Written by: danglingdingle and mamazano
Bang, Bang, You're Dead
He'd come back from Minsk to find an empty flat. "Gone out," Mrs. Hudson had said, with a shake of her head. "Visiting that young lady friend of his, I imagine." She'd held out her hand to take the grocery sack from his hand. "Here, let me help you with your shopping."
Sherlock had clutched the sack to his chest and waved her away. "I can manage." He'd brushed past her, taking the steps to the flat three at a time. Once inside, he'd removed the sack's grisly occupant to its present residence in the frig. That had been hours ago.
He flung his eyes open, rousing from his nigh catatonic state on the sofa, only to throw a private tantrum, stomping to the refrigerator.
Yanking the door open, Sherlock stared at the closed lids of the severed head, tilting his own curiously, frowning deeply.
"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," he informed the gruesome object. "You will have to do."
The disembodied head slumbered on. Sherlock sniffed and sat down at the kitchen table cluttered with beakers and flasks. Drumming his long fingers on the table, he picked up and discarded several items before turning back to the open refrigerator.
"Bored. Bored, bored, bored."
Heaving a long-suffering sigh, he trudged to slam the fridge door shut and returned to the sitting room, flinging himself onto the couch. "Why must he go see her? It can't be for the stimulating conversation, ha!" Sherlock glanced over at the door and around the room, pausing on a can of bright yellow spray paint.
Leaping up he grabbed the can and with a dramatic, sweeping motion sprayed a round circle on the living room wall. "Vacant. Mindless. Empty." He added two eyes.
He flashed a grimace of a smile at his handiwork, tossing the spray can to wherever. Blinking blankly, he made a face, irritated by the sense of something essential missing. A crucial factor which wormed in his brain, elusive and slippery, impossible to catch - even by the great Sherlock Holmes himself.
The graffiti face stared back with eyes as blind as the human remains' in the fridge.
It was too silent. No, no. That wasn't it. It was too static, too still, too suffocating in all its unintelligence and unresponsiveness. The face on the wall might've had as well sprouted out hands, strangling him, judging from the stifled feeling in his throat.
Sherlock coughed at the stupidly grinning face, then stared into the now beady eyes threateningly, a thought rapidly spinning in his head; "I'm going to get you," he pointed a minacious finger. "No one takes from me and runs away with it."
With a whirl of his robe tail, Sherlock stormed upstairs to the room of one glaringly absent John Watson, and began rifling through his desk.
"Aha!" He held a pistol up in triumphant, eyes gleaming with the pure joy of revenge. Rebellion. Defiance.
Slowly, concentrating on each step in the absence of anything of significance to ponder, Sherlock descended the stairs back to the sitting room, again glancing around the flat with little to no interest.
Realizing that he was carrying a deadly weapon, the cool metal warming in his hand, giving him ideas, flittering, filing abstract images behind his eyes until the man grinned mischievously. He needed to shoot something. Right now. Blast the bejesus out of his boredom, his restlessness, the chaos induced by the feeling of something being amiss…
Once again Sherlock made eye contact with the idiotic smile on the wall.
"Bang," he whispered to the annoying, gaping void in his chest.
Aiming along the smooth, softly gleaming surface, Sherlock slowly squeezed the trigger, absently wondering if he should feel guilty that it was Sarah's face he saw in the paint on the wall.