Hello All! I don't want to preface this too much, lest I color your thoughts on it, but I do apologize for it being way too freaking long (the next chapter will be a more reasonable size, promise), and perhaps a tad too on the monologue-ey side.
That being said, this is rated M for murder, violence, bad words, and general angst (and really just to be safe). There is no slash, or really romance of any kind, I've found there's just no room for it. This is un-betaed and I am American so any errors or blatant Americanisms or misuse of London-talk are mine.
Summery - Sherlock has always claimed he is a sociopath, but saying something and knowing it are completely different things. When in a fit of passion Sherlock kills someone, will he finally find proof that he is emotionless, or will he find that he always had a conscience, it just took becoming a murderer to bring it out?
Final Note: I'm not entirely sure if I formatted this correctly, so if you find the layout hard to read, please let me know. Enjoy.
He is, after all, a Sociopath
Chapter One - A Bad Day All Around
In living with Sherlock Holmes, John had become used to working investigations.
The thrill of the chase and adrenaline was, without a doubt, addictive. The danger had become such a part of him he sometimes found himself almost looking forward to the next London murder.
A slight sense of dejection, therefore, shadowed the doctor as he sipped his tea and watched crap telly, at the thought of his flatmate leaving him behind.
They almost always accompanied each other on case related outings and John hated to face how hurt he had been when Sherlock had said, with slight strain, that he should probably stay home this time.
He sighed, reminding himself that it was only this once, and he didn't want to be needy.
He glared at the skull sitting upon their table, as if it held all the answers, and finding it annoyingly quiet, decided he would go out – he need not wait here, like some sort of servant. They needed milk, the remainder of it having vanished mysteriously ("down the drain," Sherlock had said when John asked where it had gone), and though it was getting late, John was sure a trip to the 24-hour mart was just the thing to cheer him up.
Sherlock was stalking; there was no other word for it.
Robert Morrow, in the realm of murder, was a repeat offender, though it was the first time the Yard was viewing his 'little accidents' as anything but. Indeed, if it were not for his wife's death Morrow would have continued killing in obscurity.
Only with the ever-watchful eye of the law to guide him did DI Lestrade cleverly deduce that one did not simply stab one's self in the chest ten times. Why that, he had determined, was downright suspicious.
Sherlock watched Morrow exit his apartment, his stubby little legs carrying him down a darkening ally. It really was disgusting.
After a pause, the detective followed; his smooth movements contrasting Morrow's waddling gait.
It was so beautifully wrong how much Sherlock liked to drown out his humanity, something he would never do with John.
He narrowed his eyes and watched all the people around him become things, simple objects from his amusement.
The stupid ones, who bowed to his intelligence; the ones who served him, ripe for the manipulation; the killers, who gave him something to do; and the people like Morrow. The sick, sniffling pigs. Who let him stop wanting to be human, the ones he followed with the eyes of a snake.
These little categories had, for Sherlock, split humanity all his life. It made things easy, and, though his brother gave him worried looks now and then, he liked to label people, and predict their movements accordingly.
Only two people had ever been excepted: Mycroft, for much the same reason as Sherlock himself, and John Watson.
Though Sherlock had resisted at first, he had to accept that John would never be on this list.
Dr. Watson made him care. Worse, he made him want to care. This was why he lied. His flatmate could never know he was out here, creeping from shadow to shadow, so predatory, and savoring every moment.
With an obscene amount of noise, Morrow's shoes carried him down the narrow alley. The murderer hit every one of the puddles around him, while Sherlock slunk along behind, silent as death.
Morrow paused in front of the alley's second door, ran his hand over his balding head, and knocked. Sherlock ducked behind a dumpster, one eye visible to watch.
Morrow shuffled nervously, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if nothing would happen. Then the door creaked open, and a shaky, greasy, far-to-thin man stepped out. The consulting detective knew the look of him all too well – this man was a drug dealer.
Not surprised (and really quite disappointed that his hunt hadn't acquiesced better results) Sherlock was prepared to sit back and watch the substance change hands, when the glint of a knife in Morrow's pocket caught his eye.
Apparently, he had developed quite a thing for stabbing, and did not intend to pay for any drugs tonight.
In a split second decision he would never have been allowed to make with a partner, Sherlock choose the moment Morrow's fat hand clenched around the knife's handle to pace swiftly toward them.
John was worried. Admitting it almost caused him physical pain (he could just see Sherlock scoffing at how he was 'obviously' fine and how unnecessary the emotion of worry was anyway), but there was nothing else for it.
He had gone through the stages of irritation, understanding, anger, acceptance, more anger, and now was wading into the murky waters of 'worried'. The shopping had been done two hours ago (not that he was timing or anything), fresh milk was in the fridge and he had even bought himself a new jumper, because, hey, he figured, he deserved it.
Nevertheless, it was well and dark outside, and still no sign of the consulting detective.
Not even a text, though John had checked his phone enough, and even sent out a few of his own inquiring his flatmates location. He had even called Lestrade, who seemed just as clueless about Sherlock's whereabouts, though not nearly as unnerved.
John sighed, sipping his coffee (because he decided he needed something a little stronger than tea, which had indeed gone cold long ago). He told himself there was no point in worrying; Sherlock had left before, sometimes days at a time, and had been perfectly fine.
But he had always told John where he was. He had always kept in touch. Like a scratch he couldn't quite reach, the feeling of unease set deep in John's stomach seemed unable to leave him.
Hunch back, tilt head, stumble slightly. Sniffle, look around, be nervous, paranoid, and above all, desperate. John would not be pleased with how effectively Sherlock slipped into the persona of addict, and indeed, it was not terribly pleasing to the detective himself.
The dealer showed little emotion at his arrival, perhaps small shock at how busy a night he was having, but Morrow glared death at him, burying his knife back in his pocket.
Sherlock gave a shaky smile, and coughed a single laugh "Heh. Hi." He pitched his voice into a deep Scottish "look, wife doesn't know where I am, like to skip out 'a here quick, yeah? Got coke?" He scratched his neck, and shifted his feet.
"Got whatever you like, blood," the dealer said smoothly, "but this man was here first." He gestured to Morrow, and Sherlock started, as if he had only just noticed him.
Morrow paused, unsure. "Get on!" Sherlock barked when the wait lasted a tad too long, making Morrow jump.
"Right." Morrow shifted his weight, obviously flustered "I'd like some cocaine too, then."
The dealer raised an eyebrow "how much, blood?"
Morrow shrugged "a-a bit."
Sherlock laughed, high and uncontrolled. "First time." It was not a question. "My advice – don't. Just don't, kay mate? Whole life, down the shitter. It'll be cool, they say, just once, you say, three months later facing divorce and a really, really, expensive addiction." He pointed his speech with sharp hand jabs and shaky pitch changes and was, in fact, feeling quite accomplished in his disguise, when Morrow narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock sensed only a fraction too late, the change in atmosphere.
A knife to his throat was nothing new in Sherlock's life. He felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as Morrow's disgustingly moist breath wafted over his ear, their bodies pressed together in typical 'hostage' fashion.
"You weren't supposed to be here," Morrow said confidence back in full "but one junkie's as good as the next. Hope you kissed your wife goodbye."
"Oi man!" The dealer stepped forward, a look of strained concern on his face "no need to get all violent. This man's done nothing to ya, hear blood? Look, I'll grant ya a tener yeah? On me, just let the divorced man go."
"Hell," Sherlock said, feeling the knife pinch harder as the dealer stepped closer "let the almost divorced man go, and I'll buy your tener."
"He'll buy your tener" the dealer echoed.
Morrow laughed "I'm sick of this waiting. Someone will die, and you," he looked at the dealer "won't tell anyone," Sherlock knew he wouldn't too; his operation was too precious to jeopardize by playing Good Samaritan. "And you," again with the breath in the ear "will kindly not move, so blood don't get on me."
Sherlock did not need him to let go, it would actually be easier if he didn't, but he did need him to loosen up a bit, as a small trickle of blood was running down the detective's neck.
"Please," Sherlock said, blinking hard, summoning his body to produce tears he so rarely shed genuinely "I got kids mate, and my wife ain't an ex yet. I'm a doctor, got work tomorrow. People, y'know, call people if I miss work."
Morrow hesitated, lifting the knife only slightly from Sherlock's throat. But slightly was all he needed.
Dropping his act, Sherlock jabbed his elbow in Morrow's ribs, and took the opportunity of him doubled over to grasp his arm and, using the momentum of his weight, flipped (though it was really more of rolled) Morrow over his shoulder, and on his back.
"Well Morrow," Sherlock said, in his own voice now, a slight smirk playing his lips "I suppose no one is getting 'let go'."
Not for nothing, though, had Morrow killed five others without incident.
With a mad cry of rage, he lashed his blade out blindly and slashed up the nearest leg – which happened to Sherlock's.
The detective gave a strained cry and fell half to the floor, gasping loudly as his shaking feet barley kept him standing.
"The fuck man!" the dealer yelled from beside, gesturing wildly to the now bleeding gash in Sherlock's leg.
The detective stared at it, blood seeping through his pants, wet and sticky, the pain so sharp and intense it was almost inspiring. But Sherlock was used to pain, and with a grit of his teeth, he set his mind to ignore it. Pain, he told himself, is just one of many sensations invented by the mind to make since of unfamiliar stimuli.
"Hey blood," Sherlock growled at the dealer, who was pale as if it had been he who was cut, "you should probably run."
"Damn right," he said, swaying with was sure to become shock, "this shit ain't worth it." he scrambled away, almost falling when Morrow's meaty hand reached out to grab his coattail, falling short at the last moment.
"I guess I missed the junkie," Morrow said from the ground, sweat dripping from his face, "but at least I get the would-be hero."
"Heroes don't exist," Sherlock sneered, "and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." He lifted his unhurt foot, swaying slightly as pain shot up his injury, and with incredible force, crushed Morrow's wrist beneath his heel. The portly man let out a howl, his fingers stiffly splaying as a satisfying snap filled the night air.
"You broke my wrist!" Morrow screamed, "You broke my fucking wrist!"
Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously." His wrist was rapidly swelling, and a steady stream of curses left his mouth.
A small smirk was playing at Sherlock's lips, and he was surprised to find that despite his ankle's flesh wound, he was actually enjoying himself. "Scum like you don't deserve to live" he said, musing more to himself than Morrow "all you do is kill, and you don't even do it well. You are the most boring kind of criminal, and I despise you."
"If you're a copper," the writhing man hissed, "I can sue you for excessive force; I'll have your job you bastard."
Sherlock knelt down, and almost lovingly pressed his palm to Morrow's broken wrist, electing another strangled cry from the man. "I am not with the police," he said "But I know you killed your wife, and I know you killed five others. And I know what I plan to do with that information."
"I'll kill you!" Morrow picked up the knife, waving it feebly in front of him. "I'll kill you, I'll fucking kill you!"
As entertaining as it was to watch him squirm, Sherlock was quickly growing bored. In one swift motion he jabbed the inside of Morrow's arm and swiped the knife from his hand.
He leaned down, and pressed the knife to Morrow's wrist. "Unless you want me to slit your fat, disgusting wrist, I suggest you shut up."
His mouth immediately snapped shut, and Sherlock felt an amazing jolt of power run through him.
With simply the threat of violence, He could control Morrow's every movement. He owned him, and it felt so good. "Why did you kill her?" he asked. He didn't care, he already knew, but he wanted to exert his power, wanted to show Morrow he could make him talk.
The night seemed darker somehow, now he was walking in it.
John knew it was stupid, but he had a hunch, a gut feeling that something was not right. Sherlock had literally laughed at him the last time he mentioned acting on this feeling, but as a soldier John had run on instinct, and the habit, he found, was hard to break.
He had already been to the dodgy bar, the alleyway where some of Sherlock's favorite homeless contacts lived, and the front of Angelo's (the actual restaurant being closed), and was now heading to the surgery, frustration ebbing through his body.
It was highly unlikely his flatmate would be there, but the problem with checking the old haunts of a man like Sherlock was that he simply didn't have any. He was either in the flat or on a case.
But if he needed medical care for some reason, he might go to the clinic by himself.
The tiny building was, thankfully open. People did not stop being sick because the sun went down. He opened the door, pushing away thoughts of his friend on a hospital bed, bloodied and unconscious.
Only two people sat in the cool waiting room, a teenage girl clutching her arm with a grimace, and a man fast asleep in the corner.
John stared at them, digging his hands in his pockets, as if he expected Sherlock to materialize in one of the plastic chairs with that stupid half-smirk he wore when he proved how right he was. The girl looked up, sensing eyes on her, and glared hard at John, one eye looking out through a swollen lid. John turned away, feeling as if he had somehow violated her, and moved to face the secretary.
She sat behind a plastic window, with only a small opening in the bottom, her hair in a loose bun, typing idly on a computer, chewing on the end of her pen. She chuckled occasionally at the lit screen in front of her.
"Um, hello," John said, tapping on the plastic, "I was wondering-"
She picked a clip-bored from a pile behind her and, without moving her eyes from the screen, slid it under the gap in the plastic. "Fill this out love, and have a seat in the waiting room. Be with you shortly."
"Yeah," said John sliding the chart back "if you'll look at me, you'll see I'm not a patient. I just need you to check something."
She sighed heavily and, as if it were a great task, lifted her head.
Her bored expression broke into a very large smile as her eyes met John's, and she carelessly chucked the chart behind her to scoot closer to the window. "John!" she cried. John smiled back, feeling slightly guilty that he didn't know her name. "What brings my favorite ex-army, still doctor, turned consulting detective partner to the surgery on his night off?"
John chuckled weakly, casting a nervous glance around. This woman knew a little too much about him to be comfortable. And he was becoming increasingly sure that he had never even seen her before. "I was just wondering," he said "if anyone was brought in, or even just came round, by the name Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh," she gave a high pitched giggle that John had to work hard not to flinch away from "your friend with the hair?" she waved a hand above her head, "and those limbs?" she wiggled her hand.
"Yup." John was decidedly uncomfortable now.
The woman alternated between typing and giving dazzling smiles to John. "Sorry," she said after a few minutes, "if he was here no one cataloged him. I also checked just 'Sherlock' and just 'Holmes'. I got something from a few months back, but is says some government person named Anthea locked the file."
Never had John felt such an odd mixture of gratitude and disappointment. (The locked file was from the Moriarty incident, John remembered Mycroft pulling stings to get them off the news.) John's heart filled slowly with dread, and he found himself growing to hate the secretary's response.
If Sherlock were here, John would know what to do; there would be a concrete answer and a solid problem to which John, being a doctor, could help solve. Now he was still in the dark, and that gut feeling of dread still sat within him.
"If he shows up," John urged "or a man called Mycroft, call me okay? Right away."
The woman bit her lip, leaned closer to the window and, brushing back a loose hair, said in a conspiratorial half whisper "I would actually need your number to call you, Doctor John Watson."
Giving this woman one more creepy thing to know about him was not on top of John's list, but his worry trumped his reservations and he took her offered pen and paper and scribbled his number down.
"There," he said, telling himself that she wasn't caressing it, she was just folding it. Slowly.
"Wait. Isn't my number on file? I do work here." She blushed, and opened her mouth to speak when she was interrupted by a much more welcome voice from behind John.
"What are you doing here?" Sarah asked; a puzzled half smile on her face.
"You're crazy mate," Morrow panted, "crazy."
Sherlock pressed the blade harder into his wrist, and growled. "Tell me why."
"I was having an affair," he whimpered, trying futilely to worm out from Sherlock's hold, "I was having an affair, and she caught me, and I lost it. I'm sorry-" Sherlock snorted "I'll never do it again, please, please don't kill me."
"You're sorry?" Sherlock asked "you feel bad, and that's supposed to make everything better, supposed to negate the dead woman you've produced?"
Thick tears were streaming down Morrow's face, his broken wrist floating above his trapped one, helpless to do anything. "Don't kill me," he whispered "don't kill me."
Sherlock's veins bubbled with excitement.
This thing did not deserve to breath. He had not come here to kill, but now Morrow had mentioned it, it seemed so easy, so right.
He was struck by how simple it would be to pull the knife across his wrist and watch the blood flow. Surprised to find he actually wanted to. He would be doing the world, and the Yard a favor, ridding the world of another murderer.
He would be serving justice. And it would feel – he knew it would feel – so good.
But then where would it end? What would the difference be between him and Moriarty, who killed for sport?
The consulting criminal said they were similar, but Sherlock shuddered to think they were this alike.
He lifted the knife, disappointment seeding through him knowing this creature would walk away, and in a painfully quick shock found his back skidding on the wet pavement as the hand he had been pinning flew up and punched him in the face.
Morrow tried to scramble to his feet as quickly as possible. "You think you're cool?" he spat, giving a small yelp when he attempted to use his broken wrist to support him. "You think you scare me?"
Sherlock touched his cheek and winced, there would be a hard to explain bruise there by morning. He gripped a pipe on the wall behind him, but before he could pull himself up, Morrow, who with surprising speed found himself standing, swung his foot forward and slammed it into Sherlock's ribs.
The detective hacked roughly, collapsing back on the ground, clutching his middle.
"Thought you'd be a good guy," he continued, brandishing the knife he had somehow taken back, "thought you'd save the day, and if I died, well, the police wouldn't look too hard. But no," he smiled broadly, "the tables have turned my friend."
Sherlock was still breathing hard, concentrating all his might on suppressing the pain in his ribs, which must surely be broken, and the blood seeping from his ankle which had bled enough to form a puddle and slipped him when he moved. "I'm going to kill you, then I'm going to hunt down that drug dealer, and everyone will think you were just a fucking dirty cop who got too fucking dirty."
"I'm not a cop," Sherlock wheezed.
"What was that?" Morrow cupped a hand to his ear in mock concern, "couldn't hear those last words."
"I am not with the fucking police!" In one fluid motion the consulting detective swung out his good leg, catching it behind the other man's ankle to topple Morrow to the ground, heaved the same leg over the murderers large body so he was sitting on his stomach straddling him, delivered a swift punch to the inside of his elbow, and swiped the knife from him.
Adrenaline was filling him once more, and Sherlock found himself wanting to do everything to this man. Kill him, cut him, make him cry – torture him, just to hear him scream.
The look of panic on Morrow's face was beautiful, Sherlock thought, and truly ugly.
He was discussing, vulgar, foul, and horrid. Sherlock's gloved hand tightened around the blades handle. The slight groves seemed to fit his grip perfectly.
"You liked killing her, didn't you?" he asked, but when Morrow opened his mouth to reply he pressed the dull end of the blade against his lips "I know you did, it was all in your work. Shoddy, a mess – emotional." He spat the last word as if it were a curse. "You do not deserve my hesitation."
"Yes," Morrow said, his voice whispered yet firm, "I liked killing her."
He licked his lips, "I can't control it, I need to kill. You must know – I can see it in your eyes, there's a killer in you. You're no better than me, you need this too. But if you let me go, I can help you, I know how to do it – how to kill – without getting caught, I can teach you-"
"I am not a killer!" Sherlock hissed, but the words sounded feeble even to him, the evidence to counter-compelling.
He was sitting on a man with a knife poised over his chest, if that wasn't killer than nothing was.
"I'm sorry mate," Morrow said. He looked genuinely regretful, and this only seemed to heighten Sherlock's hatred for him, "but I should know – you're a killer."
"Shut up!" He didn't think, didn't even register the movement. As if it were involuntary, he only noticed the long blade sunk hilt-deep into Morrow's chest when the man's expression changed instantly to a horrible, twisted, silent scream.
Sherlock froze.
A horrible, gurgling sound ruptured from Morrow's throat, his wide eyes staring unblinkingly at the man on top of him. For a moment, the detective couldn't move, than his mind caught up with his actions. He had stabbed someone. Robert Morrow was dying - would die - because of him.
Blood was slowly oozing from Morrow's chest and with another gurgle, bloodied saliva dribbled from his mouth. I must have pierced a lung, Sherlock thought numbly.
As if someone was hitting the play button after a long pause, he pulled the knife slowly out of Morrow's chest, the meat of his body making it stick in him.
He pressed his hand to the murderer's chest to brace it, squelching his glove in the slick blood already covering the torso beneath him.
With a sick sucking sound and an arched back from the almost-corpse the blade finally broke free. More blood, an almost impossible amount, streamed from his chest in the absence of its metal cork.
He was dying; there was nothing for it now.
If the thought had entered Sherlock's mind to call an ambulance it was too late now, it was fact that Sherlock Holmes had murdered a murderer. And if there was no point feeling guilty or trying to stop it – Sherlock could let himself smile.
Here, where no one could see him, and no one would know, he let himself feel the happiness he knew he shouldn't.
Perhaps Moriarty did know what he was doing when he chose his profession, though while his crime was for, as he put it, 'funsies', Sherlock's kill served a purpose.
A full smile was gracing the detectives face now, as he saw Morrow's eyes flutter in almost death. But it couldn't be over yet, not when Sherlock was just starting to appreciate what was happening.
He wanted to see more pain; he wanted to see Morrow truly alive in agony until he died.
Running on impulse he brought the knife down again. Morrow let out an animal cry, his voice wet and pitiful, the bloodied spittle drooling from his mouth.
He jerked the knife away, and stabbed it down again, and again, and again. And with the final stab, Sherlock, breathing heavy, a manic grin to his face, covered in blood now, which had spurted upward with each strike, leaned down, keeping the knife inside of him, until his face was inches from Morrows.
"I want to see the life leave your eyes" he said, though he was sure Morrow was beyond hearing him.
He waited, watching, his breath held. Up close Morrow was even more hideous, drool covering most of his face, moaning softly, trying to tilt his head away from Sherlock's, failing uselessly.
Then – it was gone. Faster than he had been expecting, Morrow's eyes froze staring upward, his breath sucked in, than stopped, his pale face going lax, body limping beneath his killer.
John let Sarah lead him away, further into the building. The other doctor didn't seem to notice the ferocious glares sent to her from the secretary, and once they turned a corner John asked, "What's with her?"
"Oh don't mind Felicia," Sarah waved a hand dismissively.
"She's new. She just… has a lot of emotion is all. So?" They reached the door to her office and she spun to face him "what brings you to the surgery on this late – sorry," she checked her watch "just-turned early morning?"
John fidgeted uncomfortably. Sarah was suppressing a grin, tucking her hair behind her ear. She suddenly looked very girlish in her white lab coat, and John had the horrible feeling she thought he was there for her.
They hadn't gone on a date since the Chinese smuggler incident, and since Moriarty he had hardly spared her a thought, he certainly didn't need another reason to feel guilty, but he knew he could have done to give her a little more attention.
"I'm actually looking for… something." His girlfriend (it shouldn't feel so weird to call her that) was not the biggest fan of his flatmate, and he knew one mention of him would set her on edge.
"For the police," he added. Not untrue in that Sherlock was on a case, though definitely a stretched version.
"Oh," she said "what are you looking for?"
He paused, shifting his weight from foot to foot, each thought up scenario sounding progressively more ridicules.
His flatmate was always much better at improvisation than him, and after a long moment filled with many almost answers, he gave up. "I'm looking for Sherlock."
All of Sarah seemed to deflate, and it now looked as if she had never smiled in her life. "Sarah-" he started, reaching to touch her elbow.
"No," she said, "it's alright." Though clearly it wasn't "I should have guessed."
She pulled open her office door and strode purposefully away from him.
John walked hesitantly in after her, unsure if he was welcome or not. She shuffled papers, refusing to look at him. "You came here at night, when you were off work. I thought maybe – maybe you'd come to see me or something, but clearly I was wrong. All you ever come for is Sherlock."
She was talking more to herself than him, but John's eyebrows knitted in concern.
It had been so long since he'd seen Sarah happy. It seemed like every time they met they were both so filled with stress and distractions they hardly noticed each other. And that was if Sherlock didn't show up half way through their date.
"He's missing," he said, urgently "I just have this feeling. The secretary tried to look but… you wouldn't happen to have seen him would you? I'm just – I'm worried."
Sarah pressed her palms against her desk, and leaned down as if her body had suddenly become very heavy.
Her blond hair draped around her face, and with a jolt of panic John saw her reach one hand up to wipe at her eyes. "He's a grown adult John. And he's all you talk about, always worried about him."
She heaved a breath and turned to face him, arms folded. Sure enough, a few tears trailed from her now-red eyes. Her glare however told him to ignore it.
"I have to know." She said. "Felicia said – but I didn't believe her, just thought she had a thing for you…" She looked down, and then met his eyes again. "Are you and Sherlock… are you more than friends?"
John stared for a moment, nonplused. Of all the things he had faced today, he never thought he'd be having a domestic with his girlfriend. "Oh my god," he sighed "Sarah, I am not gay."
"I heard that police officer call Sherlock your boyfriend."
"That was Anderson; he's thick as a brick. He was taking the piss, don't take him seriously." She looked away "Sarah, I'm not gay, I promise."
"That wasn't what I asked was it?" She sighed again, deep and mournful.
She stepped up to him and rubbed his arm, smiling sadly, and John noticed for the first time how very tired she looked. "I'm not mad John. You met me before you really got to know him. And it's not like we have the most stable relationship. If you and he are… together than there's nothing I can do. But I just need to know."
"Sarah, I don't even know what-"
"Have you slept with him?"
"No!" John backed away from her and she scowled again "God Sarah, I'm dating you; I do not fancy my flatmate."
"Do you want to?" she whispered, "sleep with him, I mean."
"No, Sarah, I do not."
Sarah groaned, walked across the room and collapsed in her desk chair. "God John," she whimpered "I want to believe you. I really do."
John rubbed his face. This could not be happening. "Look Sarah, this is ridiculous, I don't have time for your crisis, I need to find Sherlock, I feel like he's in danger, and I just-"
"For Christ sake John!" He flinched away from her outburst. "Can you not stand being away from him for one hour!"
"It's not like that Sarah; I just have, I dunno, this gut feeling."
She snorted, "Oh that's rich."
"What's gotten in to you?" John asked, the stress of his night sizzling over. "Did creepy Felicia tell you I like blokes, and you thought 'what the hell, she just started here, knows way freaking too much about John Watson, and says he's gay, it must be true'?"
"I just don't think we're a couple anymore John. And we haven't been for a very long time."
"…are you breaking up with me?" This was the very last thing he had expected to be doing tonight. Scraping Sherlock's body off the pavement, talking down a murderer, and even putting his life in danger had all been on the list. But this, this was so freakishly common, he almost didn't believe it.
"I don't want to. You're amazing and kind, and if I let myself I know I could completely –" she paused for a long moment, then squeezed her eyes shut, furiously wiping away fresh tears
"… but I can't." she said, and John deflated. "I can't take it, you and him, like you're joined at the hip. If you ever decide to stop chasing killers, or hanging off of that sociopathic flatmate of yours, than you have my number. But for the foreseeable future, yes… I am breaking up with you."
The blood began to dry halfway home, soaking through his clothes, and clinging to Sherlock's skin in cold tentacles.
His ribs ached terribly, and he limped as he walked, the pain in this ankle piercing him as he put weight on it. When he entered the flat his skin trembled with shivers that had nothing to do with cold.
He prayed John was sleeping as he hovered quietly into the building. Finding himself alone he stripped off his clothes, cringing as his clammy sweat moistened the blood and clung his shirt to him, and stuffed them in the small washing machine, then went to take a shower, hoping his growing dread and shock was as simple as cleansing himself of the evening.
His reflection had him taking in a shaky breath.
His skin was paper white, contrasting the scattered blood on his face, and the smudged red on his body from his soaked clothes. A strange, unfamiliar churning erupted in his stomach.
Why had he done this? The entire night was becoming somewhat of a blur and he found sick regret worming its way into him.
The body was safely weighted below the river Thames, the alley floor scrubbed clean of evidence, he had covered his tracks clear headed, yet now, the mere thought of the word body in conjunction with him had him squirming.
As the hot water of his shower patted across his skin, he began to scrub the crusted red off his body.
His hands moved with increasing vigor as the now pink water flowed away. Sally Donovan had always suspected he would come to this; it sickened him to know she was right, that she could predict anything about his life, much less something this intense.
It wasn't like he kept his animosity for humanity a secret, but Donovan was the only one to voice her doubts. How many others he wondered, knew he would one day spend the night scrubbing blood away, while he had always insisted he would never, even as he mentally killed the store clerk daily.
What would John, the only person he considered a friend, think of him if ever he were found?
The thought of the only person he truly cared about, dare he say, needed, turning away from him with not only hate and disappointment, but with truth in his eyes of what Sherlock was, not only sociopathic anymore, but a psychopath, gripped at him so vehemently he doubled over.
With a gasp, and a heap of emotion more intense than he had felt since he was twelve, and his brother had nearly died because of him, he sobbed.
Sherlock stayed in the shower until the water ran cold, sitting, letting it run over him, his deep sobs raking his body for so long he wondered if his breathing would be permanently affected.
He cried not only because he killed someone, or because he finally realized he'd always had a conscience, it just took something like murdering someone to stir it up. He cried because out of everything, even as the night became more of a blur than a memory, he remembered the distinct feeling of enjoyment.
Stronger than any case he had worked, he felt a rush. He liked watching the life leave Robert Morrow, and he kept seeing John's face when he told him it was useless to care about murder victims. He saw the sadness and anger by his flatmate. He had sneered at it then, but now all he could think was how he hoped – hoped – to never see that face again.
And how he knew he didn't deserve to hope, because when he had killed the killer – he felt happy.
Whow right? I tried to break up this chapter into more bite-size pieces, but I just couldn't find a good place to split it.
Tell me what you think, and if you think I should continue. Please, reviews rock my world.
Addressing a few things I think people will say - John and Sherlock, to me, have an awesome bromance, that's why they talk like they're so super close, and why Sherly is so upset about what John would think of him (and why Sarah think's they're gettin' busy) but to clarify again, there will be no slash in these parts. I have no problem with Shwatsonlock, it's just not in this story. I think Sherlock was a little out of character for this, but I kind of need him to loose it a little for later scenes. Just because he's generally a cold person, doesn't mean he'd be ok with killing someone.
A Side Note - Is it just me, or do Sherlock and John always seem to be out of milk? In every story I've read, they just can't keep that milk in stock. They must really love their calcium. I bet they have bones like garnet.