floccinaucinihilipilification
karierte
Sherlock isn't surprised.
He hears it's called Hero Syndrome, and that people like setting buildings on fire so they can pretend that they are innocent, compassionate bystanders who were at the right place at the right time and dash in to the rescue sans capes and anonymity.
Sherlock covets free food.
The human need to label everything is charmingly obtuse. He's better than that, really. Above it all. Next week, Sherlock will leave the hydrofluoric acid next to the water and invite Lestrade to drink; wonders if the detective inspector will notice that the glass is dissolving beneath his fingers and what will happen to his tongue? He'll use his phone to take pictures. Fascinating.
Meanwhile, the rapist is fleeing his small flat in the burning tower block, tucking his child pornography neatly into his cheap rucksack and placing his pyjamas on top. Should be here in five, four, three, two. One. Forgot his toothpaste, oh dear, what a shame and—there we go, someone should have been a little more discreet about their browser history.
The rapist owns a nice restaurant six and a half minutes away from the disgusting penthouse Mycroft is renting for him. Sherlock rebels by breaking into his brother's house and sleeping in a different guest room every night. He makes toast in the mornings and crushes burnt breadcrumbs all over the carpets, like Hansel and Gretel. No need to be pedantic, he thinks, seeing as Mycroft will kidnap him from a hostel in five days time and Sherlock will go graciously back to his rooms (but only after smearing seedless strawberry jam on the horrible Impressionist paintings in the foyer).
Back to the food.
He's been getting a bit sick of caramelised crusts, actually.
Never got the hang of the toaster settings.
"Is it just the seven-year-olds that get you off? Or is it not so specific?" Sherlock says congenially.
(He knows, really, that it's just the six to nine age bracket, hates dumbing himself down.)
The rapist, Michael Summers, 47, mentally disturbed, makes the most divine ravioli. He's showing early signs of undiagnosed clinical depression, so Sherlock had better make the most of him before he commits suicide in a corkscrew of self-hatred when he is fifty.
The rapist, Michael Summers, 47, mentally disturbed, blanches.
How boring.
Sherlock has smoked him out (quite literally, he does amuse himself with idioms) and for the small price of forty-two wonderfully-cooked Italian dishes, Mr. Summers will not go to prison. Well, until he is no longer entertaining.
Then Sherlock will delight in playing that innocent, compassionate bystander. Who just so happened to be there at the right place, at the right time, picking up the illegal snuff films that fell out the cheap rucksack, whose shocked whispers will make Lestrade's paperwork that much easier.
Couldn't call him a bad friend.
The rapist gives him a business card, runs off to his sister's council accommodation.
Sherlock isn't surprised.
A/N
Repost of a kinkmeme fill from livejournal and slightly inspired by QI. Feedback loved~