Once a Sociopath, Always a Sociopath
Sherlock stared absent-mindedly out the window, scratching at his coat sleeve. His well-worn coat trailed to the floor as he sat, idly flapping in the breeze that fluttered through the window. Sherlock's gaze glumly swept over the passers-by, mourning his past youth.
John hobbled in, forgetting to close the door behind, which he often did of late.
"Sorry I took so long." He glanced at Sherlock. "There was a long queue."
John lay the newspaper down on the table, scratching his arm as he did so.
"Must be fleas in here." Sherlock muttered.
"Sorry?" John turned.
But Sherlock had returned his gaze to the window.
"Peace." He murmured. "And quiet. Isn't it hateful?"
John forced a smile.
"Give me the paper." Sherlock abruptly gestured.
John hesitated before handing it over.
"Sherlock Holmes: now senile?" the headlines read.
Sherlock scarcely appeared to notice the words on the paper.
"The once famous sleuth Sherlock Holmes, fast approaching his 75th year…"
Sherlock dropped the paper. "Boring."
John picked it up, slightly relieved. As Sherlock continued to mutter to himself, he picked up the phone and quietly moved into the next room.
"Greg Lestrade speaking."
"It's John."
Greg's tone brightened. "Hullo, John! It's been a while"
They talked shop for a while.
"Listen, Greg, I need you to do me a favour."
"Sure, anything."
"It's about Sherlock."
There was a pause. "Is he getting along fine?" Greg asked cautiously. "We were all upset by the headlines. Molly said-"
John interrupted him. "I'm worried about him. He needs some cheering up. I was wondering if you could help?"
"What can I do?"
"Well, I know he'd be happier if he thought he had a case…"
Greg caught on. "I'm retired, John."
"Sherlock probably doesn't remember. I just need you to pretend you need his help for a case. It'll do him good to deduce."
Greg sighed. "Alright, I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks."
"On a side note, don't you think this is a little cruel? Playing along with his senile dementia?"
John's words caught in his throat. "He's my best friend, and I can't bear to see him like this."
He hung up, tears welling in his eyes.
"No." he told himself firmly. "I will not cry."
He hadn't cried when Sherlock had faked his death.
He hadn't cried at Sherlock's first signs of senile dementia.
He hadn't cried when it worsened and Sherlock was practically half-insane.
He. Would. Not. Cry.
"Sherlock!" John called, breaking through Sherlock's haze of thoughts.
Sherlock started, half-rising from his chair. His legs were sore; he had lost track of time just sitting.
There was nothing to think about these days. It was an insult to his intellect to be cooped up in an old, musty flat.
"221 B Baker Street" He thought, a little wistfully, remembering when he had first seen the sign on the flat, with his companion… no, friend, John.
"Sherlock!" John called again.
Sherlock realised he was still in a half seated position, and his back ached.
"The B fell off the sign." He said irritatedly.
"What?" John asked, helping Sherlock up.
Initially, when John had taken it upon himself, Sherlock had swatted him away like a fly and struggled to perform ordinary tasks. But now Sherlock almost welcomed John's help, albeit with a certain glum resignation.
"I have some good news." John continued, leading Sherlock into the hall. "We've got a visitor."
Greg stood awkwardly smiling at them. "Hullo, Sherlock. I thought I'd pop by."
Sherlock smiled back automatically. Once he might have strode briskly over while making an ingenious deduction about Lestrade's coffee machine. He blamed it on the old age.
"You've got a coffee machine." He snapped at the other two.
Greg hurriedly suppressed his confusion. "Wha- yes, I have."
"Brilliant deduction." John put in, blinking back his tears.
Both John and Greg failed to mention the the Lestrade household had not had a coffee machine in years.
"I've got a case I need your help with." Greg said over his tea.
A familiar spark sprung into Sherlock's eye. "A case?"
John was encouraged by that spark. "Someone broke into Greg's house last night."
"A break-in." Sherlock slouched. "Boring."
"But they didn't steal anything." Greg said quickly. "At least, not as far as we can see. And the lock wasn't broken either."
John could practically see the wheels of Sherlock's brain spinning as he decided on whether or not to go.
Finally, Sherlock's frustration at his boredom prevailed. "Let's go."
"Now?" Greg was a little taken aback.
"Yes." Sherlock clutched onto the armrest, struggling to prop himself up. John rushed to his aid.
"Greg, could you fetch our coats?" John asked, as he supported Sherlock.
Sherlock stooped under the doorway to get into Greg's house.
"Molly's out." Greg said.
The house was an accurate impression of a mess, with papers and books lying in a seemingly unorganised manner.
"Did you touch anything?" Sherlock asked.
Greg shook his head. "I thought it best not to."
"Quite right." Sherlock mumbled.
Sherlock pointed at one of the books. "It's in Italian; that's not yours, is it?"
Greg and John exchanged looks. The book was in french.
"Er, no." Greg said. "I s'pose not."
"So our burglar must be Italian." Sherlock bent down painfully, too proud to ask John for help during a 'case'.
John silently bent down and handed Sherlock the book.
Sherlock was annoyed at John's intervention. "You tampered with the fingerprints!" He tossed the book angrily onto the table.
He stalked off into the kitchen, John and Greg hurrying after him.
"Must've been a hungry burglar." He said, looking at the mess. "Do you know any Italians?" He asked suddenly.
Greg looked a little panicked. "I, um, think our new neighbour might be one."
"I solved the case." Sherlock crowed. "Come, let's arrest this burglar."
Greg was more than a little panicked. "Look here, Sherlock. I'll need to test for fingerprints, but I have no doubt that you're absolutely right."
Sherlock was furious. "You don't believe me! Didn't you learn your lesson with Rich Brook?" He swept his hand across the counter, knocking down a row of assorted jars.
John immediately stepped forward but Sherlock was in a rage. He grabbed a jar of jam and tossed it onto the floor.
John restrained Sherlock with difficulty, and Sherlock broke down. Tears streamed down his facee.
Once he showed signs of calming down, John let go. Greg looked scared and worried. John was simply concerned.
Sherlock turned to look at John. His eyes were haunted and sunken, and John saw a desperation and despair that scared him more than he could say.
"You know, I know…" Sherlock whispered, waving his hand in a feeble gesture at the so-called burglary. "I always knew."
And then John finally let the tears flow.
I actually wrote this a while ago but I never really got around to publishing it :S
Leave a review? This is actually the first Sherlock fanfiction I've done so your thoughts would be appreciated! :D