I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I don't do emotions.
Sherlock slammed his fist against the door he had just closed behind him. Unwanted emotions roiled inside of him, leaving him panting and wanting to puke. Worst of all, they left him wanting to cry. Sherlock could feel his eyes film over with tears, threatening to coalesce into drops, and he wanted to throw himself against the wall until they disappeared. Or better yet, until he passed out from pain and exhaustion so that when he woke up, he was calm enough to delete everything.
Ungrateful little shits, the lot of them, thought Sherlock, still leaning on the door. He had just solved a case that had stumped Scotland Yard for weeks in just a day. Lestrade had been pleased with Sherlock, but disappointed with his underlings for not being able to actually get their brains straight and find any clues. A disappointed Lestrade was not a nice Lestrade, and the general constables and sergeants weren't happy. Unable to deal with Lestrade's dissatisfaction with their performance, many of them directed their resulting negative emotions at Sherlock. Usually, the consulting detective was able to ignore their muttered comments and insults, letting them roll off him like water droplets on a waxed surface. However, this time, one of them managed to pierce his armor.
"Who does he think he is, waltzing in here as if he, a worthless druggie, is better than us law enforcement? Let's face the truth, no one likes him, and no one ever will. Lestrade only puts up with him to use him as his personal sniffer-dog and puzzle-solver. He should go back on the streets where belongs. That way, he won't be such a nuisance."
They didn't know how hard Sherlock worked to get clean, denying his body what it craved, allowing it to be ripped apart with want—all for the sake of being able to solve cases. They didn't know how Lestrade had given Sherlock an ultimatum—get rehab or get out—but didn't expect Sherlock to actually succeed. They didn't know how fucked up it was for the brain to work at top speeds twenty four-seven; sometimes, Sherlock just wanted it all to stop, stop, STOP.
It wasn't until then that Sherlock noticed the tremors, the shaking, the sweat beading on his forehead, on his palms, under his collar. The raging want in his blood. His mind screamed to be silenced. With a roar that would definitely bother the neighbors (not that Sherlock cared), the man lunged around the flat, ripping apart stacks of paper, bookshelves, and cabinets. Fuck the Scotland Yard and rehab and stupid Mycroft who can't mind his own damn business; I need my fix, and NOW.
Though the logical part of Sherlock's mind was pushed aside for the addict part to reign, that didn't mean the logical part wasn't there. It was yelling at the addict to stand down, pleading for Sherlock to distract himself and not rip away the enormous progress he had made in the last several months.
Suddenly, he came across a box of nicotine patches. Sherlock ripped it open and slapped several patches onto his arm. They were not exactly what he wanted, but they would do. Finally, his cravings subsided just enough to allow for him to calm down a notch, even if only for a minute. Sherlock finally stopped trashing the room and stood up to take in the damage done to his flat. Drawers were ripped out of their slots, books were pulled out of their shelves, and papers littered the floor. A small flyer fluttered down in front of Sherlock's feet, the last remnant of the whirlwind. It went like this:
LETTERS TO SOLDIERS
Thank you for your brave fight for Queen and country! Show your support and gratitude by mailing letters to the following address:
75839109, Major James Sholto
Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers
Operation Herrick
BFPO 758
Major Sholto will distribute your letters to the brave men and women so that they can feel home away from home.
Sherlock didn't even know how this flyer ended up in his apartment and where it came from. But as he wasn't exactly in his right mind, he wasn't going to complain about this sudden distraction. Maybe mailing a soldier, though dull as it sounded, would help take a further edge off of his cravings. Quickly, he whipped out a pen and a slightly wrinkled piece of parchment from the piles on the floor, sat down, and wrote.
Dear Soldier,
My name is Sherlock Holmes, the world's first and only consulting detective. I don't know how or why I'm writing this. Do I have to thank you for your service? Thank you for your service to Queen and country. Boring, dull. Everyone writes that, but do they mean it? When I watch politicians on telly I can see the lip-service, the false-patriotism. Not that it's all completely faked, but I can see the image many put up.
Changing topics. As I said in the previous paragraph, I don't know how or why I'm writing this. I saw a flyer in my flat. I don't know how it got there. I don't know if I should tell you how I found it…oh screw it, you probably won't even find me if you get back—IF. There's always a chance you won't make it. If I make you angry, I'm sorry, but I'm just stating the obvious.
I'm a recovering drug addict, almost done with rehab. I only agreed to it because a detective inspector at Scotland Yard told me that was the only way he would allow me to work on any cases. What he doesn't understand—what no one understands—is that my brain is too chaotic and works too fast for everyone else to follow. I notice details no one else notices. I can spot a needle in a haystack while everyone else is too caught up in freaking about the impossibility of finding it. But sometimes it gets too much. I took drugs to help my mind work more efficiently, more ruthlessly, more focused. Sometimes, I took drugs just to shut it up. I am a high-functioning sociopath; I don't need to know how everyone feelsabout me. After all, emotions are just chemical defects found in the losing side. Cases don't need to be solved with arse-kissing and trite social niceties.
That's what I tell myself, and that's what I've learnt in my life.
I create an armor of logic and ice around me, and it works. Almost all the time. As much as I loathe to admit it, sometimes an insult will worm its way in, an echo of the taunts from my lesser peers in primary school and uni. The mocking voices still follow me into adulthood. For example, today I solved a major case: a triple-homicide cleverly disguised as suicide. I was able to find the clues and connect the dots. The detective inspector was pleased, but everyone else wasn't. And because they have no brain to understand that they need to get their heads out of their asses, my cravings have been triggered and I'm spilling my 'non-existent' heart to some stranger who will probably die in gunfire and has no care about my sob story. Fuck. What am I even doing?
But I'm surprised. It feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, even though that saying is extremely clichéd. I suppose I must thank you, regardless of what you think of me. In a sea of empty thanks for your service to Queen and country, I hope you find this one genuine, as I rarely thank anyone. Thank you for using you as a sounding board, for preventing me from relapsing. Thank you for your service.
Sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
Sherlock quickly found an envelope, scribbled the address and sender information on it, tacked on some random stamps, and dropped it in the letter box outside his door while he still had the nerve. Then he stalked back inside, not caring about the books and papers he tread on, and proceeded to pass out on the sofa.
A/N: I apologize for any OOC-ness.