Back: this one has been sitting on my computer since The Fall. Just got around to uploading it. Also: the final chapters of my DBZ fic For the Love of Kami be Specific are on their way. Sadly things have been in the way the last two years or so to stop me from updating, but they are coming. ^^ Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or anyone in his entire universe except for that guy. Yes, that guy over in the corner. See him? Hello! I own you sir!
No such thing as gray.
A Sherlock fanfic.
There was only black and white.
The colors did not mix, and there was no such thing as gray.
Something was either there or it wasn't. This was something Sherlock knew so well.
So when he looked at a crime scene, there were things there and things that werent there. If they werent there then where were they? Everything had to be somewhere. Everything had to be something. Nothing was something as well, so even nothing had to be somewhere.
Thus, there was no gray. Only the two colors, two actions, and two kinds of people.
Everything was as it was supposed to be. Until the day that damnable doctor limped into the lab and never left Sherlock's mind. Not once.
Oh yes, sometimes he forgot or looked over John. It was hard not too sometimes. He blended in so well at Sherlock's side sometimes it was like he was just a scarf or a heavy coat. John was someone to talk at as he ran through the evidence to make sense of it. Much better than the skull. Oh, yes. Much better. Sherlock had had to come up with the idiotic questions the skull would ask himself. A hard task for one of his intelligence. No, you see John, now John came up with his own dumb questions that would keep the fire of Sherlock's mind alive. He tended his fire, and John just became part of the fuel.
Then he wasn't anymore. No, no. Somehow the edges of the black and white of Sherlock's world began to blur the slightest bit.
It had started when he had asked the good doctor if he wanted to see more violence. Any other man would have said no, or at least declined politely. Not John Watson. He had answered, and followed and at that moment Sherlock's world went a little bit out of orbit.
Asked to spy on him for money John had refused, then told him with no hesitation that he had been offered such a deal. Such integrity this man had, playing into the white of the world. Sherlock thought he had him figured out. Then, to Sherlock's surprise, he had shot the killer cabby in cold blood to save his life. Again John Watson blurred the lines between white and black in his mind.
The first time he had tried out the word "friend" on a case from an old Uni classmate, John had shot him down. This was filed directly under the black part of the world and Sherlock began to pull away once more. All through that case John had been antagonistic toward him, and finally when he had decided that John Watson was firmly in the black, he turned and almost gave his life to save his lady friend. White part of the world.
As things progressed, Sherlock began to realize his world was blurring. The white and black began to form together into this gray circle. Nothing this man did could be catagorized one way or the other.
Sometimes he was mean, oh yes. That was one of those essential things humans could not have survived without. Yet there was such kindness in him as well. Evil deeds done in the name of good. Hurt used to help. All of his life Sherlock had only known one or the other, yet John often mixed both. There were parts missing, but it seemed almost as if they were never there.
Soon he was trying to please John occasionally. At least make him unashamed to be his friend. Yes, they were friends now. He had almost lost him at the side of the pool by Moriarty's hand, and once more in the lounge of a small town's inn. Everytime something made him come back, and try his best to be in that gray little circle John lived in.
It was not in his nature though. He was a machine, simply put. By John just a bit earlier. There was no gray. Just black and white. He was on the black side, one of those monsters you tell your children about to get them to stay out of the dark woods. Moriarty and he were not very different. They lived above other humans, and watched them as a boy does with ants.
Atleast, that was what he had thought. His entire life had only been about Sherlock Holmes, no one else. The love of the chase and the game kept him moving, passing through life chasing a way to kill the boredom. Sherlock lived for Sherlock alone.
When had that stopped? When had he cared about Mrs. Hudson enough to be angered by the men that tried to hurt her? He was so enraged that the only way for him to make the feeling go away was to throw that bastard out of a window once or twice...or three or four times.
Just when the hell had he ever given a damn about Lestrade? He used to be just a means to get cases, but now he attended holiday parties with the man as well as spoke with him on matters that had nothing to do with his cases.
Yet with John, there was no mystery there. John he had cared about from the moment they had met. Something about that infuriatingly gray man had clung to Sherlock, and was not letting go. That was why he had asked Molly to call John and tell him Mrs. Hudson was shot. To get his only friend out of the way of harm.
Moriarty had shown him time and time again that he was not hesitant to use friends to get to people. Oh no, in fact in this last case Moriarty seemed to be showing off that fact. So with three trained killers locked onto the only three people in this world Sherlock had begun to like, he had no choice. Moriarty was right, everyone has their pressure points. He had found his.
Looking down Sherlock was once more amazed and horrified at the body at his feet. To avoid being beaten, Moriarty had taken his own life. With only his death left, Sherlock had no other option. Somehow his brain had reverted back from the grayness John had filled it with over the last eighteen months and settled back into solid black and white.
To prevent a death, there must be a death. No other way for it to go.
He stepped onto the ledge, and watched as John stepped from the cab. No no no no no. He could not come in, he would be killed! Sherlock dialed his friends number and told him to go back to where he was before. John obeyed, asking Sherlock question's the entire time. He smiled a bit, that was just how they operated. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John. They did things for each other without hesitation but always with questions. That was the reason Sherlock was about to do what he was about to do.
"I'm a fake." Sherlock listened as his voice broke, tears coming to his eyes. He briefly wondered if he had ever cried before. As the conversation wore on he found that the tears would not stop. Below him John kept asking why, and Sherlock wanted to give him the only answer that ever made sense.
So you can live John Watson.
He tossed the phone to the side, and stepped forward. The wind rushed up around him, and everything was once more black and white. His death would allow for the best man he had ever met to keep living. Finally Sherlock Holmes had done something that belonged in the white.
With a crack he hit the pavement below, blood flying across his face. For just a second the entire world went white, and he heard John's scream.
Everything faded to black.