Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine. But honestly, you should be able to deduce that from the "m" in "Disclaimer", the rating and the date this story was published. You can't? Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring!
A/N Read. Enjoy. Review. Enough said.
The pistol in his hand was heavy.
Sherlock Holmes lifted it and looked down the barrel for a moment before lowering it again. Then he checked his watch. Then he stared at the ceiling.
The hours had arrived; hours that were actually years in disguise, droning on and on until Sherlock felt that a minute longer and he'd do something insane. Commit a crime, kill somebody, anything, just to end this crushing boredom.
But no. He'd never do that. After all, planning the perfect murder would be much to easy. He could make dozens of mistakes, leave heaps of clues in plain sight and nobody would ever catch on. Why, why couldn't people simply think? The truth stared at them, laughed into their faces and they remained completely oblivious. They saw everything.
They observed nothing.
What was more, they had constructed a dull, hopelessly mundane world, perfectly suited for their dull, hopelessly mundane minds. But not Sherlock's mind. His mind was left to rot, to consume itself, simply because it had nothing better to do.
He thought of his arch-enemy, a man he had never met and a proper genius, like Sherlock himself. Moriarty. Where was he? What was he doing? More importantly, why wasn't he doing anything?
Of course, according to John, ordinary people didn't have arch-enemies. Instead they had friends, relatives, pets, people they liked, people they didn't like. That was all.
Sherlock sighed. He despised society. Most social norms were pointless and a refusal to comply with them automatically made you a freak. Honesty was labeled rudeness, straightforward deductive thinking was considered abnormal. A refusal to pollute your brain with uninteresting, unnecessary information – gossip, politics, scandals, the solar system – made you...what was it they called him? Ah, yes. Ignorant. Spectacularly ignorant.
Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and raised his gun.
He pulled the trigger with lazy desperation, his face expressionless, as the bullets crashed into the wall.