A/N: Another little one-shot, just Sherlock's thoughts (and a little insight into what his friends hope he is thinking). I was actually inspired by reading the excellent Sherlock fics by the author sevenpercent, who you should all check out! Great writing, and great mastery of Sherlock's character. Anyway, I just felt like getting into Sherlock's head a bit. It's a slightly different style than normally, but I hope you enjoy it!
Notes: I actually think that Sherlock is a good person. And as aforementioned, I like John's knitted jumpers. :)
"Sherlock Holmes is a great man. One day he may even be a good one." –Detective Inspector Lestrade
One, two. One, two.
He plucks the strings of the violin methodically, agile fingers eliciting resonant notes. But his mind is roving over different territory than the cluttered sitting room at 221B. Where now are his thoughts? Rifling through the seemingly contradictory details of a case that has for twenty years remained unsolved? Musing on how dull the streets of London are tonight? Contemplating the curious results of microwaving eyeballs?
Who can say?
Perhaps John Watson, the longsuffering and faithful flatmate, hopes that the mind which resembles a fine-tuned instrument, an exquisite machine, an intricate labyrinth of thoughts, is focused on simpler matters…such as the fact that the icebox is bereft of milk, invaded by a human head, and that nobody has brought up the mail.
Perhaps Mycroft, who sees most keenly and yet stumbles most blindly when it comes to his younger brother (and who is, at present, reading the Times in a haze of cigar smoke and plutocratic sloth at the Diogenes club) hopes that the mind which has always been half a mystery to him is now occupied with the case he has been pressing on it of late…and which has been steadily ignored because of their never-ceasing brotherly animosity.
Perhaps Molly Hooper, who brings coffee and a smile unfailingly, and who hides an aching heart, hopes that the mind which has ever scoffed at romance as grit in a delicate instrument is more tenderly inclined tonight…maybe even considering the possibility of returning her smile tomorrow, instead of turning away with that combination of contempt and disinterest that is crushing and strangely alluring at the same time.
Yet for all these hopes, all these would-be interventions into the intellect of the World's Only Consulting Detective, his thoughts—hidden behind a pale, sharp-featured, impassive face—are of an entirely different nature.
He is thinking of his imperfections.
Yes—he knows that he has them. He is too proud to admit this fact; also, to do so would be illogical. No one needs to know his flaws. To confide in another human being could have one end and one end only (rationally speaking); and that would be to compromise his credibility and objectivity.
And so even to John, who is the only friend in whom he would ever consider confiding, he remains silent.
But he knows his flaws, and he thinks on them. Methodically, of course, in the same organized manner by which he does everything else. When he has nothing else with which to occupy his formidable intellect, he chooses one failing and examines it, like a contaminated DNA specimen, to better understand it. To better hide it. To overcome it.
Tonight, the turn has come for what he has decided is his general amorality.
He has heard it a thousand times—in accusations, in admonitions, in appeals to his better morals followed by astonished realizations that he has none. Underlying all of these has been one simple conclusion:
That he, Sherlock Holmes, is not a good man.
Brilliant, magnetic, intriguing, talented—
But never good.
John Watson, the stalwart Army doctor with what Sherlock considers to be an entirely puzzling affinity for hideous knitted jumpers, is a good man.
But Sherlock is not.
One, two. He ceases plucking at his well-tuned instrument and picks up the bow, drawing it carefully against the taut strings.
Before he met John, when most everyone in his life was of the general middling morals, he could hide behind the sardonic question, "What is goodness?"
But now he cannot. He shares a flat with goodness. He forgets to buy milk for goodness. He is a friend of goodness.
And now the flaw hurts more than ever, because he can see what he should be in another—but he cannot see it in himself.
To be good, one must genuinely care for others.
He understands that, on the objective level, on the philosophical level—though he does not always like to admit that those levels exist, because he cannot see them. He knows that caring, despite Mycroft's assurances, is truly an advantage.
But it is one that he cannot attain for himself.
And so, he cannot be good.
And because he cannot be good, he pretends that being good does not matter—that it is not important.
But it does matter.
And more than anything, he wants it.