I Lied: Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes sat on the couch, catching a ball over and over again. He could see the angles that presented themselves, making it impossible not to catch the thing. God, he was bored.

John had gone out to buy more milk. Lestrade hadn't given him any new cases. It had gotten so bad that he'd called Mycroft looking for any kind of extra work. No one was giving him anything to do.

His phone chimed, starling him. Mycroft. Ugh. He opened the text. Odd. Mycroft never texted. . .

John's dead—MH.

Sherlock's eyes widened. What the bloody . . . He texted back. No—SH.

Yes, Sherlock. I'm sorry.—MH.

He gulped. How on Earth? This wasn't possible. Sure, people died, people left in bloody messes, but not John. John couldn't die. How?—SH. He felt the tear roll down his face.

Deduct it for yourself, Brother. It's only a few blocks from your flat.—MH.

I can't handle seeing that, Mycroft.—SH.

There was a long pause. Has my little brother fallen in love?—MH.

Shut up.—SH. He shuddered. Dammit, Mycroft. How could he just throw that word around, knowing how Sherlock must be feeling.

His phone gave a new chime, an irritating one he'd set to match the sender. Lestrade.

Mycroft just told me. Sherlock, I'm sorry. But I'm warning you, if you go back to the drugs, Mycroft will know.—GL.

Sherlock grabbed a syringe off of the table, thinking.

Brother, if you overdose again. . .—MH.

Sherlock threw the thing into the rubbish bin. John wouldn't want me to.—SH.

Fuck, Sherlock! I'm coming over.—GL. Sherlock sighed, realizing he hadn't replied.

No. Just meet me there. Bring Mycroft.—SH. He would suck it up and look a John. He couldn't let anyone else handle this case, no matter how much it would hurt him. He threw on his coat and made his way downstairs, and out the door.

He only need follow the sound and sight of sirens in the night to find the scene. Lestrade rushed to him as soon as he was there. "Come on."

Sherlock should have been prepared to see the body. But he wasn't. He couldn't help the small gasp that escaped him. John's throat was slit, and he was lying on the ground. "They found a bag with two cartons of milk on him, along with his wallet and all his cards and money," Lestrade explained. Sherlock nodded, feeling a tear roll down his cheek against his will.

"It was slow, painful. There's no reason for anyone to hurt John, though." He stood, carefully, looking to his brother and Lestrade.

Mycroft sighed, turning away. "I have some . . . business to take care of."

"Too busy being the British government to help your little brother figure out what the bloody hell is going on?"

"No, 'brother'. By business, I mean dealing with your . . . 'flatmate's' sudden death."

Sherlock nodded. "I see. If you find anything, anything at all, tell me." He turned Lestrade. "You're staying here, correct?"

Lestrade stared after Mycroft with a slight look of longing. "Umm . . ." He shrugged apologetically. "I'm sure you and the team will be fine without me."

"No. Anderson won't work with me. You know that." Sherlock gave said disgusting creature a cold glance. "Don't leave me for fridge sex with Mycroft."

Lestrade's face lit up red. "I. . . we. . . we don't . . ." He coughed.

"You do. I saw the video on J—Jawn's blog." He stammered over the name of his flatmate. He'd been so much more than a flatmate.

"Fuck, there's a video?" He opened his phone to text Mycroft.

"Of course. Mycroft posted it."

Lestrade paused in the middle of his text. "Oh. Okay." He shook his head with a sigh, face still flushed with color. "Anyway. John. Fuck."

"Who do the police thing it was? Any ideas?" Sherlock asked. "They're usually wrong, so whatever they think, we can pretty much rule out."

Anderson looked to them, raising his hand with a smug look. "I have a few ideas."

Sherlock sighed, irritated. He didn't want Anderson's opinion. "Fine. What?"

"Umm, well." He gestured to the body. "Remember last year's case? Where the killer seemed to pick his victims at random?" Sherlock nodded, recalling many cases, but able to narrow it down in his mind. "John's body is laid out and cut in the exact same way. The same everything."

"Right. But we got that one. Unless. . ." Sherlock paused. "We had the wrong man or this is someone trying to carry on the crimes for him. An accomplice." His eyes were wide with surprise. For once, Anderson wasn't completely useless.

"I would say that it's your typical copycat killer, but. . ." He kneeled down next to John's lifeless body. "This is too perfect. The person who did this had to have instructions or something."

Sherlock's face still held amazement. "Too perfect. . . The killer must have had an apprentice that was taught to murder in the same way." More to himself than anyone else, he muttered, "But what about a motive?"

"I'm afraid my short burst of genius has run out," Anderson replied, shrugging.

"At least history was made."

Anderson frowned, not getting it. It hit him. "Hey!"

Lestrade stepped between the two. "Hey, John, remember?"

Sherlock shut his mouth, feeling guilty for almost forgetting, for acting as if John was just another victim. "Right. No one who knew John would kill him. But murder is never completely random."

Anderson snickered, speaking up again. "Maybe the killer only murders gay people."

Sherlock scowled, using all of his will to keep from punching Anderson. "John wasn't gay." In a muttered tone he added, "He never loved me back."

Anderson, that bastard, heard him. "Who could ever love you, freak? He's probably been gay this whole time."

"Anderson! Enough, already," Lestrade hissed. Andrson grumbled in protest, but went back to snapping pictures of the cadaver.

"Actually, he has a point," Sherlock said. After a moment, he added, "That's it!"

"What? What's it?"

"For the second time in his pitiful life, Anderson is right! No one likes me. Anyone who would kill John would know he lived with me. They'd know how much he meant. They were trying to get to me." In a hushed tone he said, "It bloody worked. . ."

Lestrade groaned, running a hand through his hair. It seemed that it thinned every time he was around Sherlock. "That narrows it down," he hissed sarcastically.

"It does. It means it wasn't a suicide."

"The wounds couldn't have been self-inflicted. There's no possible way it could have been a suicide anyway."

"We've had stranger suicides. Come on, Lestrade, we need to go to my flat." Lestrade was about to respond, but his phone chimed, interrupting him. Don't go.—MH.

"Lestrade, don't listen to Mycroft. Mycroft, stop spying."

Gregory.—MH. Lestrade flushed.

I'll see you later, I promise.—GL. He slipped the phone into his pocket and ignored the insistent protest texts. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

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Thank you!

This is based off of a continuous RP that my friend and I do instead of paying attention to Algebra 1. It's more interesting than math. She had to go and start by telling me John was dead. I apologize for my crappy Sherlock part, also. I'm pretty new to the fandom. And this is my first Sherlock fic. After doing so many Hetalia FanFics, it's weird to switch. . . Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this!

I do not own Sherlock.