A Broken Man

Chapter 2

Pairing: Slight Sherlolly (Sherlock/Molly)

Beta-ed by: K-ChanLovesAnimeXD

Summary: The now Broken Man; Sherlock Holmes is a hollow shell of what he used to be, especially after the previous events of; The Reichenbach falls. He is finally coming to terms of what he has lost and finally falls victim to his ultimate enemy.

I don't own anything; it's all down to the brilliance of Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson. Without their amazing scripts, we wouldn't have the show we've come to adore. And ACD for making all of this possible anyway.

Hello everyone! Has been quite a long while, especially since updating this fic in particular. (Only a year and one month but who's counting). Not entirely sure about this chapter, but you can be the judge of that. More notes at the bottom (If you get that far).

And a quick and massive thanks to K-Chan, who actually has the patience to beta my horrific grammar! You're just fantastic.

A Broken Man

Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes,

Consulting Detective,

A Broken Man…

The mere thought of the events of the previous evening made him sick to his stomach. Emotional: That is one word he'd never associate himself with. If this was two years previous to the current events, he'd laugh at the pitiful outcome.

Sentiment.

A second word which made his skin crawl. It was a chemical defect found in the losing side. Well then what was he? A pathetic little loser, silently crying to himself in the darkness of night. Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a tedious human, crying over another pointless mammal to walk the earth…

It was like a horrific trip down memory lane. He'd recall countless times in his younger years, sitting up in the blackest of nights, listening to his Mother and Father shout the house down. Covering up his ears and crying louder to drown out the noise. Mycroft wasn't around, he was off somewhere, prancing around University like he owned the place.

His mind suddenly jolted awake, quickly pushing aside the horrendous memory which surfaced from the ruins of his once magnificent mind palace.

Ah, so that was where the memory was kept. There was a reason he'd forgotten about the dirty, rather battered old door in the ground. All grand and illustrious palaces were incomplete without a dingy dungeon (with a torture chamber as well, you couldn't possibly believe he'd leave something as vital out).

But does the magnificent Sherlock Holmes dare to step toward it? To take the steps down into the recesses of his memories and relieve things left forgotten. Sherlock reached down, slowly wrapping his long fingers around the rustic handle. He is at his lowest, so it wouldn't hurt to sink down even lower, right? Holmes' hand was trembling, fear gripping his nervous system. Sherlock gulped and was about to pull it wide, until something was pulling him away.

The loud snoring seemed to storm into his mind and sweep him away. Away from the crumbled and desolate ruins of his former self. Violently struggling against the storm which was engulfing him, he took one last look before his world went black.

Sherlock's eyes opened rather abruptly, only to be greeted with the darkness once more. The darkness was comforting, an old friend which knows all his deepest secrets and fears. It had witnessed the late and great Sherlock Holmes at his lowest as a child, and at his highest as an adult. An old friend he could never quite shake off.

Sherlock's silence came to a grinding halt when the snoring thundered into the front room once more. The familiar snoring he recognized pulling him from his dreams with great haste. It then hit him suddenly; he was in the flat of a certain Pathologist. Molly… His mind seemed to repeat her name several times.

Molly… Molly… Molly…

Christ almighty she snores loud for such a little woman. Sherlock smirked lightly at his first thought.

Molly Hooper always had a way of plunging him into deep thought. Molly Hooper saw him, saw behind the cold demeanor and really looked at him. Molly Hooper saw the lonely little boy who kept himself locked away from the light of day. Damned Molly Hooper, so normal, so human, so sentimental… It was hateful, but for some bizarre reason Sherlock trusted her.

She did count; Molly Hooper was the one person who mattered to him right now. Moriarty was a gormless man, so blinded by winning, who got strangely giddy about the mere thought of pulling the great Sherlock Holmes from his almighty pedestal.

The one person Moriarty thought didn't matter at all to him, was the one person who mattered the most.

Sherlock sat up slowly and began taking in his surroundings. The bright light of the moon shone through several moth holes in Molly's hideously coloured curtains and illuminated some of the furniture. No matter how much Sherlock tries, John always remained present at the front of his mind.

John… John… John…

John Watson….

Sherlock let out a low, hollow laugh to himself. Holmes pitied himself, ashamed to be himself there and then. Rubbing his arm across his eyes and relieving himself of that insufferable liquid running down his face.

John… John…

His mind on repeat like a broken record stuck on constant repeat, echoing the name of his best friend. The longer his thoughts lingered on John, the anger inside him started to increase.

John Watson….

Sherlock pulled his legs over the side of the sofa and jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth within the small confides of Molly Hooper's flat. No, no, no, no! This won't do! His heart rate was starting to accelerate, faster and faster the more he paced. The grieving stage was long since left in the dirt, the anger stage was rapidly approaching and he had nothing to release the stress from himself.

He couldn't exactly just walk out the door and into an off license to buy a packet of cigarettes. As wonderful and beautiful that would be right now, he was in fact an apparent dead man. Although giving someone a good scare seemed incredibly appealing and highly amusing right now.

The sweet taste of nicotine upon his lips was all he needed; one puff on a cigarette would be absolutely delicious right about now. The mere thought of it made his mind set ablaze with getting his hands on a packet. John's words then struck into his mind, echoing through his skull.

"You were doing so well, why give up now!?"

Sherlock was a dead man; he could do what he bloody well liked. Puffing on a single cigarette was hardly going to bring his world crashing down around him; Sherlock had already done that for himself. But John was right, he was always right, the annoying git! Sherlock spat at the thought, trying with all his lingering mental power to push it away, but no such luck was to be had.

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock muttered rather loudly.

By this time Holmes had stopped pacing around the living room. Sherlock needed to escape, the four walls were closing him on him, and anxiety was starting to take over his body, paralyzing him to his current position. His heart rate was still climbing, higher and higher and showing no signs of slowing down. Sherlock needed to pull away from his binds now before it was too late.

The meticulous and incredible Sherlock Holmes was being held by emotions. All the demons gripping tightly onto him, attempting to overwhelm this hollowed out man. Sherlock clutched onto his head firmly, muttering something under his breath and repeating it to himself.

Letting his hands subside from clenching onto his skull, he suddenly jolted toward the bathroom. Throwing the door open, Sherlock reached out and clasped onto the edges of the white porcelain sink. The moon was shining through the frosted glass of the window, irradiating the reflection of himself in the mirror.

Sherlock's breathing hitched, his eyes glazing over in a blur. The tight grasp he had on the sink started to subside, instead his hands started to shake. Eyes wild with bewilderment, Sherlock couldn't comprehend what was going on.

What the fucking hell is happening? Emotions and sentiment! They were the ones responsible for this! The bastards were always haunting him, the pair of them! Laughing at his expense because he'd sealed them away for long and within the space of ten minutes, had hit him like a ton of bricks. They were revelling in their release after being bound for so long.

Would the almighty Sherlock Holmes fall victim to these foul denizens which took him years to capture and lock away? All of this because of some pathetic former Army Doctor. Curse you John Watson; curse you and your sentiment for Sherlock Holmes. Curse your emotions for caring for such a heartless, soulless monster!

Sherlock thought he'd have to face this head on. Run directly into battle with these creatures. At this be began tilting his head up and slowly sliding his eyes open, gazing at himself. Half his face was illuminated by the moon as he peered at himself. Was he really looking at his reflection? Or was this the anxiety filled haze he was seeing?

His cheeks were wet with a mixture of tears and sweat. Emotion mockingly wagging it's finger at him in the mirror. Emotion completely plastered across his face, and it was absolutely hateful. Sherlock Holmes at the mercy of emotion, what a sickening sight to behold. The anxiety by this time had escalated so much, he was starting to hallucinate. Baskerville? No, this was worst!

"Look at me, the astoundingly brilliant Sherlock Holmes. Brought to his knees by pathetic emotions. What a disgusting sight to behold. I'm meant to be great. I'm meant to be this higher being, a god amongst humans in this horrendous world in which I live in. Void of all emotion, of all sentiment and then John Watson appears. Wings clipped and fallen head first into this hell. Inhabiting the bathroom of an insufferable little Pathologist, what the fuck happened to me? I've become poisoned, fallen weak to its toxins and formed friendships like these. They're distasteful, the whole lot of them!" The reflection maliciously yelled at him.

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped back through gritted teeth.

"John Watson is stupid enough, with such a placid and simple mind. A former Army Doctor, returned from Afghanistan after being severely injured. I met him when he was broken. Strange habit I've always had which I can't seem to shake. Always wanting to play with toys which are already broken and try so desperately to fix. Look at me, just look! John Watson is pointless, why did I ever get to worked up over a mere mortal who can't comprehend the world around him. He never cared about me; he stuck by me out of pity! What does it matter anyway? I'll discard him once I'm boooored." The reflection continued to hound Sherlock on.

Sherlock hands were no longer shaking due to the anxiety; it was due to the blind rage which took control. John was not some toy he'd throw away after awhile. It was strange, but the reflection's harmful words did hold some truth to them. Ever since Sherlock was a young boy, he always did want to fix all things broken. His Parents marriage he tried so hard to fix, especially when he originally caused the cracks to start appearing.

His Father was a man of certain tastes. He liked to have affairs on his wife a lot of the time, Siger Holmes was very masterful in hiding that fact from his wife. Mycroft had always known but always insisted on not telling their Mother: Violet, not for her sake, but for the sake of the family. Sherlock's skills of deduction had developed rather quickly and he deduced where his Father had been and what tasks he'd indulged himself in. Blurting it out to everyone at the dining table, that was when the rift started to form. Their Father left, Their Mother started to become distant, going into hibernation to mend her shattered heart.

Sherlock broke something that day and vowed to always try to fix anyone broken. That vow was quickly tossed aside when drugs came into play. Why attempt to fix people who are broken, when he cannot even fix himself?

"And then there is the snoring little wrench next door. Completely ignorant in regards to my breakdown. How on earth can I fix something beyond repair? Especially little Molly Hooper. Regardless of her fancying me, which for the record is absolutely pathetic. I am incapable of love, therefore nothing will ever develop. She is jealous, that is why she sticks around. Jealous of my beautifully crafted mind, she wishes she was me." The reflection insisted on continuing.

Sherlock flexed the fingers on his right hand, they were starting to feel a tad numb.

"Why do I insist on trying to fix broken people when I am the one breaking them? Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Anderson, Donovan, my family, Molly and John- All of them are relics, broken humans all due to my callous disregard for their feelings. I am worthless, they mean nothing to me. Nothing! Especially John, look at him. I've never needed him, not once. Worthless, worthless little human!"

Sherlock finally exploded with intense rage. Quickly flexing his right hand into a fist, he launched it directly at the mirror, shattering it in one swoop of his knuckle. The glass shards scattered everywhere onto the tiled flooring below.

"I SAID SHUT UP! DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME!?" Sherlock roared at the fragments of glass.

Holmes' hand tensed up, before taking a sharp breath and realizing that there were several shards embedded into his skin. Raising his hand to observe it better, he saw three pieces sticking out of his flesh. One after another he tugged them out, grunting as he did so, before he discarded them onto the others at his feet.

Sherlock knew that such a loud clatter of falling glass shards and his yelling would wake the sleeping Pathologist next door. He had to get out, he had to escape. Never had he felt so claustrophobic in his life, get out now before they whirled around for a second attack on him. Darting back out into the darkened hallway, he scrambled toward the coat rack and pulled his coat off of it. Pulling his arms through it, he made a dash for the front door. He threw it open and made a rather hasty retreat into the cold winter morning of London.

The Consulting Detective was right when Molly opened the door to her bedroom to see the front door adjacent was wide open. She took a peak into the front room and saw no sign of the 'dead' detective anywhere. Her heart started pumping a tiny bit faster, especially when she saw the remnants of Sherlock's escapade with the mirror. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and blinked a few times, getting a proper good look at it.

Molly knew she had to go after him. The Pathologist knew of one place and one place Sherlock would go back to at a time like this. Molly had to stop him before he did something he'd severely regret and really jeopardize the lives of everyone he'd been so desperate to save in the first place.

She quickly pulled back into her bedroom, threw on whatever clothes that were laying around, fastened her shoes and was briskly out the front door and chasing down Sherlock Holmes in the desolate hours of the morning in London.

Sherlock Holmes,

A Broken Man,

Already Broken…

To be continued…?