And before anyone yells at me, let me just say I wrote this a lonnnggg time ago. I found today while procrastinating on my essays and decided to post it - if you can come up with a better title/summary, PLEASE let me know! Constructive criticism is welcome!
I don't own Sherlock.
Prompts- nonconformist, fly, pathos(grief)
Sherlock had never been one to live up to expectations. He started talking only when he was five, but he had known how to talk since he was six months old. He didn't go into law like his friends and family had expected him to. He had studied in Harvard, but left midway. The syllabus just hadn't suited him. He had started doing drugs, not for the high, but because it dulled his brain, stopped him from seeing everything. He had become estranged with his own brother, though not for lack of communication on Mycroft's part. No, Sherlock had been the one who cut ties with him. He didn't want to remember the people who cared for him. He didn't want to see the disappointment on his brother's face. All he wanted to do was wallow in self pity.
If he had ever looked up to observe, not see Mycroft's face, he might have realized it wasn't disappointment written on his face.
It was worry.
Mycroft wasn't one for outbursts of brotherly compassion.
You know what happened to the other one.
Even as he watched the press and media destroy his brother's reputation, he felt no guilt or regret. It was all part of the plan, and Sherlock had agreed to it. Even when he was in Russia, watching his brother beaten nearly to death, he didn't care. Sherlock was strong. He could take care of himself.
But watching Sherlock now, the hand holding the gun pointed at Magnussen's head shaking, he was worried. And when Sherlock pulled the trigger, he grieved. Not because he would have to send his brother away, but because his brother had changed.
Sherlock had never killed a man. Never. He felt only the utmost contempt for the people who wasn't smart enough to solve their problems without resorting to homicide. He deplored them.
And he had become the creature he hated the most. Because that's what he considered himself. A creature, nothing more. Almost anyone else in his place would have committed suicide.
Suicide. What a fitting end for those hapless, hopeless people.
…. And that's what many people expected him to do, too
Sherlock had never been one to live up to expectations.
But this time - maybe, just maybe - he would.
Sherlock wasn't an idealist. He was a realist. A scientist. He believed only in what was proven scientifically, not in the whimsical ideas of men who probably wouldn't ever amount to anything. Ambition was important, but dreams just slow you down. There is no genie who grants wishes, and he had known this since childhood.
But as Sherlock stood at the edge of the building for a second time, for just a split second, he wished that he could fly.