Title: Sociopath
Summary: My attempt at angst. A not-so-happy ending to the pool incident
Warnings/Disclaimers: the f-word is used once, I do not own Sherlock, and this is really a first draft. As I get reviews I'll edit it more and probably repost it
THANK YOU FOR READING
SOCIOPATH
Sherlock entered the empty flat, shedding his coat and scarf before sitting in his chair and leaning his head over the edge of the green leather. His neck and joints still ached. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think over the events of the past week.
"But I'm pretty sure everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." said Moriarty on his sing song voice. Interesting how that voice, soft as the old women had describe it, could belong to a person so evil. Sherlock looked at John sitting on the ground where he had collapsed when his leg had given out. John looked back, giving Sherlock a nod, knowing what had to be done.
"And my answer has already crossed yours," said Sherlock Turing and leveling the gun at moriarty's head. Moriarty smirked, and then frowned as Sherlock lowered the gun pointing it at the discarded bomb vest. He pulled the trigger but a flash of confusion hit him when he heard two shots instead of one, but it was over as the blast from the bomb knocked him unconscious.
He was 15, it was a summer day at the stables and Sherlock was happy. Happy, I think that was the last time he had felt truly happy and peaceful, before he met John that was. His mother and father had come to watch him ride as he practiced for the upcoming competition. They didn't get along, his mother and father, but they tried to put that aside when they were around Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock loved his father with all his heart, more than his mother. Everything Sherlock did was to impress his father who was by the kindest and most human man Sherlock had ever met. His father had gone back to the car. The rest was a blur. His father on the ground, ambulances, "heart attack" they kept saying. He wept the first night and after that he never cried again. His humanity and emotions were burned away and buried, just like his father.
"I'm not a psychopath Anderson, I'm a high functioning sociopath do your research!" he said suddenly in his flat during his first case with John. It wasn't completely true, he had emotions, he had a heart. He felt fear and disappointment and sadness and boredom. It wasn't till John that he had felt joy and relaxation again. Moriarty knew that, despite his front this criminal had seen through Sherlock's walls. He woke with a start when he saw Moriarty's face smiling at him, at Sherlock holding the gun, as if it was funny, a childish joke.
He had woken up in a hospital bed. His chest and stomach were heavily bandaged and as he tried to lean forward he gasped at the sudden pain falling back onto the hospital bed. Broken ribs then. Three at least. Mycroft laid a hand on his brother's shoulder. He had a strange look on his face Sadness maybe? No, why would he be sad? Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to piece everything together. The pool, Moriarty, John. Bloody hell his head hurt.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock said to his brother, feigning annoyance. Secretly Sherlock was relieved to have his brother there.
"I worry about you. Constantly. That's why." he said. Sherlock could hear the smirk in his voice. His eyes flew open realizing something was missing, something very important. "Where's John?" Sherlock asked looking at Mycroft. He frowned and looked to the other side of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock looked in the same direction as Mycroft and his breathe caught in his throat. John was laying on the hospital bed, oxygen tubes up his nose. The covers were pulled down to his waist and Sherlock could see bandages around John's ribs and head, his sandy blonde hair poking through here and there. Sherlock tried to get up to get a closer look but his brother pushed him back down.
"You need rest Sherlock," Mycroft said looking very sincere.
Sherlock scoffed, "Rest isn't going to do anything for me Mycroft. Now let me up so I can see my John," My john. He had said my John. Mycroft looked at Sherlock with that damn face again. Why does he look so bloody sad? It's not like either of us are dead or… Sherlock's train of thought stopped and he suddenly put the pieces together, only this time he didn't want his deduction to be right. My croft helped Sherlock into a wheelchair and rolled him over to see John. Sherlock could see it now, a bandage in the shake of an x right below John's heart. Sherlock knew that a shot like that would have pierced John's lung. "How long?" Sherlock asked, barely a whisper.
"Till tomorrow morning at the most," Mycroft said laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. Sherlock immediately shrugged off. "You want to be alone?" Mycroft asked gently. Sherlock nodded and Mycroft left, looking over his shoulder at his brother before exiting quietly.
Sherlock looked at John. His faced was scarred from what Sherlock assumed was flying debris. Red lines criss crossed his pale white face. John had never looked so pale; he had always a certain glow about him, a certain warmth in his cheeks, nut that was gone now. Instead he looked cold, like stone, unmoving.
"Fucking idiot," Sherlock cursed under his breathe. He was cursing John and he was cursing himself too. Cursing John for not listening when people warned him to stay away from Sherlock. Cursed himself for letting himself get attached to John. Cursing John for being so willing. Willing to put up with Sherlock, willing to kill for him, willing to die for him. Even though they had only been flat mates for a few months, John had brought life back to Sherlock's dull existence. He had started laughing again, even smiling, all because of John. John liked Sherlock, admired him even. In that short amount of time they were together John had brought back some of the humanity in Sherlock. Humanity he thought he had lost long ago when his father died. And now he was going to lose it again.
Sherlock reached out and gingerly held John's hand in his own. It felt cold and heavy in his hand. Sherlock rubbed John's hand between his own trying to warm it. When it didn't work Sherlock held John's hand up to his cheek feeling John's calloused hands against his cheek. It felt so cold, as if the life had already left John Watson. The only thing to suggest John was still alive was the slow pips of his heart monitor and the almost indictable rise and fall of his chest. Probably the last few breathes John will ever take. Sherlock thought. No emotion showed on Sherlock's face. He rested his head on John's bed, still holding the doctor's cheek to his face. Don't die on me before I wake up you git. Sherlock thought as he felt sleep wash over him.
Sherlock was woken abruptly by the sound of a high monotone bleep sounding above his head. Before he had a chance to fully wake and figure out the situation he was pulled out of the way by a brown haired nurse as the doctor and three other nurses gathered around john, doing what they could to revive him but failing. Sherlock heard screaming and yelling, a man's voice. It took him a few moments before he realized the voice was his. He was shouting, no screaming.
"No John, No! Get away, get back. Leave him alone! Don't leave me! At least give the chance to say goodbye John! John! JOHN!" he kept screaming. He didn't know why. He knew no matter how much he yelled and screamed it was not going to bring him back. John Hamish Watson, ex-military doctor, flat mate and friend of Sherlock Holmes, was dead, and nothing could bring him back.
Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and then blinked them open. He stared at the ceiling as a solitary tear drew a path down the side of Sherlock's face landing on the green leather of the chair, carrying with it the last of Sherlock's humanity. Sherlock went to his bedroom and shut the door, and that was the end of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.