***Hi! Sorry that it took so long to upload a new chapter… School + Fangirling + Procrastination led to this ;) Hope you enjoy this chapter! (Please leave review for what you enjoyed and did not enjoy; it helps improving the story:))
Thank you so much for my Beta Readers, goldensnitch0423 and Iniso!
Ch.3 History.
"Five days. You said three days, John!"
Sighing, he gave the cash to the nurse, paying for the prolonged stay. Great, he thought. Another round of complaining. "Sherlock, what did I say about complaining?"
"But really! Five days! Five days wasted doing nothing!"
"Your wound was healing." He meaningfully looked at Sherlock, pocketing the change. "In fact, still healing. Present-tense. The average hospitalisation date for gunshot wound is minimum 6 days. You're lucky. Or unlucky. Whatever."
"But they made me wear those… those horrible clothes. What are they, pyjamas?"
"Actually, yes. They are pyjamas, in some ways. Patients sleep in those."
Sherlock snorted. He didn't say it, but John knew that the wound still hurt. Even though Sherlock was obviously trying not to limp, the limping was very bad. Try reasoning with Sherlock Holmes.
They got into a cab, Sherlock still complaining. "Really, you should have eaten those foods they give you in the hospital. It's disgusting."
"As a matter of fact, I did. I practically lived there with you, idiot."
Sherlock scowled at him. "Mmm."
When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock tried to run upstairs like he used to do, but almost toppled back down, biting back a groan.
"Sherlock, your leg wound hasn't healed properly, okay? You need to be careful."
"Ah — I just — for God's sake," Sherlock muttered.
Sighing, he moved forward to support Sherlock upstairs. It was going to be a long journey.
Trying hard not to focus on the way that Sherlock's body was pressed up against his, he grunted in the effort. Sherlock was trying his best not to rely on him too much, but he was helplessly flailing like a fish out of water. It was obvious that the pain was almost excruciating. Cursing, Sherlock muttered, "Aren't they supposed to lessen the pain while you're hospitalised? I don't see the point of staying there for five bloody days only to return and feel the same."
"Shut up," he huffed. The exertion was making him breathless, yes, but the feel of Sherlock's body pressed against his and feeling the body rumble as Sherlock spoke was too much. His heartbeat rate was elevated dangerously.
They finally climbed all the way up, and he practically dumped Sherlock onto his couch. Gulping for breath, he said, "I think we should look to your leg; the climb up the stairs could have moved the gauze. Stay here, I'll go upstairs, and bring the medical supplies."
Sherlock huffed in response, also exhausted. Sherlock's dark lock of curly hair fell back as he dropped his head against the armchair, trying to return his breathing to normal.
When he returned with the supplies, Sherlock had removed his coat and was is in his blue dressing gown, idly tapping his fingers against the armchair. Clearing his throat to get Sherlock's attention, he sat down the first-aid kit by Sherlock.
Sherlock stretched his right leg. He really had long legs.
Suddenly, an uncomfortable idea popped into his head. He couldn't treat the wound unless he could see it… and the wound was on Sherlock's thigh. His thigh. For God's sake, he hissed in his head. Get your fantasies into control.
"So… um." He cleared his throat again. He felt heat creeping up his neck, and the harder he tried not to turn red, the redder he got. "I — I need to see the wound. So."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Then, it seemed to occur to him, too, and saying, "Oh! Yes. Right," he casually rolled up his trousers. John choked.
Sherlock's eyebrows went up again. "What?"
"I — nothing." He tried not to stare at Sherlock's pale, long legs. Carefully kneeling next to the wound, he removed the gauze. The wound was cleaned up by the nurses at the hospital, but fresh blood had come out of it from the exertion. Grimacing, he cleaned up the wound with a gauze, soaked with come cleaning medication. He flinched when his fingers brushed Sherlock's legs. He was uncomfortably aware of his elevated heart rate. Get it under control, he told himself angrily.
"Ow," said Sherlock, very matter-of-factly. He didn't exclaim or curse, just quietly stared out at the window. It was almost like he was just saying it because he was supposed to say it.
When he wrapped it up with a fresh gauze, he stood up and turned away to hide his blushing. His face was practically radiating heat. "Done."
"Ah, finally." Rolling down his trouser again, he jumped up from the chair. It must hurt, he mused. But he must've experienced a lot worse than this.
When they've fallen back into their old ways, him sitting down on the armchair, blogging about past cases, and Sherlock pacing — or to be clear, limping — about the room, muttering about murders, body parts, and his boredom.
"It's been five days since I've encountered proper murder! God, I need a case!"
John sighed and massaged his forehead. Typical day.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson peeked in. "Woo hoo!"
"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," he muttered, already tired.
"Oh, you're back from the hospital, aren't you?" Moving to Sherlock, she slapped his bottom. "You need to be careful! I've been worried sick!"
"Yes, yes. Boring. Sentimental. Dull. I NEED A CASE!"
"For God's sake, Sherlock, keep it down!" he yelled. Flinching, Mrs. Hudson looked between the two disapprovingly.
"Ooh, not happy, are we?" said Mrs. Hudson, tsk-tsk ing. She reached into her pocket and produced a parchment letter. "Well, you're in luck, Sherlock. I found this at the staircase. Looks like a client's message."
Sherlock snatched the paper from her hands, held it at eye-height, and sniffed at it. John looked resignedly at him, now used to his strange behaviour. He cleared his throat. "So?"
"Hm. Parchment paper. Brand that only used to come out in 80s—"
"Yes, all right, congrats to your brilliance, just open the letter. You do tend to overcomplicate things, you know?" He pulled the letter out of Sherlock's hand and teared it open. Sherlock scowled. Ignoring the dissatisfied noises in the background, he scanned the words — which made no sense to him — and handed it back to Sherlock. "Now these are your specialties."
"Hm," grumbled Sherlock. He was still clearly ruffled by John's interruption of his 'deduction' moment. He really did love showing-off, he inwardly sighed. Meanwhile, he squirmed uncomfortably, trying to ignore the heat on his face.
Sherlock was squinting at the words. "Hm. Fascinating."
"Fascinating? Does that mean not bored?"
Sherlock glared at him before turning back to the letter. "Are you hiding something from me?"
He flinched. "What?"
"You've got no obvious reason to be irritated or annoyed at me, yet you are irritated. Very much so, I would say. Now, have you had any outer source of irritation? I'm inclined to say 'no,' since you've spent all of the past five days with me. From my experience, when people are trying to hide something, they tend to get more irritated, thus diverting the attention from the thing they are trying to hide—"
"Yes, all right, that's enough. Well, now I've got a source of irritation, don't I? Shut up and solve the code, or whatever that is." He puffed out his chest, feeling uneasy. The room had become unbearably hot.
Sherlock merely pouted his lips, and got back to solving the code.
…
He didn't know why John was acting so strange. Something hidden from him. But what? He pushed the thoughts away to the corner of his head and focused on the letters before him. If there was one thing that he learned over the course of his invented career, it was that it was best to push back all emotions when he was working. Actually, it was best to just push all emotions back any time.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"Hi Sherlock,
ULEGNWEATETIIMAN
xxx"
ULEGNWEATETIIMAN. A code word? No, too little information to solve. Caesar shift? No, it didn't match.
"Some sort of a code?" John was peering at the letter in his hand. "From Moriarty?"
"Yes, from Moriarty. No, not a code. A cipher. I've seen these kinds before… where have I seen them?" Rail Fence? "Think. Think. Think."
Oh.
"Oh!" he smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Grid cipher."
He put together the letters in his head.
Until We Meet Again.
…
1993, Sherlock (5)
He was five years old. It was his first day of school. He giddily packed his backpack, grabbed Mycroft's hand, and ran outside. He tried to calm his beating heart. Control, he told himself. Don't loose self control.
Mycroft was unusually quiet while they walked to the school. Sherlock, too excited and occupied, didn't notice, but Mycroft kept sending him glances. Sad glances.
When they finally arrived at the gates, he let go of Mycroft's hand, straightened his shirt, and stood importantly. "Goodbye."
Mycroft smiled.
He tried not to bounce as he walked towards the door. Children were gathered, and teachers were busily buzzing about, handing out classes and papers. He was going to make friends. He was determined. He would show his brother that he was not only a slow little brother.
Finally, the classes were all settled. He sat down on a chair, put down his bag, and eagerly awaited the teacher.
He could never have guessed that the day was going to be a disaster.
"All right, all right," said the teacher. She was a woman of about 40. "Class, nice to meet you. My name is Ms. Stacey."
"Hello, Ms. Stacey," echoed the class.
"Good boy, good girl," soothed Ms. Stacey. "Now, let's do a roll call. Amanda?"
Thus, the first day of the school begun. As the time went on, Sherlock found himself more and more disappointed and bored. The classes were too easy and boring and dull. He knew all the things. The teacher droned on and later asked perfectly obvious questions and even asked them to repeat things that they had just said.
More than anything, he was disappointed at the children. He had always been the 'slow one,' he had no idea that it was even possible to be slower than him. But no, these people were clueless. And not just the children, the teachers, too.
Despite his dismay and disappointment, he was determined to make friends and get everybody to like him. He would be surrounded by friends when Mycroft stood alone with his cake. He behaved himself the best he could with his chin up. Dignity. He wouldn't go around, introducing himself to the class like a class clown. So it was to his dismay when the teacher announced that they were all to stand up and introduce themselves.
When it was his turn, he nervously stood up, cleared his throat, and said, "Hello, my name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I am five years old, and I like science, chemistry, and —"
"Boring," muttered a boy next to him.
He felt his face flush up with anger and embarrassment. He stared straight ahead, determined to make a god first-impression "—and philosophy. I am also interested in human biology, physics, geology, astronomy—"
"I'm really sorry, Sherlock, dear," interrupted Ms. Stacey. "But we're running out of time. Could you wrap it up real fast?"
His face flushed again, but he puffed his chest and tried to look indifferent. "Well, I like solving puzzles and crimes. Thank you."
The teacher looked a bit taken aback at the word 'crime,' but smiled timidly. "Seems like Sherlock is a very intelligent boy!"
"I would have to lower my IQ a lot to be labeled as 'intelligent,'" he remarked. "From my knowledge, my IQ is considered to be 'very superior' in Current Wechsler IQ test, 'upper extreme' in the KABC-II 2004 Descriptive Categories, and —"
"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," cut in Ms. Stacey with a tight smile. "Who's next? William?"
Breathing hard, he sat back down. The boy who had called science 'boring' was smirking at him, and other children were exchanging nervous glances.
A few minutes later, it was recess. All of the kids gathered around and chattered away, giggling like a herd of monkeys. Stupid kids, he muttered to himself. It wasn't his fault that they were so stupid. It was the teacher's, it was the children's. Sitting alone, playing with his fingers while watching the kids around him laugh and play with each other, he felt ignored and hurt. He had been always ignored and looked over by his parents because Mycroft was obviously 'perfect,' but he was used to it. He had been so excited to go to school, to make friends.
For the first time, he felt actually sad. A new emotion. He'd never quite experienced actual sadness before. Interesting. Though, he wasn't quite sure if he liked it much.
Clearing his throat, he straightened his shirt and smoothed his curly hair. Suddenly, a boy caught his eyes. He had sandy blond hair and blue eyes and freckles. Sherlock gingerly smiled. The boy merely glanced at him.
After twenty minutes of nervous sitting alone with his beating heart, he finally decided to approach the boy. After all, what could go wrong? Making sure that he looked his best, he slowly walked to the boy. It was clear that the Mr. Sandy Hair was popular; little girls were crowded around him, giggling and batting their eyelashes at him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
Pushing his way through the crowd — no one paid any attention to him — he finally found himself in front of the boy. He cleared his throat. "Um. Hi."
The boy raised his eyebrows. "Mmm."
"I'm —" He cleared his throat. God, why did he feel so nervous? "I'm Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, you're the freak aren't you? The one who likes science and puzzles of all things."
"I'm not a freak!" he retorted defensively, his face flushing with anger. "And science and puzzles and crimes are interesting!"
"They're boring."
"That's because you're too stupid to understand it!" he spat. The two glared at each other. The children around them gave them a wide berth, looking on and cheering for a fight. One or two kids were sniffling and crying.
"Children, children," trilled Ms. Stacey as she swooped in and set them apart. Being almost one-third the height of Ms. Stacey, he helplessly flailed against the teacher's arms. "Now, what's the trouble?"
"He called me stupid!" wailed the boy, sniffling.
"Now, Sherlock, you shouldn't call someone stupid."
"He called me a 'freak,'" he spat, breathing heavily.
"Jeremy, did you call him that?"
"Only because he is. He likes science. Plus, he's creepy."
"I'm not!"
"Boys!" said Ms. Stacey sternly. "Sherlock, say sorry."
"What for?"
"For calling him stupid."
"But he is stupid."
"Sherlock."
"Fine. I'm sorry for labelling you 'stupid' when you should be labelled as 'idiotic.'"
"Sherlock Holmes!"
"I'm not a freak!" he shrieked, finally loosing his temper. He hadn't been the one to call names first, so why was he the one being punished?
Ms. Stacey drew back and looked at him seriously, like he was the troubled kid. "Sherlock, I'm going to have to call you parents for that."
"Well, they won't care, so good luck with that."
Ms. Stacey narrowed her eyes, misunderstanding his meaning. She thought that he meant that they wouldn't care that he'd done something wrong. He really did mean that they wouldn't care. They never did. Whatever he did, he was a disappointment to them compared to his accomplished big brother. No big deal. They would just huff and scowl at him for a few days.
He went to his chair and sat defiantly, daring anyone to come talk to him. Ms. Stacey just sighed, patted Jeremy's head, who was sniffling, and went back to her desk. Other children were starting to dissipate, muttering. Once or twice, he caught the word 'freak.' It hurt.
When the school was finally over, and after he'd heard kids saying 'freak' so many times, he trudged back to the gate. Other children were running happily into their parent's arms, being called 'my princess' and 'my prince.' For some reason, something bobbed at the back of his throat, making it burn. He swallowed.
Mycroft was leaning onto the school gate, checking his watch. When he caught sight of Sherlock, he raised his eyebrows and half-grinned.
While they were holding hands and walking back to their home, Sherlock managed, "Mycroft."
"Hmm?"
"They called me a freak."
Mycroft stopped next to him. "What?"
"Am I a freak?" he whispered.
"No, of course not," replied Mycroft. He turned to look at Sherlock. "Who called you a freak?"
"Jeremy. And the other kids."
"Ignore them." Mycroft resumed walking.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, though he tried everything within his power to stop it. His eyes burned. "I'm not a freak."
"No, you aren't."
"Then why would they call me that?" He tried to choke back his tears. Mycroft stooped down and wiped the tears off the tears that were now streaming down. Crouching down, he smiled and gingerly hugged him. Sherlock flinched. Neither of them were used to this. Fighting and yelling and glaring, yes. Hugging and comforting? Completely new area.
"Sherlock," said Mycroft in his best soothing voice. "You're not a freak. You're just… different. They're the stupid ones."
"It's not — it's not my fault, is it?" His body was heaving, trying to stop the tears.
"No. They're just stupid. Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end."
He never knew that his heart could actually hurt so much. When his parents tut-tutted at him while patting Mycroft was painful, humiliating, but it never made his heart hurt so much. Now, it reminded him that it, too, was a muscle by painfully squeezing in his chest. He felt like a rotten bark nobody wanted. He was just not likeable, not loveable.
Mycroft slowly patted him as he gulped down the tears.
…
1993, Moriarty (8)
He was eight. He was an abandoned child in a filthy orphanage full of filthy children. They were stupid, all of them. Inferiors, slaves. Meant to be controlled and manipulated. It wasn't his fault that he was born to rule.
The first time a child called him a 'freak,' he felt sad, unwanted. It squeezed his heart painfully, and he cried himself to sleep. The teachers and advisors didn't care for him. They thought that he was a 'freak,' too, even though never said it. They didn't even bother to ask how he was feeling when he woke up next day with puffy eyes and hoarse voice.
But the second time, he felt angry. For the first time in his short-lived life, he was furious. Not the kind of angry when they take away your toy, but actually furious. He felt his heart squeeze painfully, but not with sadness; this time with anger. He'd tried to strangle the girl who called him that, but was forcefully ripped away by the supervisor. "What the hell are you doing?" the supervisor had yelled.
Always, always he was the one who was punished. None of them cared, not really. He was just a 'troubled kid' to them.
By eight, he'd learnt to ignore all the hateful remarks from the other kids in the orphanage. Sometimes, they beat him when the supervisor was sleeping or had gone to the bathroom. The teachers didn't ask him about the bruises.
They were just stupid. Too stupid to do anything but beat him, taunt him. He learned to enjoy the pain, just simply let go. It wasn't his fault.
It wasn't his fault.
…
1996, Sherlock (9)
There was a murder.
He was intrigued when he read it on the papers. There was something wrong about the summary, though he couldn't quite pinpoint it. Mycroft, of course, being the know-it-all big brother, had it all figured out, but wouldn't tell him.
"Tell me!" he whined, crumpling the paper in his fingers.
"Nope," replied Mycroft, licking his fingers as he reached for another cookie.
"You really shouldn't eat that, you know. You promised mummy that you'll try harder to loose weight."
Mycroft shrugged. "Your little mind won't understand."
"Tell. Me."
"Good luck figuring out."
Sighing, he turned back to the paper:
Carl Powers, 14, while attending a swimming contest yesterday, was seen to have a fit in a swimming pool in Marylebone, City of Westminster, London. By the time the lifeguards were able to drag him out of the water, he was already beyond help, and died on the deck of the swimming pool. Police raided the region and checked Mr. Power's locker, to no avail; there were only Mr. Power's clothes in the locker. There were no apparent causes on Mr. Power's body that would've caused him such a fit in the water, and police are baffled. For now, police are forced to assume that the mysterious death was caused by an unfortunate sudden seizure.
"I need to meet the police," he muttered. Mycroft snorted.
"Hm. Do you think that they would listen to you? They won't even listen to me."
"Well, they've got to. This isn't just a tragic seizure, it's murder." As he said 'murder,' a smile spread across his face. He always found murders and corpses interesting, provided that he wasn't the cause of it. "Wanna come?"
"Nah. Gotta finish the cookies before mummy and daddy comes back."
This time, it was Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Huh. Well, get fat, brother." Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows and resumed munching on the cookie.
It was only a ten-minute walk, and the pool wasn't hard to find, since there were people and press people crowded against the police line. The pool was closed off for the day, and the security guards were holding the interviewers back.
His eyes flickering between the door and the security, he quietly slipped behind. His height was a rare advantage, making him appear insignificant and almost invisible — though he was tall for his age. People didn't pay much attention to him.
Quietly, he crept alongside the walls, looking out for any security or police. There were policeman buzzing about the locker room, examining each lockers. Soon, one of the police officer shouted, "All right, seems like there's nothing 'ere. Let's go out for a snack." The rest of them all mumbled their approval.
After they've all gone out, he skimmed over the locker's numbers. All of the lockers were emptied out except locker M204. He set on to going through the clothes in it.
Dirty and ragged t-shirt with the swimming team logo on it, baggy pants that was second-handed, his underwear… ugh. The pile of clothes positively reeked. He stooped down to the shoes compartment… only there weren't any.
Oh.
"There aren't any shoes," he whispered.
Suddenly, strong hands grabbed him under his armpit and dragged him back. His instincts and panic kicking in, he flailed.
"What the hell 're ya doing in here?" a harsh voice yelled. "It's a crime scene, for God's sake, not children's playground!"
"I'm not playing!" he yelled back, still fighting. "I'm investigating!"
"Oh ho, are ya, little detective?"
"There are no shoes!"
The man stopped trying to repress his movements and went still. "What?"
"Did you take away his shoes?" He finally turned around and got a good look of the man. He was in his late 50's, married, and incredibly fat. Possible heart condition.
The man frowned in confusion"What shoes?"
"The boy's! Carl Powers!"
"Wha — no, there weren't any. Get out of here. Now."
"Where are the shoes?"
"This is no place for a young boy like you. Get out."
"You need to find the shoes! It's important—"
"All righ', little detective, I'm taking you outta here." The security picked him up by his shirt and hauled him out of the gates, muttering about boys and intruders.
"You have to find the shoes!" he yelled after the security.
The murderer's got the shoes. He tried to get around the security to examine Powers' locker again, but the man who kicked him out was glaring at him, standing guard.
Later, when he got back, he banged the door shut, ignoring Mycroft's staring. Finally, after he'd thrown himself onto the couch, Mycroft cleared his throat and asked, "Didn't go well?"
"Oh, finally stopped stuffing your face with cookies and noticed your brother's frustrations, huh?"
Mycroft sighed. "What's wrong, brother mine?"
"The shoes are missing, and they won't listen to me, 'brother mine.'"
"Hm. Figured it out, then?"
"Of course. It was perfectly simple," he growled back. Sighing, he dropped his head back against the head of the couch, letting his dark, curly lock of hair fall into his eyes.
"Hm," repeated Mycroft. "See? I told you. They won't listen to you. They won't even listen to me."
"Maybe," he retorted. "Maybe, I'm better at persuading people than you."
"Ha. I doubt it."
"Shut up," he replied drily. "Well, if they miss the murderer, that's their fault."
…
1996, Moriarty(12)
"Why don't you just go and kill yourself?"
Powers kicked his abdomen, making him cough. His lips were crusted with blood, and his tongue felt like sandpaper. It's all good, he told himself. He grinned through his nosebleed. You don't have to fear it.
"You fucking looser. Ha! Tell me, faggot, how does it feel like to be a looser?"
Spitting out his blood, he smiled. "Wonderful."
"What?" Powers stopped. "You gone mental?"
"Wooonderful," he repeated in a sing-song voice, rolling onto his back. "It's aaaaaall wonderful and good. The pain. Oh, it sooooooo enjoyable, you know? You should try it sometimes."
"Wha— Fucking mental, you 're."
"Nah. Really, you should try it. I could do it for you if you want."
Powers stepped back as he looked smirkingly up at him. "I'm getting outta here."
He stared after Powers as the boy ran away, his footsteps echoing in the cold hall. Grinning, he sat up. Leaning against the lockers, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his sweat and blood. Oh, he was going to make that Powers boy pay.
All his life in the orphanage, Carl Powers was his major bully, always beating him, insulting him when the teachers weren't there. And he was done tolerating and letting the boy get the satisfaction of seeing him beaten down to a pulp.
Powers had gloated as if he'd won an Olympics medal when he was elected as the orphanage's swimming representative. They were all here at the pool where the swimming contest will be held in a few minutes to cheer him on. Powers had taken him, Moriarty being his favourite punch bag, to the lockers room to 'warm-up' before the contest.
But little did he know that he managed to inject a large dosage of the botulinum toxin while Powers was busy kicking him. Sooner or later, the boy would have a seizure caused by muscle contraction, and hopefully die.
The teacher didn't comment on his wounds when he walked back out to the hall after cleaning the blood.
Thirty minutes later, they were all sitting on the pool deck bleachers, cheering on for the oh-so-amazing-Carl. Moriarty sat alone in the corner, quietly grinning. He glanced at Powers. He didn't seem visibly uncomfortable, though he looked as if he was a bit stiff. The boy was nervously pacing about at the deck, stretching his arms and legs. Moriarty smirked.
Finally, it was Powers' turn to compete. It was a 200m freestyle competition, and whoever finished first was the winner. Next to him, Powers' cronies were cheering him on while spitting insults at the other competitors. Some of the parents of the opponents turned around to glare at them.
"One, two, three, and… start!"
The pool echoed with screaming and cheering, and he scowled. Honestly, these people. They sounded like wild monkeys. Sentiment. Wasn't that the most powerful and idiotic emotion of human kind?
It was the second lap, and Powers was leading. His cronies were yelling insults at one of Powers' opponent now, who was in second place. A gangly boy of 14 yelled, "Fuck it up, you looser!"
Suddenly, Powers went stiff and started flailing, breaking his graceful movement in the water. Another crony of his, Matthew, crowed, "Aw, come on, mate! Beat the shite!"
Powers was sputtering now, and the lifeguards, sensing that something was wrong, ran forward. His whole body jerked and shuddered like he was being electrocuted. Oh, isn't it wonderful, he thought. He dreamily looked at the form of the swimmer as he twitched in the chlorine water. To him, this was much more beautiful than the graceful strokes Powers used earlier. So powerful, so raw.
Some parents were screaming now, staring at horror at the twitching body of Powers. The other swimmers had stopped, too. The orphanage supervisor was yelling at the lifeguard to drag the boy out. Finally, one of the lifeguards yelled, "Oh, fuck it!" and jumped into the water. Dragging Powers' body, she came back to the deck, gasping for air. As soon as they got oh-poor-Carl out of the water, they laid him on the deck and crowded around him. The woman lifeguard who had jumped into the water was slapping his cheek, calling his name. "Mr. Powers! Can you hear me?"
Not wanting to miss the moment when life drained out of the Powers, he jumped up and walked to the floundering body. The adults were trying to keep back the children from the apparently 'horrible' sight, but he could see clearly through their legs. Powers' eyes were glazed, as if veiled by a white fog, and he was sputtering up tiny bits of water. His body twitched limply.
"Dammit," breathed the lifeguard. She mounted on top of his body and started performing CPR. All the while, Powers merely sputtered. Eventually, his twitching dimmed and he lay completely still. A burst of pleasure erupted in his heart. It felt extremely good. To make people into things. Into objects without a single ounce of life left in it. As his greasy black hair fell in front of his eyes, he smirked. He was the cause of this.
Finally, for once, he was the one who had control over something.
…
2004, Sherlock(17)
He lay on the asphalt in a dark street. Groaning, he lay his head against the thin blanket. So many thoughts in his head… it was like swimming in space, trying to find somewhere to land. He needed something to anchor him, to distract him.
He reached for the syringe next to him. He sighed in relief and pleasure as he plunged the needle into his arm, letting the drug spread throughout his system. It was marvellous.
He used drugs to cope. To be able to breathe. His heart had a constant longing and throbbing and pain everyday. It never ceased. It tugged at him every time he might have forgotten about it. It drove him crazy.
Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end.
He wished that he'd listened to Mycroft.
He given his heart to a 'friend.' Victor Trevor. Gave him everything. The two had been good friends when the were 15. Friends. Even the concept was dull to him now. He absolutely trusted Victor, followed him everywhere like a goddamned dog. He… he loved him. He knew it, somehow, that he really did love Victor Trevor. He thought Victor loved him back, thought that finally, he was good enough for someone. Victor enjoyed it, the sense of being a master. He controlled and manipulated Sherlock. Then, one day, suddenly, he wasn't good enough for him anymore, and he was cast away like a forgotten toy.
They all leave you in the end.
He was never good enough. He was always the 'freak,' who always let everybody down.
"Stop," he hoarsely whispered. Heaving a shuddering breath, he groaned, "Just please… stop." He brought the syringe up again to his arm. Maybe just a little bit more. 5ml.
He leaned into the blanket. His damp curls partly obscured his view of the sky above. He sighed in pleasure as the drug took care of his system.
The throbbing in his heart slowly melted away and he felt like drifting. He was lost in a sea, drifting, drifting down… He felt warm and it was marvellous.
Victor Trevor, who had taken away his first kiss. On Christmas day, after they'd pickpocket a lady of her purse, they ran into a dark street, giggling madly. Sherlock hadn't been sure if they should be pickpocketing, but Victor had convinced him to do it. The adrenaline had been exhilarating, and he was holding a successfully pickpocket-ed purse. He turned to Victor, still giggling, when a pair of lips suddenly crashed into his, shutting him up. His heart had beat madly in his heart, and he'd moaned. That was the first time he'd orgasmed — but they hadn't had sex.
The next day, Victor didn't even acknowledge him. He was completely ignored. He tried to force Victor to talk to him, but he was coldly cast away. He'd just been a sex toy.
He reached for the syringe again. Just a little more. 10ml. No one would care if he died, anyway. He wouldn't mind, that was sure.
He groaned in pleasure as he felt the throbbing in his chest ebb away into oblivious bliss.
…
2009, Moriarty(25)
"What d'ya want?" growled a middle-aged man. The tips of his hair were greying, and his stubbles stood out in the dim light.
He smirked. "The question is, what do you want?"
"Listen 'ere, ya little shit, I'm 'ere to make a deal, not be treated like a fuckin' ant—"
Sighing, he whipped a couple of hundred dollar bills and threw it at the man. The dollars fluttered in the air and fell to the ground. "Booooring. Either take the money and kill, or GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!" He relished in shouting. It was like freeing up everything in him; he never could resist a touch of dramatic.
The man flinched and hesitated. Moriarty raised his eyebrows. Clearing his throat, the man scrambled to take the bills off the ground and shoved it in his pocket. "Aye. Good day, sir." The man left the room.
"Huh," he scoffed as he slid back against his chair. He was bored, devastatingly so. He looked around the room he was in: a completely metal room that had rusts in the corners. He was the only one sitting there.
He had left the orphanage when he was 16 and roamed the streets. He loved it when he got into a fight. They would beat him into a pulp and a pool of blood, and he would just lie there, enjoying the pain. It's all good.
After they were done with him, he would get up and kill them, carving their skin with a knife. "Aren't you beauuuuuutiful?" he'd whispered as he traced the tip of the knife along one of the bullies' jawline. "With blood trickling down? Now that's the colour of passion."
He loved to watch the moment when life flickered out of their eyes; as their eyes dulled and turned into things. It's all good.
He'd made quite a money out of killing and stealing. After he was done playing with their corpses, he took their purse, whatever they had, and helped himself.
Now, everyone kneeled before him. Money was power. Power was control. He had control.
Sighing, he went out and bought a newspaper, looking for any interesting crimes and murders. They were idiots, all of them. Seriously, if they wanted to conceal a murder, THEY DO NOT CHOP OFF SOMEONE'S LEG AND TAKE IT AS A SOUVENIR. Jesus. He thought everyone knew that.
Suddenly, a headline caught his eye.
Sherlock Holmes, self-declared Consulting Detective, solves the mysterious sauna case.
Sherlock Holmes. What a wonderful and interesting name. He dragged his fingertips across the detective's picture. He was handsome, really. With sharp cheekbones and a straight nose, and oh, those beautiful eyes and lips. It made him want to suck every part of his body and then slice the surface of the skin to make scarlet blood trickle across its pale surface.
He felt the corner of his lips curl into a smile.
I'm going to own you, Sherlock Holmes.
…
2017, Sherlock(29)
He had just come back from St. Barts, after talking to Doctor Watson and arranging their meeting tomorrow.
Don't give your heart to anybody, Sherlock. They all leave you in the end.
It isn't like that, he decided. Doctor Watson had just seemed nice enough and interesting enough to be an appropriate flatmate, nothing more. He even doubted if he would talk to him except on necessary occasions.
Frowning, he focused on Moriarty instead. He had just heard the name yesterday, when he'd caught a murderer. She had confessed that she was working under someone named Jim Moriarty. She'd said that the man was his 'fan.'
Moriarty.
He was going to remember that name.
…
2017, Moriarty(32)
Finally.
I'm coming for you, Sherlock.