It had been 3 months since John and Sherlock had moved in together. At first their relationship had been agreeable enough but, as the weeks went by, John realized that Sherlock was a man who preferred solitude. He would often ignore John when he spoke to him or otherwise simply gaze absently into space. Sherlock was becoming more and more withdrawn from him; usually keeping to his room or his research in the lab. John suspected that Sherlock was merely working on a secret case that he did not wish to discuss with him but John had never been very apt at deciphering Sherlock, or anything at all for that matter, and Sherlock was tiring of John. In fact, he found him rather annoying at times. He was so boring, uninteresting, inconsequential, irrelevant and, most of all, simple-minded.
Sherlock longed for someone to match him at every turn or even challenge him. All these people around him were so dull with their routine lives and their mindless interests. At the turn of the century, these people would be forgotten as though they had never been and, if they were remembered, it would only be by their kin. It was always the same. Every time Sherlock got close to anyone, he would soon spot every single minuscule flaw in that person and tear them down in his mind. He would pick at every detail until he no longer held any esteem for that person and, oh, they were so easy to break down. To tear apart into mere, disappointing, data. These people expected him to care for them; to be polite and say please but how could he even respect them? These people, these flimsy excuses for people, were nothing to him. How could he benefit from them? He should simply dismiss them from his thoughts in order to make room for more important ones. To make room for a challenge. Now, someone like Moriarty offered a much more appealing way of utilizing his thoughts. Moriarty: the man who could bring about an old puzzle he'd solved just as a means of saying hello. The sneakers he had delicately placed in the decrepit room had been rather clever of him. Only Jim Moriarty would have known that he would understand his message. Only he was worthy of Sherlock's full attention. Even Miss Adler, who had first seemed somewhat of a challenge, had become dull the minute she had developed romantic feelings towards him. Her intelligence had become shrouded in foolish doubt and clouded with thoughts of seduction. She was already a modicum of dust in his mind now. They were all dust. All of them. They were all nestling in his brain; forming into mindless wearisome filth and feckless waste. If only he could drown them all out of his brain. Flush them out like a rotting once-beloved pet.
A sly smirk spread across Sherlock's face as he imagined all these futile people being discarded like vile, putrid, flesh. Their minds were feeble and his was great. There was no denying that his was great as they reminded him of it everyday with their unbelievable expressions of insipidity whenever he presented them with new clues. He was always forced to explain himself. It was all so tedious. Certainly, they distrusted him for they did not understand the ways in which he could solve an enigma within minutes while others could waste their entire impotent career trying to pry an answer from an inane witness. How many times had they come to the conclusion that he was the indecorous murderer? How many times had they questioned him on some false pretext to obtain any form of an alibi out of him? Of course, if they could think properly, they would have known that he would never make such blatantly obvious mistakes if he were to commit such delightfully heinous crimes. His would be much gorier with no trace of relevant evidence. No, his crimes would be talked about for centuries. He was not a man to be forgotten. At least in his line of work he wasn't required to remain anonymous, although, it was true that Moriarty never felt the need to remain anonymous within his line of work. He was minacious, impeccable and cleverly obvious in a way that made him immune to capture. Oh, yes, he was quite a challenging character. Sherlock even found himself looking up to him at times. He had never yet found anyone who had surpassed the level of an equal in any terms. Even an equal never lasted very long. Soon, Sherlock would tear them down just as he had done with all their antecedents. Sherlock wondered if Moriarty could ever be broken in such a way. Was it possible that he had found someone capable of stimulating him continuously without ever ceasing to astound him?
Suddenly, Sherlock knew what he needed. Needed more than anything he had ever needed before. He had been there all this time simply dangling himself in front of him like a shiny prize yet Sherlock had never realized that it had been a prize he even desired. Oh, but it was so very obvious now. Sherlock leaped out of his armchair and strode swiftly past John, who had been quietly updating his blog in the chair in front of him, to yank out the pocket knife that he had planted into the mantelpiece to hold his mail. He turned on his heel and proceeded to put on his tweed coat over his silk purple shirt. "I'm off! Don't know when I'll be back; don't wait up!" exclaimed Sherlock before rushing back into the living room to search for something he had left behind in a locked compartment.
"Don't you want to grab a bite before you go?" asked John, looking disconcerted by Sherlock's sudden energy. He was also a little disappointed that he had not been invited to join along. Sherlock simply stared at John with contempt in the doorway while putting on his scarf. He then chuckled away John's silly question before bursting out the door with an entirely different light about him. A much darker light. As he walked away from 221B Baker Street and into the cold city streets, Sherlock fastened one hand around the pocket knife he had snatched from the mantelpiece and another on a tightly bound package containing something that put a wide grin on Sherlock's face as he squeezed it tighter in his grasp.