TheDarkestShinobi: Give me some Sherlock prompts!

All lives end,

Everything was a fog.

Sherlock woke up on his bed, all compliments of his brother he was sure; and just stayed there, staring at the ceiling for what must've been hours. He replayed the scene over and over again, looking for some sort of clue that it was faked. The body had fooled him, no doubt it fooled Molly. John was alive, and that relieved him to no end, but John also hated him.

The burn in his body wasn't as intense as it was before, or maybe he had gotten used to it. He can't get rid of the image of John holding a gun, pointing it at him, John ready to shoot. Why didn't he? If John really hated him that much, why not just shoot? Sherlock feels like he's been shot, it hurts, it burns and he'll never fully heal.

After an amount of time he isn't sure of he stands and walks towards the living room. He pauses in the door and just stares at the couch John used to sit in, at the television, where John introduced him to Star Wars and crap telly. John had been his friend, his only friend. Sherlock remembered that day that they met.

John was like them, an idiot, boring, but then he wasn't. He was a conductor of light, someone who thought he was brilliant and wasn't afraid to say it. He was a soldier, a killer, who never wanted anyone hurt. He was a gentle man of power and strength; a man of action who could write their journey so fluidly; one who could keep up with Sherlock better than anyone else. John was the only one who would call Sherlock an idiot with love.

Because that is what it was; hindsight is always 20/20.

More than that, more than all of that, John was a man that looked at him and saw something good; something worth killing for. Now, now… Now John looked at him and saw… Sherlock clenched the doorframe, and didn't continue the thought. Love was a viscous motivator and a terrible thing to lose. Sherlock threw it away.

All hearts are broken.

He heard his phone buzzing and stared at it. The screen lit up as it moved on the table. Sherlock stared until it stopped, started and stopped again. He watched the screen light up before dulling and turning black. He couldn't delete. He didn't want to delete. He had thought John would leave for a while, he didn't expect this, no one could have expected this.

The phone buzzed again and Sherlock closed his eyes. It stopped and he straightened his back taking a deep breath. He let go of the wall and walked forward, picking up his phone and his coat before walking out the door.

…

John is alive. Help me find him. SH

Mycroft put the phone down before answering it. He was stuck in a position he wasn't sure how to get out of. His brother was asking for help. Help against Moriarty. He sent back "What? How?" and waited. This was going to blow up in his face soon, and he prayed to make it through.

…

John is alive. SH

Lestrade stared at the text in shock. He had been calling Sherlock for a while, nothing on the Bride Collector but this crime baffled the DI. The woman, dead in the middle of the bed, didn't seem to be dead. There was no blood and no sign of a scuffle, and even Anderson said to call Sherlock.

John is alive? He stared at it even as he heard Sherlock's voice behind him.

"He's with Moriarty." Lestrade's jaw dropped as he turned to follow Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock explained his theory on Moriarty's crime network and what he may have said to John to get him to join. He mentioned seeing him on the rooftop and left out that John had convinced Sherlock, and that Sherlock still felt like the world was only shaded.

It took Sherlock eight minutes to determine what killed her and give him a suspect list. It was cold and calculating and without Watson it was haunting. Sherlock didn't spare insult or compliant as he deduced. The personality that was present with Watson was gone, no smile, no warmth. It was as if the past year had never happened. Donavan and Anderson were watching with disdain, more so than usual.

Sherlock looked up with a blank face. Why did he even text Lestrade and Mycroft? They were useless, they had always been. He turns and begins to walk away when Anderson opens his mouth.

This time, Sherlock doesn't even pay attention to what the insult is, he doesn't care what Anderson has to say to him. He only cares that Anderson, a failure in every respect, has the nerve to call him anything. His head is pounding; he must've forgotten to eat again. His stomach is churning and he snarls. He feels the anger coil inside of him viciously and he has no desire to contain it.

There is no one to say it's not good. There is no one here to disappoint. They all think he is a freak.

He slams Anderson into the wall before he realizes that was his intention. The loud bang and Anderson's wide fearful eyes bring barely Sherlock back to reality. Sherlock blinks twice, the buzzing crime scene now silent. He pulls his head back; it was leaning forward dangerously, and lets out a deep breath. He is not used to being angry or out of control. Then, slowly, he lets his hands release the front of Anderson's blue suit, although the material stays raised where Sherlock held it. Suddenly he pulls back as if he was burned. Anderson's still looking at him in shock and fear. He is repulsed and scared.

Donavan and Lestrade are stunned into silence. They aren't even thinking, neither is he, and it's refreshing. He takes a step back and feels the need to apologize, but he doesn't want to and no one will make him so he just turns swiftly and walks away. Now the thoughts consume him again, everyone is thinking too loudly.

"Next time Lestrade," He shouts as he leaves, his body feeling like a nerve "Make sure it's worth my time." He slams the door on his way out.

Caring is not an advantage.

END: Thoughts?