Chapter Title: Hypocrite

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read this fic! If you enjoy, please follow so you catch each update as they come out because, really, have you seen how fast these stories come out? Favorite and tell your friends or share on Tumblr/Twitter. Review with any comments, criticisms, and/or suggestions of where this fic should go… THANKS! :D

Beta: N/A (If interested, PM me…Must also be able to Brit-pick!)

Words: 1,849

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D

"I don't know anything! Please!" The man fought against his restraints, his wrists slicing against the handcuffs secured around his wrists and the ropes around his legs burning into his ankles. "Please, please let me go!" He pleaded with his captor, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I don't know anything…I don't know anything!" He repeatedly sobbed, not able to control his shaking from crying.

"See, I don't believe that, Gerald. I believe that you do know something, and that something being the location of a certain hard-drive." The captor circled his victim, his hands clasped behind his back. "This could all go away with a simple answer as to where exactly the hard-drive is hidden."

Gerald squirmed in the chair he was restrained in. "I don't know! I don't know!" He blubbered uncontrollably.

The captor stopped in front of Gerald and squatted down so he was able to look up into the man's face. "Gerald, it would be wise not to lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" Gerald screamed through tears.

The captor stood once more and resumed his circling around his victim, like a vulture would circle a dying animal. "Tell me," he demanded.

"I don't know where it is! Please, believe me!" Gerald yelled in hysterics, his voice cracking from all the crying.

"Tell me!" The captor produced his pistol from the back of his waistband and pistol-whipped the back of the man's head, not hard enough to knock him out, but just enough to inflict serious pain.

The man lurched forward from the blow, the chair almost tipping over.

His captor caught the chair from falling and slammed the chair back into place. He grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked it backwards so their faces were inches apart. "TELL ME!"

"I don't-"

"NOW!" He pushed the chair over and began to kick then man in his ribs. After each blow, the kicks got harder and more painful.

"Okay! Okay, I'll tell you! Just please, please stop!" The man yelped in pain, trying to cower away from his imprisoner's kicks.

The captor yanked the chair back up, the man still tied helplessly to the arms and legs. "Where is it?!"

"The hard-drive is with Joey! Joey Gardena!" He cried, his voice barely above a whisper. "There, I've told you, now please let me go!"

The captor ignored him and produced his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and waited for his contact to answer.

The man answered after two rings, "Ah, is our little prisoner talking yet?"

"The man you're looking for is Joey Gardena. He has the hard-drive you're looking for in his possession."

"You're sure?" The man sounded doubtful.

The captor turned toward Gerald and glared, receiving another plea to 'let him go' as he cowered further into the chair. "Yes, I'm sure. There is no way he could lie to me, I'd see right through him."

"Well done, well done," Moriarty praised, "I should think of employing you full-time, Johnny Boy."

John scowled. "I told you, this was a one-time thing. Never again." He slammed his untraceable track-phone shut and threw it on the ground, shattering it beyond repair.

Gerald cowered into the chair and watched John cross the room, ripping the mask from his face. "You," Gerald gawked, "You're the guy who works with that one genius detective!"

John turned, throwing the mask behind him. "Yes, and your point?"

Gerald seemed to find a shred of confidence and ran with it, "I could turn you in! Your whole reputation will be ruined!"

John grimaced. "Who says you'll even get the chance?"

Gerald went as white as a sheet. "What do you mean?"

John raised the gun, cocking it to the side slightly, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

The bullet hit its target, killing Gerald instantly.

John opened the door to his flat and entered the room, noticing the absence of a certain consulting detective sprawled out on the couch. John breathed a sigh of relief, having escaped another episode of being deduced down to the last detail of where he had been and what he had been doing.

John sat down in his chair and reached over for his book, planning on getting his mind off of what he had just done and the fact that he had no remorse at all. Funny, really. Sherlock had constantly claimed that John's sentiment would get the better of him and had always identified John as the most sentimental person he knew. What John had just done was less than sentimental, it was down-right emotionless. He felt no sympathy for the man's family, and the fact that Gerald was dead didn't make him feel horrible in the least.

"Tea?"

John jolted from his thoughts, having been blinded from the fact that his flat-mate had entered the room and was now studying him; the consulting detective perched on the edge of his chair, galaxian eyes focused intently on John's face.

John cleared his throat and shook his head. "No…thanks."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and brought his fingers into a steeple beneath his bottom lip, his now-vacant eyes confirming that he was in deep thought.

John ducked his head, averting his gaze from Sherlock's intense observation. His eyes traveled to the top of the page and began to sweep across each word on the page, but not registering them. His mind was elsewhere, not able to focus on anything but the metaphorical holes from Sherlock's stare being burned into John's figure.

John suddenly slammed his book down on the side table, harder than he meant to. "Can I help you?" He snapped, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "John, um," his gaze flicked away for a second before returning, his eyes less vacant than before, "you are the only person I know that can hide something from me, knowing how to keep it hidden from my deductions…"

"And?" John replied, his anger disguising the fear rising in his throat.

"You're hiding something…currently." Sherlock replied, not missing a beat.

John felt the fear bubble over and his hand tremble slightly. He hoped the detective had missed it, but sadly, he knew that was too good to be true. "And how did you come to that conclusion, Mr. I-can-deduce-everything?" He growled.

A flash of hurt washed over Sherlock's face in an instant, almost too quick to notice…almost. He took a deep breath and John knew exactly what was coming; an in-depth deduction that would usually end in a 'brilliant!', 'amazing!', or a speechless admiration, but since the deduction was against him, John got ready to hold his tongue.

"When you entered the flat, you were relieved to see that I was not in my usual place, saving you from a 'whirlwind of deductions', as you like to call them. You then proceeded to slump down into your chair, failing to remove your coat as you were distracted, to say the least," John glanced down at his coat and began to defend the action, but Sherlock cut him off before he could explain, "and before you say, 'it's cold in here', you should rethink your excuse. You're positively dripping with sweat, John."

John wiped his brow and sighed in defeat. "That doesn't mean I have something to hide, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly, "I wasn't done." He took another deep breath and continued, "You began to read, but after a paragraph, you stopped. Your eyes stayed glued to one spot for a solid time of two minutes. Seeing as you're a grown man, I highly doubt you were stuck on a word, especially one from a book called 'Your Life and You'." Sherlock frowned, "Seriously, John? 'Your Life and You'? What is this? Junior High?" John began to protest, but Sherlock spoke over him, "Then there's the fact that you didn't even notice that I had come into the room, sat down in the chair, and watched you for, what seemed to be, a full minute-and-a-half. During which time, I studied your reactions. You were in a mode that I have seen many times before."

John scowled. "What mode?"

"War-mode. Your eyes were darker, your smile was less than friendly, and the aura you gave off was…chilling." Sherlock suppressed a shudder.

"You read auras now?" John mocked, standing and turning towards the kitchen.

"Ah, that brings up another fact. I asked you if you wanted tea, you said no."

John didn't turn around, "So?"

"I never make tea." Sherlock responded, his voice right behind John.

John hadn't heard him get up. He jumped when he turned and Sherlock was closer than he thought. John opened his mouth to retort, but closed it when he couldn't think of anything to say.

"Tell me I'm wrong." Sherlock stepped closer, making John tense up. "Tell me that you aren't lying, just tell me."

"I'm not lying." John straightened his back in an act of trying confidence.

Sherlock stepped closer, eyebrow cocked upwards. "Really?" He asked, disbelieving.

"Really." John spat, his voice dripping with venom. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to get some sleep." John walked away from the consulting detective, trying to hide his diminishing confidence.

"John, don't lie to me," Sherlock called after him, "friends don't lie."

John turned, one step away from being out of sight, "You're right. Friends don't lie." John stomped up the stairs and slammed the door, knowing Sherlock had gotten the event he was referring to.

John balled his fists and fought the urge to punch the wall. How could Sherlock tell him not to lie when Sherlock had been a part of the biggest lie of all. Three years, three years he had been 'dead', making John spiral into a deep depression. And Sherlock had the gall to tell John not to lie? So, what, Sherlock could lie, but John couldn't?

Hypocrite.