A/N: Alrighty, this is my first fic in… well a long time. Be nice. That's all I ask.
I wrote this for an English assignment and had to do some crazy name changes to escape being discovered writing fanfiction in class. It was worth it I believe. I apologize for any grammar errors or OOC-ness. I got the idea for this in TGG, when Sherlock and John look at the stars.
Nothing belongs to me.
The case was painfully simplistic. He had cracked it before Lestrade had even finished explaining what the police already knew. Which amounted to nothing.
It was the underpaid maid. In cases like these it was always the maid. The girl had convinced her junkie brother to break-in and murder her wealthy employer in her sleep.
Sherlock could have solved it in his sleep.
Sherlock was a consulting detective. That meant that when the police were out of their depth, they called him. He was called quite often. The police needed him to solve the problems they were too stupid or obtuse to solve. Yet he was mocked. He was a high-functioning sociopath and it didn't matter what others thought of him. He didn't need anyone. All that mattered was the work, the chase.
Speaking of the chase, Sherlock had nearly caught the junkie brother. Normally Sherlock let Lestrade's little minions catch the criminals, but not tonight. Tonight Sherlock felt that if he was left alone and allowed to become bored his head would explode.
If there was one thing Sherlock loathed more than idiots it was boredom. Sherlock was a genius, no one could argue that point, and if he let his brain stagnate, then he let the voices come. He let the thoughts of murder come. The itching in his brain, the prickling in his limbs, the relentless anger. With those feelings came the sensation of wanting to do anything to get rid of it. That sensation drove him to heroin. A dark side of his past he didn't wasn't to revisit. Sherlock hated boredom.
Currently, Sherlock had the brother backed into a little used dead-end alley. Sherlock knew how this would end. Boring. The brother would attempt to put up a fight, and lose. Predictable. He would then plead his innocence (even though he had the murder weapon in his left jeans pocket, a small switchblade.) and be dragged to jail by deaf ears. Dull.
The brother didn't attempt to fight though. What an odd turn of events, how intriguing. A change in the old plan, a new development. An unforeseen twist that had, for a split second, sent Sherlock's mind whirling with new possibilities. Turning around to meet Sherlock the brother raised a gun.
Interesting. Sherlock thought before the muzzle flashed and pain erupted in the middle of his chest. As he staggered backwards the brother ran off.
"Wonderful." Sherlock muttered aloud irately. "He's getting away." As hard as he tried, Sherlock couldn't will his legs to work and chase after the culprit again. In fact, none of his limbs seemed to be cooperating; it must be the result of skipping meals and rest for a week.
Sherlock slid down the dusty alley was into a seated position. Blood gurgled from the small hole in his chest and stained his white button up shirt scarlet. His thoughts were rapidly becoming scattered and fuzzy around the edges. He had the vague idea that he should call Lestrade, or Mycroft even and let them know where he was but it drifted away before he could latch on to it.
Over the course of the next fifteen minuets Sherlock came to the realization that he was dying. People have an odd tendency to do that.
Sensing his consciousness, and thus his life, was coming to an end, Sherlock raised his head to look up at the stars in the night sky above. So many of them, removed, distant, cold. They were beautiful.
Just because he was a sociopath didn't mean he couldn't appreciate them, but he never had appreciated them before. If by some chance he survived this, Sherlock vowed to try and appreciate the stars more.
I wonder what it would be like to have a friend, someone to appreciate the stars with. Sherlock thought as the corners of his vision darkened. Had he been well and uninjured the thought would have been a sign of emotion and weakness and would have been destroyed on sight, but in the cold alley it was all he could think about.
As Sherlock closed his eyes for the final time he imagined he saw white and blue flashing lights. Strange, the things you see when you're dying.
A/N: So that's it. I know I will make another chapter. (Someday) But what I don't know is if I should continue on until Sherlock meets John. So, I turn to you Dear Reader. Let me know. The fate of the Story rests in your hands.