A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One.

Chapter Four: Freaks

"What is objectionable, what is dangerous, about extremists is not that they are extreme, but that they are intolerant. The evil is not what they say about their cause, but what they say about their opponent." (Robert Francis Kennedy)

A weirdo. A freak. A sociopath. A danger. An anger. A fucked-up former drug junky. A better fucked-down arrogant egoist.

That's what I call him, though I stick with freak when he appears. Oh, he's so smart, so genius, Lestrade says. He's not really hiding his admiration.

I don't see anything special in him. He's like all the other freaks, desperately trying to get attention, no matter in which way. He's maniac, when he's investigating, and he is depressive when he's not. He's a danger to all of us, a time bomb, exploding without forewarning.

I am trying to forewarn people. I tried with Lestrade, but he's so focused on his own success that he shook hands with the devil.

Anderson listened, all right, but I had to whisper it to him sweetly, while he was moaning my name.

I tried to forewarn Doctor Watson. Actually, I wanted to call him just the same, a freak, but then I had one look into those deep puppy eyes and I wanted to grab him, force him out of the line of fire, out of an impulse.

He's going to break him.

What is it with him, that woos little good naïve Molly Hooper out of her shoes and makes people, good people like Dr. Watson, jump before him in childish heroism?

Okay, he may be good looking (if you are into thin, pale, tall British snobs), but he's not nice. He's not gentle. He is not caring.

We all could be shot down dead if it would excite him. Damn, he would shot us down dead if it would excite him!

Sometimes, when I am alone, I remember the scene at the pool. I remember how Lestrade called out he had found Watson and that he was alive, as I set my feet further to the dusty ruins.

I remember how I found him, finally, his long, thin legs half covered under the rest of a door. I remember the dust in his face and his curly dark hair, remember his ripped jeans, remember his shirt ripped a little over the edge of his jeans. I remember the edge of his underwear, grey, like the dust. He had his eyes clothes and on his forehead, under some mad curls, I could see a little blood leaking from his head.

For a second, I thought he was dead.

My heart brimmed over with joy.

And then he opened his eyes. He opened his fucked up former drug junky eyes and said: "Don't enjoy it too early, Sally."

I could have killed him. I would have, if the echo of the shot wouldn't have alarmed a dozen Yard officers.

And then he stood up, clapping his coat off the dust and walked briskly part me, over to Lestrade who was talking to John, already on his feet as well.

I caught him, three years ago, with the needle still in his arm, on an underground station. He had just begun to work with Lestrade and our team, but I just needed one look at him to form my opinion.

And there he was, in the middle of the night, a needle in his left, his eyes even more glassy than they usually were.

He didn't try to hide as he saw me.

He smiled.

I remember how I walked over to him, ripped the needle out of his arm (though I would have wished to reload it and just burn him with heroin) and handcuffed him.

He didn't seem surprised.

I took him to Lestrade, just in the state that he was, with the end of his coat muddy and dirty, sweat on his forehead and those glassy, yet amused eyes.

Lestrade had a long look on him and for a second, I believed he'd be reasonable. But then, he just shook his head and sighed.

"What's this about, Sherlock?"

He was acting like the freak was just a little schoolboy who had stolen some pounds from his mother to buy himself sweets.

And as he walked out, as a free man, he had said the same sentence: "Don't enjoy it too early, Sally."

God, how I wished Moriarty would have killed him. Killed him, and finally, given me absolution.

(So far for Sally. Let's see who will be the next one, sharing his / hers opinion.)