Title: Sick and Tired
Rating: Teeens. Probably.
Pairing: John/Sherlock. Kinda preslash. I dunno. The hint is there. In bold flashing neon lights. But still.
Warning: None to any particular extent. Slight spoilers, I'd say but nothing horrific like WHOMORIARTYISOHMYGODITSJ- Not like everyone but Rieru doesn't know. X) Even then, he might.
Word Count: 4,097. Possibly. More, I'd say. I'm estimating. And editing without a word count. Last time I checked it was 4,097, but that was a couple of hundred words ago.
Disclaimer: Reincarnations of Sherlock belong to BBC
Summary: Sherlock wants to kill someone.
A/N: I actually have nothing to say.
Dark lines graced Sherlock's eyes, his eye lids droopy and his expression one of weariness. He watched the grey sky, then the grey street, then all the grey people who darted along it, leading usual lives and being boring.
Today was another boring day, with no cases, nothing to stimulate him, and even John was strangely silent as he attempted for clean dishes by washing the dirty ones in a dirty sink. Even Sherlock, not one for the particulars of usual human behaviours, knew this to be foolish. He wondered briefly what was wrong with the older man, but supposed John was still probably upset from the whole scaring off Sarah and not hearing from her for the last three days thing. Which was apparently Sherlock's fault even though Sherlock knew that John knew that he hadn't exactly been chasing after her when he faced the decision between some murderous, disillusioned, dysfunctional psycho and a very usual, very ordinary young lady who could possibly encourage John to settle down and have a few dozen kids. They would name them generic things like Mary and Joshua and William and Matthew and Christopher and John junior and Sarah junior and Daniel and Alice and James and Emma and Ryan and Alex and Emily and Charlotte and there may be a wild Oscar in there for good luck, and Sherlock groaned out loud at the thought of it. It was all so domestic and neat and full of doilies that it made him want to cringe and throw things at John the minute he walked in the room, just so Sherlock could smash the thought of restful married life out of his war-filled head. John had to know, even in that tiny, tiny brain of his that settling down would not be good for his health. It would certainly bring back the limp, at the very least.
And it would also be taking away the only real stable thing in Sherlock's life besides Mycroft's constant butting-in and Mummy's biannual invitation for dinner, excluding Christmas. Re-phrasing, then, John leaving would be John taking with him the only real stability in Sherlock's life which Sherlock gladly welcomed.
Sherlock Holmes wasn't a psychopath, but he most definitely wasn't usual. He had figured he was a sociopath for a while, but now even that theory had failed. He wasn't sure what he was, exactly, and he didn't completely trust the tests which confirmed to him time and time again he was in fact a human being.
Did human beings want to kill people? Normal ones, I mean. Did normal humans, who were neither psychotic or sociopathic, think to themselves that tomorrow they will walk through the streets of London with a paper bag on their heads, and the first person to say something nasty about it would be stalked and killed before dawn the next day? Did usual human beings go to the length of getting the bag itself, cutting the eye holes meticulously to make sure they are perfectly round, buy a murder weapon (in this case, just a new pair of leather gloves which were completely normal and steal a small knife from Mrs Hudson's kitchen just in case strangling, smothering, or making use of the other possessions in the victim's house didn't work)? Did usual human beings figure out a solid alibi (Mycroft, of course. Mycroft had him under constant surveillance but wouldn't stop him if he wanted to do it), and then also plan to be involved with the investigation? Would a usual human know which way to point the clues in order to lead it to someone else entirely? Sherlock planned that someone else to be the second person to say something nasty about his paper bag. Personally, he thought it quite charming.
Sherlock realised something had, as they say, 'snapped' in him, sure, but he didn't feel much about it. This was something to do with his brain and he wanted to know what, but he couldn't convince John to get him a brain scan until he had proof he absolutely needed one else he, or someone else, would die. Well, after this, what further proof would John need?
He was promptly kidnapped by Mycroft one Saturday morning, before John was even awake, and Mycroft even left him a little note explaining the 'apparent' situation. According to Mycroft, Mummy was ill. A lie, of course. The woman had raised both the Holmes boys and had to be superhuman to deal with them now, never mind when they were feuding children. Back then, especially, when they were prone to smashing things like priceless Ming vases (which, to be fair, Mrs Annabella Holmes should have thought twice about before having them in a house with children anyway), and which was a phase Sherlock perhaps hadn't grown out of, but Mycroft had matured in some senses since then, and didn't smash things himself - rather, he manipulated other people to smash them. Annabella Holmes wasn't going to get ill for another ten years, at least, and not die for another thirty, if ever at all. She wasn't even going to grow old and she certainly wasn't going to stop being herself – batty and disapproving of Sherlock's lifestyle, but overall, loving, somewhat supporting, and irritatingly insistent about 'family Christmases'.
Sherlock was dropped off at the Natural History Museum, where he put on his paper bag and stepped out of the black car. He had bought some ratty second-hand t-shirt, jeans, jacket and trainers from the Oxfam nearby and stood with a slight slouch he was uncomfortable with, his hands deep in his pockets. He remembered Mycroft's suspicious look which was bordering on sad; wretched and pain filled, like Sherlock was about to kill him. But he hadn't said a word about the paper bag, and even if he had it was probably a bad idea for the government if Sherlock murdered his brother. Also, Sherlock had to think about Mother.
Of the few people who had the balls to look at him, he received strange looks of all varieties - like some gave him dirty looks, some were just baffled, and some thought it was 'wicked', grinning and cheering him on. Some tourists took photographs. Sherlock didn't mind, as the paper bag was only to decide on prey, based on sheer bad judgement of the victim him or herself, and wouldn't and most definitely couldn't be linked to a murder.
It was a young man in a smart suit, grey and fashionable but not quite designer that fate choose to be an idiot. He had walked up to Sherlock with a fire in his eyes, saying Sherlock was an arsehole, a disgrace, what do you think you're doing? All you are achieving is scared little children! He asked Sherlock what he was trying to prove, looking like an absolute twat and walking down populated streets, and Sherlock kept silent, smiling under his paper bag but completely passive on the outside of it. The man stormed off when Sherlock didn't reply. It was enough. Sherlock knew his occupation was that of a middle-level businessman, possibly doing well in his job and facing a promotion due to his haughty attitude and holier-than-thou ideals that made him think that he was right and Sherlock was in the wrong. Sherlock figured that because it was about midday the man was on a lunch break, but it wouldn't be long enough to travel far. All he had to do was go home and hack into various records until he found him in nearby companies. His memory was photographic and eidetic and knew he would recognise the man when he found him. But that was saved for later, because he still had a dummy to find.
He took the Underground to nowhere particular and walked up and down the train endlessly, wondering if it would irritate someone to such a degree that they be prompted to speak up. It didn't matter who, because everyone was all so mediocre and boring and the same that it was like setting one person up for murder was like setting everyone up for murder. For all Sherlock cared it could be Mr. Brown and his mum who suffered the consequences of Sherlock's evil actions even if they were perfectly good citizens who didn't cheat on their taxes and took heed of the speed limit. It didn't matter. Everyone had skeletons in their closet, even if Sherlock had to forcefully put them there himself.
It was an elderly lady who spoke up the next time, startled by him when he reached her car and scandalised that a youngster would be so horrific and ridiculous. The problems with youth today, she'd cluck with her fellow hens later that day, just before the police come knocking and claiming she poisoned the young professional on god knows what basis that Sherlock pulled out of his ass when Lestrade turned to him baffled.
He was very glad she was so old, and he sat down besides her as she screeched in his ear about common decency and thinking of other people and he wondered briefly if she knitted, because John could probably use a new horrible jumper for his collection of lumpy, shapeless wool-wear. A chill ran up his spine at the thought of John, but he ignored it for other exciting musings as he tuned out of the old lady's ranting. It would be a challenge to set her up due to lack of motive, possibly, but he always liked a challenge. Also, there weren't as many clues about her by the way she dressed, and she was probably retired so no help there. He didn't want to talk to her particularly, so no answers through general discussion – not like he would be able to fit in a word edgeways, anyway, what with her constant nagging. He supposed he might have to rely on Mycroft again, as loathe as he was to admit it, because Mycroft was good at stalking people he didn't have any prior knowledge about until Sherlock drew attention to them, and was also good at keeping his mouth shut on matters Sherlock would prefer to keep away from the ears of the police or worse: Mummy. Mummy was worse simply because Sherlock would be forced to sit through a huge lecture about how people's lives are all intrinsically valuable and that he's hurt more than those directly involved though his selfish actions and made them upset. No, Sherlock, don't give me that look, they will get over it eventually, but that doesn't mean you didn't still hurt them. All the police could do was arrest him. Eventually Mycroft would come and save the day and get those policemen involved taken away not-so-discreetly to some far-flung place in the world where they would struggle to survive, and the other police not directly involved but close enough would be too scared to say or do anything. Sherlock would be untouchable. More so than he was already, simply because people didn't realise the power he had behind him yet. Not even John could honestly comprehend it.
Again, thinking of John made that icy shiver jolt straight down Sherlock's spine.
The old woman told him to take that bloody awful thing off and Sherlock ignored her. When she moved to do it he gently caught her wrist and through the eye holes he met her watery blue eyes. He wasn't sure what she saw, but it made her fall silent.
Later that night, having shed his clothes and burned them along with the paper bag and having found himself comfortable in his shirt and black trousers once more, he was typing away on his computer, waiting for records of employees to pop up. He could have Mycroft do this too, his brother wouldn't say no, but Mycroft had already snagged the old woman's name, address and history out of apparently thin air (Della Parker, down in Piccadilly, husband owned a lot of hold in the stock market, passed to her when he died – all which was to be memorised and remembered for a later date) and he couldn't let his older sibling have all the fun.
It was hours before anything showed up, and they dragged by longer because John was out with Sarah trying to patch things up and couldn't make Sherlock his tea due to his not being present. On the one hand, Sherlock supposed he was glad, because if John even glimpsed at a photo or a profile or a name of a company which just happened to be the man they would soon find dead in his own flat then it would screw up Sherlock's plans completely. On the other hand, there was no tea being made.
Sherlock found the right man, a Harvey Brenton, at about two in the morning. He worked with a company called Grey & Barklom and Sherlock knew exactly where that was, and also knew that there was a wonderful privately owned café opposite it which belonged to some rough-and-tough lad from up north called Gaz who had inherited a fortune from his grandfather and decided it was his dream to offer tea and maybe some lemon cake to people who lived in the middle of London served on the daintiest little china sets Sherlock had ever seen, and that was including those which belonged to his mother. He could wait there for Harvey Brenton to show up so he could snag an address and prepare to stalk him home later that night, and have some tea while he was at it (the tea being free, of course. There had been foul play in Gaz's grandfather's death and seeing as Gaz was the one getting the inheritance because his mother had been disowned many years it was presumed it was him or her. Naturally, it turned out to be an associate of Gaz's grandfather's who thought he could get the old man to change the will, leaving it to the company instead. It didn't work, so he mistakenly killed the man out of anger. Sherlock had cleared it all up for them, and even managed to convince Gaz not to throttle the policeman who'd suggested his dear ol' ma did it).
John wouldn't be home that night, no doubt finally reaching a level with Sarah where he could tuck himself up safety in her arms rather than debate over the pros and cons of a sofa as opposed to a Lilo. The though made Sherlock sneer. Why would he bother at all, when he had a perfectly comfortable bed at home with the added bonus of it being home, where the heart is and all that.
Considering what Sherlock planned to do later that day, he thought he wouldn't see John until perhaps Monday afternoon after John's work, as Sherlock planned to get in late in the night when John's sleeping and sleep throughout the morning when John wasn't. It might arise some suspicion in John's not completely dense mind, but Sherlock believed that the relief John would get from actually seeing Sherlock sleep would be more than enough to squash it down. Sherlock didn't want to explain to John, because he knew John wouldn't approve.
It never really occurred to Sherlock to consider why John wouldn't approve, because he also knew that he wouldn't understand the moral compass John always had headed in the socially acceptable direction.
Well, most times. Not including the time he shot a taxi driver dead, or the times he followed Sherlock onto a crime scene which they shouldn't technically be on, or all the lies he's spouted about who he worked for just so Sherlock could get his facts. On this logic, Sherlock presumed he was the exception – he was the metaphorical changing of the poles that caused John's ridiculous little arrow of morality to change from North to South. Sherlock couldn't help the feeling that he might be able to get away with it, even with John.
He felt himself itch from the thought, and the itch was good. It told him what he already knew; that he wasn't a normal human being who couldn't get away with murder, even if John really wished he was.
He stayed up until morning, meeting John in the early hours as he came home and saying he found something suspicious if he wants to come check it out with him. John asked why he was here, and Sherlock shrugged saying Mother wasn't ill and Mycroft was over exaggerating. It'd take what would kill a tiger to bring that woman down. John nodded and smiled, following Sherlock without a second thought and paying for the taxi Sherlock knew John couldn't really afford, but for as long as he didn't complain about it Sherlock was going to keep testing the strength and limits of his friend's patience and wallet.
They stopped in front of the Sticky Toffee Pudding (named after Gaz's mother died, in memory of her fantastic sticky toffee pudding recipe, as continued to be made twice a day at six and twelve by Gaz when he wasn't making his famous lemon cake) and John waited until the entire meeting with Gaz himself and over-the-top winks and offer of free whatever was over in order to ask what Sherlock was waiting for. Sherlock pointed to the opposite building.
"A man called Harvey Brenton works in there. There's been a string of strange disappearances all around the country," Which was probably true. "And it came to my attention when two people have just vanished in London over the last few days." Also probably true, just not particularly honest. "I've collected all the data together, and while I can't find a link connected any of them to the killer, I'm certain they're connected to him." Sherlock explained.
It took a moment for John to catch up and Sherlock didn't mind waiting. Sherlock never minded when it came to John, even when usually he hated waiting for the slow to catch him up, because John was different.
"So you think he'll be the next kidnapping?" He said, and Sherlock smiled in a manner which he knew himself as 'fond', but to John it would probably look condescending. Not that it mattered.
"I'm sure of it." Sherlock said, and the plan was to follow up with this story. If he couldn't find suitable kidnappings he could fabricate them, and with Mycroft on his side who was too desperate to help him hide it, there was honestly nothing he couldn't do.
Since what Sherlock referred to as his 'Snap Incident' where all real feelings of compassion or care he could have felt just disappeared, his relationship with Mycroft had improved. This was mostly because he knew Mycroft suspected something and wasn't happy with it and may even be a bit scared of Sherlock's little turn for the worst, but really couldn't stop his little brother on whatever endeavour he decided to follow. For once, Mycroft was taking a backseat, as the mastermind behind the mastermind, for he couldn't do absolutely anything to stop stubborn little Sherlock, and because of this very passive role Sherlock had found his brother's company greatly enhanced.
The rest of the plan was simple – be excited when they found Harvey Brenton dead, explain the kidnappings, saying this is a mistake of their murderer. Work with their panic. Be overjoyed that the kidnapper/murderer had one-upped the game. Never consider for a minute the incidents are separate. Be generally insufferable, lie, cheat and gently push all their little minds along until they realise this is Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes is always right. Dazzle them with wits and cunning and reckless idiocy. Make sure little old Della Parker gets the wrap, because it's just as likely to be a rich, bitter old lady as a young, mentally disturbed high-school drop out. Easy peasy. Sherlock was on the verge of shaking with his excitement. It all started here in this little café at noon with him and John and the clueless, soon to be deceased Harvey Brenton.
"So, what are we doing here?" John asked. "Are we going to warn him?"
Sherlock considered this, wondering how much harder it would be to stalk a man if said man knew he was being targeted. He decided the element of surprise is probably more effective than facing a man curled up in a corner armed with something sharp. Sherlock could probably still manage it, but he didn't know how he'd hide the wounds from John who was a doctor before all else.
"A novel idea, but impractical." Sherlock lied. "Let's say the kidnapper was stalking him, and what if he overheard or saw Harvey Brenton's reaction to our news, or even recognised us as who we are, and acted quicker? He'd be dead before we could do anything about it. I need time to analyse the kidnapper, John, before we jump in as knights in shining armour."
"Fair enough." John said, though Sherlock could see that John believed that if you were in grave danger you at least had the right to know. Sherlock's own philosophy was different - mainly based on 'everyone is stupid bar me' but had bits of 'at least those unknowing fools had a happy, oblivious last few hours' mixed in.
"I don't understand it." John said about three and a half minutes later, just as his breakfast of chips, eggs, bacon, hash browns and baked beans arrived. Sherlock allowed himself a cup of tea and that was all, as usual when on a case, and it didn't matter that this wasn't strictly a usual case because John couldn't tell the difference.
"What?" Sherlock wondered when John didn't offer anything else.
"Why people bother. To kidnap, I mean. It seems a bit of a lot of effort. The likelihood is that they'll kill the person anyway, unless they want a ransom."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Are kidnappers worse than murderers?"
"There isn't a distinction level in crime." John muttered darkly. "Murderers distinguish life and kidnappers take you away from your life. A torturous experience, to be in an unknown place with an unknown person. Killing may end up a mercy."
"But?"
"But they're both as bad as each other." John said with a certain amount of finality. Something violently clawed itself into being in Sherlock's stomach and he wondered what it could be.
"Could you ever forgive a kidnapper?" He asked, not being surprised when John shook his head. "Or a murderer?"
John paused, knowing he'd killed too many people in his life to speak before thinking without sounding hypocritical. He was guilty about it, even if it was his job or his friend's life was in danger. He knew John wouldn't forgive himself for those deaths for as long as he lived, and Sherlock wondered where his own feelings of guilt were. Sociopath did look rather fitting for him.
"No." John said. "I couldn't." Even though Sherlock already knew it.
Sherlock looked down into his tea as John continued to pick at his breakfast, evidently no longer hungry.
As they both ignored their breakfast Sherlock saw Harvey Brenton pass by the window out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't follow him.
No murders happened, no one else disappeared (not that they had in the first place), the case was left cold and it seemed to John that Sherlock simply lost interest.
Sherlock was depressed, though, and angry that he hadn't done it. Mycroft was back to his arrogant, smug self, though the time after Sherlock's failed attempt at a truly violent act the older Holmes had placed a hand on Sherlock's back lightly for a brief moment in a sort of twisted and too usual a gesture in replacement of the words 'thank you for not murdering someone'. Sherlock didn't appreciate that.
One evening Sherlock was moping as John just came in from the not-as-rare-as-they-should-be dates with Sarah that ended with him coming home instead of staying at hers. He found Sherlock sitting at the table, no new experiments gracing it, rather just a pile of empty glass instruments at the opposite end, and John wordlessly made them both a tea before sitting on the opposite side of the table. He coughed slightly as he lowered himself into the plastic chair, and put the tea in front of Sherlock. When Sherlock didn't move to take it, John sighed, and put his own mug down before lightly covering Sherlock's hand with his own. The gesture drew Sherlock's eyes from their touching hands, up to John's arm and then to his face. He met John's eyes and suddenly things felt strangely calm.
The world was full of stupid people who were dull, boring, repetitive, predictable. Sherlock could watch out the window and grow angry and sad for those people outside who thought their lives were fulfilling but really, in the grand scheme of it all, it amounted to nothing.
Sherlock wondered why he hadn't killed Harvey Brenton even when it seemed like such an exciting idea – a bit of colour, a splash of red on this bleak, grey world.
Then John bustled in from the food shop, complaining about the damn self check-out machines which he insisted on using even though he couldn't work them properly, as usual. He was a riot of skin tones and muddy blue and brown jeans and a cream top and his dark blond hair and the sparkling eyes which seemed enraged at inanimate objects as well as completely accustomed and well-fitted in his own skin, laughing at his own idiocy and enjoying his life.
John wasn't dull, no matter now normal he was. John wasn't black and white. He was like an impressionist painting, with every colour slapped together on a life size canvas, looking lively and wonderful and Sherlock couldn't help smile back as John continued on his seemingly endless tirade of today's battle of man verses machine.
Everyone might be boring, Sherlock supposed, but John was boring in a different way that excited Sherlock completely. John was like a new species – functioning and practical and nothing exciting to look at, but the wonder of finding something they hadn't had a name for yet was a fabulous feeling, even though everything John was has been seen before, just not in this combination. He was patient and kind and steady and put up with Sherlock and this was different.
It was logical, therefore, that Sherlock had said no to any other sort of excitement such as murder just because John had disapproved, because he was a new human like Sherlock and Sherlock didn't want to lose him. It was John who saved Harvey Brenton, and neither of them would ever know.
Sherlock wondered if it was really worth it - John was just another human, after all, and all this talk of 'new' and 'different' was just novelty which would soon fade, surely? And then John banged his head on the cupboard door as he tried to cough and put the teabags away at the same time and Sherlock had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing as John swore up a storm vulgar enough to make a sailor blush.
Sherlock guessed keeping John around was, in the long run, a lot less effort than squeezing the life out of someone.
Sherlock somehow missed it.
Of all the things he didn't notice until it was too late, one was John's cough which became hacking and violent before Sherlock even noticed it was there and that it had worsened and he didn't know how, because everyone else apparently had seen John's steady worsening and had advised him to a hospital and John (and Sherlock) had ignored their warnings.
When it became clear to Sherlock he had in fact bodily forced John to a hospital, something he thought he'd never do, and was there telling John to calm down whilst the other doctors made their diagnosis. John said he was fine, and if it were anyone else Sherlock would take John's medical word for it. But John was diagnosing himself, and he cared nothing for his own body.
When they told him he had to stay overnight for them to run further tests, John had demanded Sherlock stay. When Sherlock asked why, John said it was because he wasn't going to let Sherlock run all over London without him and risk his neck without John there to stop him. Sherlock thought of doing a case without John and realised when he'd last done such a thing he'd almost killed a perfect innocent man for no real reason other than the fact he had disliked Sherlock's brown paper bag. Sherlock thought maybe it would be better if he stayed.
The tests were extensive and lengthy and they didn't have to tell a doctor and a genius anything for them both to figure out something was wrong. What was worse was that John knew exactly what sort of diseases they were testing for without the doctors explaining. Sherlock grew impatient and snappy quickly, to such an extreme that his anger almost matched that of John's. The results would come through the next day, but until they there wasn't much anyone could do.
Sherlock hadn't slept much, so when John was left in a hospital bed that night Sherlock felt himself drift off too. He was tired and worried for John and his endless string of practically completely sleepless nights got to him as his eyes slid closed. He was resting in the chair they'd given him, and as he felt sleep approaching his hand blindly grasped around the edge of the bed for John's.
A little comfort in a dark world goes a long way, he thought, when John's hand gripped his back.
End.
A/N: NO PLOT BECAUSE LIFE HAS NO PLOT.
Eh, who cares about plot. Plot blows. Go to hell, plot.