It was a regular night in London. The subways were running, the city lights were glowing, and Sherlock Holmes was bored out of his goddamned skull.
The sound of gunshots filled the flat at 221B Baker Street, as Sherlock was emptying the ammunition of his colleague Dr. John H. Watson's gun into the wall, onto which he had earlier drawn a large yellow smiley face.
"By God, Sherlock, why did you do that?" asked John.
"Bored." Sherlock replied nonchalantly as he kept shooting at the wall.
"I think you better stop before someone phones the police."
"Now wouldn't that be interesting." Sherlock replied with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "John, hand me my phone."
John sighed and shook his head as he handed him the phone.
Sherlock looked through his received messages for a moment, and then with a sigh he put the phone away and resumed shooting the wall.
"I'll never understand you, Sherlock."
Abruptly, Mrs. Hudson walked in. "What is all this commo-" At this point, she saw the wall. "Sherlock, what are you doing to my wall?!"
"The wall deserved it." Sherlock replied.
Exasperated, Mrs. Hudson turned to leave, shouting at him, "This is coming out of your rent, Sherlock!"
As usual, Sherlock didn't seem to care. He tried to keep shooting the wall, only for the gun to click. "Out of ammo."
"It's a wonder she hasn't thrown you out yet, Sherlock." sighed John.
"She keeps me here because she wants my company when she needs it." For a moment, Sherlock thought about that deduction. "... What a poor choice of acquaintance she has. Oh, and John, we're out of milk."
"Again? But I just got some yesterday!"
"I had to make bacteria for an experiment." was Sherlock's explanation to the sudden absence of milk.
John sighed again. "I'll go get more."
"Good." Sherlock put his fingers together in front of his face and seemed to fall deep into thought.
John grabbed his coat and left to get more milk.
As he was leaving, he bumped into Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. "Oh," He muttered, "Sorry. Is Sherlock in?"
"Yes he is, Inspector."
"Good, I need him for a case. You don't mind if I take him, do you?"
"Go ahead."
About fifteen minutes later, after a battle with the machine at the shop as per norm, John returned to 221B Baker St. to find Sherlock fully dressed, sitting on his chair, and Lestrade leaning against the desk in the middle of the room impatiently.
When Sherlock saw John, he clasped his hands together and stood. "Alright, Graham, let's go."
"It's Greg." Lestrade grumbled.
"Greg, then."
"We have a case?"
"Yes, John. It's about time, too."
"I'll be right with you as soon as I put the milk away."
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "We'll be following shortly in a taxi. I just need to have a few quick words with John first."
"So be it," Lestrade replied. "I'll be waiting at the crime scene." That said, the Detective Inspector left, and Sherlock slowly trailed behind John.
John carefully put the milk away into the fridge.
"John." Sherlock said to get his flatmate's attention, his hands held behind his back as usual.
"Yes, Sherlock?" he answered as he turned.
As Sherlock continued, he almost seemed to have a little bit of emotion on his face, which was strange. "I... I just want you to know that if at any time you need to leave, you can. You don't even have to come with me this time if you don't want to."
"Why are you acting so strange, Sherlock?" he asked with concern.
"I'm simply trying to voice concern. I believe I've heard you say the victim's name once or twice, and from the way you spoke of the victim, I believe you may feel sentiment for them in some way." Firstly, Sherlock was showing vague emotion. Secondly, he was suggesting that despite seeming to ignore everything John ever said, that he did in fact listen. It really was turning out to be a strange day.
"You're starting to scare me."
"The victim in question is..." Sherlock stopped and blinked for a moment. "Never mind. Let's not keep Lestrade waiting for too long when he gets there. Come along." The Consulting Detective turned around and started walking to leave the flat.
He nodded and walked with him.
Sherlock hailed a taxi on the street, and after they both got in he told the driver where to go. As the taxi started to move, Sherlock sat quietly beside John, not saying anything.
"Something on your mind?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I don't know." Though typically something Sherlock would rarely say, these three words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth at that moment.
"Now I know something is wrong with you."
"I'm fine, John." He replied, however a tad too quickly.
"Sherlock..."
"I knew the victim as well, better than you did. I think I feel something because of their death, but I don't know what it is. But I can't just leave the crime scene like you can if I start thinking too sentimentally."
"What do you mean?"
"If I start caring too much about the victim, then it might cloud my thoughts. I can't let myself care. But not caring is for some reason difficult right now." He confessed. "My actual reason for bringing you along is selfish; I want someone to talk me back to my senses if I seem to slip, even if that someone happens to be another person who knew the victim."
"It just shows that you really do have feelings, Sherlock."
"Feeling is a weakness. I can't show anyone a weakness."
"It's not a weakness, Sherlock."
"Isn't it? If you had to hurt someone you loved who was going to kill you if you didn't, or hurt someone you hated instead even if it meant your loved one would kill you, who would you choose?"
"That's a hard choice, Sherlock."
"That's what people would usually say. Why? Because they feel attachment to the one they love, so they don't want to hurt them. They feel, John, and because of that they throw out their self-preservation strategies to keep safe the one that makes them feel good. If nobody felt, maybe some of the victims of 'accidental' murders and domestic abuse cases might still be alive.
"But no, they opt to feel things. Why is that? Why would people rather feel and die than live apathetically and survive?"
"Because we're social creatures, Sherlock. We need one another."
That reply actually seemed to make him think, and in response to that he for some reason looked John over with his pale blue eyes.
"Sherlock?"
"You and those idiots might need one another, but I only need two things." Sherlock mumbled as he turned his head away and looked out the window.
"And those are?" he asked; feeling a bit hurt.
"Cases to solve and someone to share them with." He muttered.
"I thought you said you don't need anyone." John countered.
"I don't need any of those idiots that think I'm a 'freak'. Just don't ever try to hurt me, and my opinion on the rashness of human error, that being attachment, will go un-conflicted." If things weren't already strange, Sherlock Holmes was now somewhat-indirectly complimenting John Watson, and saying the doctor was the only human he had any sort of attachment to. It was both somewhat sweet and insanely revealing as to how shaken Sherlock was to know who the victim of their latest case was.
"So what do you know about the victim?" he said to change the subject.
"Only who they were. Lestrade didn't tell me anything else, or if he did, I didn't listen."
"There's the Sherlock I know."
Sherlock smirked a little bit.
Shortly after, the taxi came to a stop, and Sherlock stepped out.
Lestrade approached him, looking rather grim. "Sherlock, I wouldn't have asked you to come if-"
"If you weren't completely baffled. Yes, Lestrade, I get it."
"Are you sure you can go in there?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be able to go in there?"
John started looking around.
It didn't take long for him to realize that the victim was none other than Molly Hooper, the shy young woman that worked in the morgue at the Scotland Yard and had a blatantly obvious (to everyone but Sherlock) crush on Sherlock.
"Poor girl... We must find out who did this to her..." he muttered.
Sherlock walked over and saw Molly's body. Being used to scenes like this, he didn't flinch or anything, though he almost seemed saddened, which was rather uncharacteristic for the consulting detective, albeit being a tad human.
"I'll figure out who he is, don't worry about that."
"Find any clues yet?"
"The way her throat was cut means it was cut with a jagged hunting knife, relatively new. She struggled, and it seems she was brought here in a vehicle. The blood on the walls here seems to be intentional; perhaps it's a cipher of some sort, but I can't make it out unless I really try." For what Sherlock usually said, this was strangely quick and to the point. He wasn't showing off so much, or perhaps he was right about his thoughts being clouded over.
"But why kill her of all people?"
"Perhaps the cipher says. Give me a minute on this, John; I think I vaguely recognize the cipher." He thought for a minute, before loudly exclaiming "Oh! This character is an S! This is Pigpen Cipher! It says, 'Sh'-..." Sherlock trailed off, his face going blank as he stared at the bloody message on the wall with wide eyes.
"It's a message for you, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"It isn't for me. It's for everyone but me." He snapped his head around with a fierce look in his eyes and looked John right in the eyes. "The weapon is still on the crime scene. Go find it." Then, he turned back to the cipher, put on his leather gloves, and started smearing it so that no one else could read it, thereby destroying evidence on the scene, which he was absolutely not allowed to do, and had never intentionally done before.
He quickly went to search around for the weapon; now starting to worry more about his friend.
He couldn't find it anywhere.
Soon Sherlock joined him. "My heart's pounding, but it's not an enjoyable excitement I'm feeling right now." He said. "Let's leave. No, first let's tell Lestrade something, then let's leave."
"Alright, Sherlock."
Sherlock and John went to Lestrade, who turned to look at them.
"Sherlock! What did you find?"
"Our victim was beaten by someone, and she was cut with a stainless steel kitchen knife. She walked here, but God knows why."
"Say, just a second ago, Anderson found some blood on the wall by there. Looks like it might've been a cipher, but it's all smeared. Could you make it out?"
"No. Either it isn't a cipher or the killer decided he didn't want it to be seen after he had written it." Everything Sherlock was saying was a blatant lie. It almost seemed like he was trying to lead Lestrade as far away from the killer as possible.
"Sherlock, that's not what you told me earlier."
Sherlock seemed to squirm a bit. "I changed my theories." He replied, though likely this was also a lie.
"You? Sherlock Holmes, change his theories?" Lestrade asked, amused.
"Yes... New evidence does change first opinions, Gary." He said, getting Lestrade's name wrong again. "We're going now."
"Wait, that's all you found out?"
"Yep." He blurted, not mentioning his comment that the weapon was still apparently on the crime scene. "Let's go, John." He started walking briskly.
John quickly followed. "Why did you lie, Sherlock? That's not like you."
For only a brief moment, Sherlock revealed the weapon, a jagged and bloody hunting knife. He had it in his coat pocket.
"The murder weapon! Why did you take it?" he asked in shock.
"I can't let Lestrade have it. There's compromising evidence on it."
"And that would be?"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "Oh, what if it's under her nails, too? Dammit! I should've cleaned her nails while we were in there. How clumsy of me to forget about her nails!" It almost sounded like he didn't want the killer to get caught... or worse and more unbelievable yet, like maybe he was the killer.
"Sherlock, tell me everything now!"
"No time, John." He quickly resumed walking, trying to avoid having to say anything.
"Sherlock, tell me what's going on!"
Sherlock stopped and marched back over to John. He stood so close, looking down at his colleague, that his breath could almost be felt on John's face with every word. "Who do you think killed Molly, John?"
"Well by the way you're acting, I would say it's you, but I would like to think I know you better!"
"I would like to think that way as well. There have been times, John, where you've missed entire Wednesdays and not realized it." He said rather maliciously. "If I wanted to kill Molly Hooper, I would not have slit her throat and got blood everywhere. This killer is either a rookie or is trying their best to look it. But before I can catch him, I have to play his game."
"A game, Sherlock?"
"I can't let Lestrade get him first. The only way to do that..." Sherlock took the knife out of his pocket, removed one of his gloves, and proceeded to get his fingerprints all over the hilt of the blade. He then tossed it in the general direction of the crime scene. "... is to play murderer to buy him some time."
