This is my first time braving the land of Sherlock fanfiction. I hope any readers enjoy, but I need at least one person checking out the poll on my profile for the continuation of this story. On to the fic!
Disclaimer: I am not a guy, therefore I am not Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, or anyone else who plays with public domain Sherlock and gets paid.
26 January
I've known Sherlock for years now. It sometimes seems like I've known him all my life, simply because we fit, in a weird platonic best mate thing. But then, there are times when I realise that, truly I don't know him at all.
Case in point, before he jumped off that bloody rooftop, he was always receiving these really posh-looking letters or couriered packages from shadowy government people. I swear I saw the SIS seal on at least a few dozen of them. Or the time where we were on a case where we found a whole trade of Eastern European girls. He went up to them and won them over by switching between Russian, Ukrainian, and a few other dialects that Sherlock didn't name to let them understand that they were safe. It was a side of Sherlock rarely seen, but it was heart-warming all the same. He spend weeks sitting in on the kids' statements, translating and letting them cling to him, not caring if he ruined his suits. They latched onto him, and, after he taught a few of them to read, they kept on sending letters he would reply to without fail. He seems like an optical illusion to me sometimes, shifting between dizzying arrays of personalities as soon as you look to close. Finally, after he came back and we were back to the balance we had before he jumped, I decided to rock the boat with a bit of sleuthing.
In a Sherlockian level of boundaries, I decided to check through his Spartan room. If you've ever caught a glimpse of it, you'd know what I mean. The bloke leaves his experiments and his papers all around the flat, and yet he keeps his room fit for monks! The most personal thing I could find, the only picture that proves he wasn't grown in a lab, was a picture of him and his brother when Sherlock was little. Without evidence of skeletons in the cupboard, I was forced to wait and see if he would ever reveal the secrets he can without breaking the Official Secrets Act.
I filed away all his little behaviours to peruse, but a bit after this past Christmas, I was given the whole picture. I need to finish typing it up, but it's a long and complicated tale. Once I have government permission to post it, I will. Fair warning, though, it'll turn your views on Sherlock upside down.
Review please, I beg of all my readers! If you also could take five seconds to answer my poll for this story on my profile, and then this fic will be continued. I have just adjusted it so I can write the next chapter with the time period the readers want.