Chapter 3: The boy feels guilt for the last time

Sherlock walked down the hall to meet with Master for dinner. His days of practice were long over and his teachers were gone, he had surpassed them in knowledge years ago. He still had his Sensei who trained him every morning, but the days when his door would be locked or he got punished were already forgotten. Sherlock couldn't remember another life before for this one.

Sherlock with his fifteen years had become Moriarty's right hand. He was part of business meetings and his opinion or suggestion would always be taken seriously. He was a rightful part of Master's organization. Business partners had been at first suspicious but Sherlock had made himself useful and indispensable. Master was proud. And that was everything Sherlock needed because that was accompanied by respect and it lead to more freedom allowing Sherlock could work on his own little projects. Nearly all of Master's people respected him, the new ones always needed a bit of encouragement but when Sherlock was done with them he had theirs too.

He was used to fight his own fights; in his world there was no place for the weak. Weakness was something which always needed to be destroyed. The weak were the ones on the losing side and Sherlock was not weak, he was strong and would survive.

"Good evening, Master." Sherlock said as he entered the dining room, sitting down next to Master and starting to eat.

"Hello darling, tell me, did you read the newspaper this morning?" In Master's eyes there was nothing dangerous or suspicious. Conclusion: it was safe to answer.

"Yes, I did." He replied, not sure where this conversation would lead to.

"Oh I thought you would have told me about your little successful terror attack. The one you were allowed to plan alone with the group leader of that local gang." Sherlock remembered the article, the body count and the general fear that the text was filled with.

"Oh, it was nothing special; I'm surprised that moron was able to follow my instructions without ruining the whole plan." Sherlock kept his head and eyes down on his food; continuing to eat like was expected of him.

"It was nice work. You should be proud of yourself. You know you can tell me things like this. We can talk about the pros and cons, about what worked well and what didn't, maybe find a way to do it better the next time. You will never stop learning." Sherlock looked up and was only met with a smile filled with parental proudness. Master was his family, his father figure, sometimes the much needed big brother he would go to for advice.

"Thank you, Master." Sherlock's eyes went back to his plate.

"Would you like to visit the scene and make yourself a picture of your work? I have to travel to the city anyway. We can go together." There was no doubt as to what kind of answer Master expected and after years of practice Sherlock could survive any kind of conversation by finding out what needed to be said or was better not said at all. Except he wasn't perfect; sometimes he would make a mistake or not meet up to his Master's high standards.

"Yes, please I would love to."

"We will leave after dinner, get ready." Sherlock ate his food until his plate was empty, excused himself and left the room. Getting ready to visit the place of a tragedy he had constructed.

Sherlock looked out of the window of their car. Master next to him was reading some documents about the deal he planned to do. He saw the horror and fear, the sadness in the faces of the passing people. The heart of this city had been destroyed and with it the will and hope of the people.

The group leader had come to Master for help in planning to crush the infrastructure in order to lay the fundaments for his planned rebellion. But it was not Master who had wiped out this little piece of a city, no it was Sherlock who with all his knowledge and abilities had built a plan and given it to the man. He knew it would kill people; he knew he would destroy an important piece of culture and destroy something people believed in. But he didn't care, shouldn't care.

"You have to walk the last meters; I will be back in half an hour. Be here on time. I don't like to wait." As if Sherlock could forget the one time he had been too late. Master had let him walk forty kilometers through the dessert to their home without water. If Sherlock had given up on the way there would have been no one to come for him.

"Yes, Master." Sherlock got out and smiled at his Master like expected.

If Sherlock had been given the option, he would never walk down to the scene of his work. But there was no choice for him. Master would punish him if he stayed. He thanked who ever made had made such a short time necessary. He wouldn't be able to stay longer than a few minutes but he has to observe enough so that Master would be satisfied with his description of it.

His body felt heavy and Sherlock who was used to that feeling pushed back the nausea. This time it was all his work, no Master who had had the last say in it. He was responsible for the deaths and he hated it. He hated every time he had to choose a way to kill people, to destroy lives and futures. It made him sick. He was not like Master; he cared for the people he hurt even when he couldn't show it. If Master were to find out he would be dead. Master didn't need someone weak in his organization and caring is a weakness.

Sherlock pushed the thought of the victims and their families away as he entered the place where once the community center had been. The ruins of the building were still there and a giant hole split the ground. Most of the scene was separated by a barrier tape, behind which soldiers were busy cleaning up. First the bodies (nearly done) and then the pieces of bricks, stones and rubble which were left of the building. Around the scene were flowers and candles, pictures of the victims and shields with the question 'WHY?'

It was worse than Sherlock had thought. Of course he had thought about the best way to destroy the heart of the city but it was nothing he had wanted to do. He had no choice and seeing the result of his work, work he was also really good at, it made him want to disappear. But there was something that kept him alive, his will to survive. To survive he had to do things like this. He had to hurt people. So maybe it was better to stop caring or it would eat him alive.

Sherlock turned around, a hard look on his face. He would never ever again head doubts about his work for Master. He would never ever again count the lives that vanished from this planet because of his work and he would never ever in his life look back at the people who were hurt and left behind. He would become Master's perfect little soldier. With that Sherlock returned to his life with Master, the only life he knew.

John Watson's first mission was a recover and rebuild mission. This meant help to recover the bodies of the last terror attack. He was a medicine student of 21 years and was shocked about the cruelty the scene screamed out. His next task would be to identify the victims, not his favorite kind of work but it would help the family members.

As John looked up from the last body they had managed to find before the place would be cleaned up, he saw a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, standing at the street corner looking around. That was nothing special; but the look in his face was. Guilt, deep bleeding guilt that was eating him alive. John was not sure how fare he could walk to the boy but before he could reach him, the boy's expression changed, as if he had just then thrown away his being, his soul and all of his feelings, and walked away.

John had never seen something so sad. The boy was lost. He could do nothing to help him or change the world the boy must be living in. With a heavy heart John returned to his work.