actually made him want to pick up the closest heavy object and bludgeon the weasel-faced man.
He never acted on his impulses though. He knew that it would mean a quick death to his career prospects in the police force, and his late father would be undoubtedly disappointed in him for doing violence to the fairer sex, no matter how said member of fairer sex deserved it. However, he was sure even his father would be hard-pressed to find any redeeming qualities in a man like Anderson, and so he allowed himself the luxury of fantasizing about what he could do to the man. In a locked room. With a set of brass knuckles. Or a good, stout stick. He was not picky.
Sadly, he also knew that it was all impotent fuming on his part. He felt like a coward when he allowed the insults go unchallenged again and again. The insults burned him, perhaps even more than Sherlock himself, for he had not mastered Sherlock's ability to completely disregard what other people thought about him. He felt the need to become outraged on Sherlock's behalf, for the simple reason that Sherlock did not. People like Donovan and Anderson often mistook Sherlock's lack of reaction as a sign that he didn't have any feelings to hurt, and they became even more vicious in their verbal jabs in a perverse attempt to provoke a human reaction out of him.
What they didn't realize was that Sherlock's bland expression in the face of cruel and petty taunts was the result of concentration, his thoughts running at inhuman speeds, picking up what appeared at first glance to be trifle clues and linking them deftly to reveal an embarrassing truth that would serve in his arsenal of retaliation.
"I'm sure Sally came over to have a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." A smirk accompanied the killing blow. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."
The accusations hung in the air like a heavy cloud and for a brief moment he almost pitied Anderson, who had visibly paled and looked as if he was about to be sick. Adultery and sex with a co-worker. All deduced from the scent of deodorant.
Brilliant.
He was reminded again what had attracted him to Sherlock in the first place, and why he had made it his life's goal to become a detective inspector who would be worthy to work side by side with him one day.
A/N: I admit this is too short for a story, or even a chapter of a story. After I gather enough confidence to churn out more back story (what with my zero experience in writing crime stories and my lack of knowledge about London in general), this ficlet would then serve as a prologue.