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dolefulruinsbouquet-blog · 7 years

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Sherlock ficlet (Pt. 1)

This was rushed and it's crappy but I had fun writing it and I hope it breaks your heart as much as it broke mine Sherlock had just found an amazing case, they hadn't had one this good in months, let alone this interesting. Though Sherlock already had an idea of the murder weapon, because yes it was a murder, he had no idea who could have done it and how. "A whole family of six, dead in the living, by heart attacks?" John inquired dumbfounded, he knows plenty about heart attacks and what causes them but nothing could come to mind on how a whole family could have one on the same day. "Yes, John, quite exquisite, isn't it?" Sherlock chimed with giddy. They rushed to the crime scene, Sherlock sporting a smile the whole time. "Sherlock, you're being a bit insensitive, we've talked about this." John said, a hint of irritation fluttering through his words like a hint of gunpowder, ready to ignite the shot. They inspected the crime scene like usual, Sherlock couldn't help but become more enthralled with each deduction and clue he found. "John, anything you can deduce?" Sherlock glanced fondly over to John, who was staring in horror and awe at the scene. There was no blood or gruesome scene, which made that much worse, it was almost ominous. "Uhm. No... Yes, they were all sat in front of the fire, obviously. It's been out for a few hours now... They all seem to be in good health-" John was interrupted by Sherlock's bad timed chuckle. "Good health, save that they've all been murdered." Sherlock remarked carelessly, Greg, who hasn't said a word today- from what Sherlock could tell- starred at Sherlock, he tried his hardest not to judge Sherlock, though that proved to be difficult today. "Sherlock! What's gotten into you today?" John asked, not appalled but as close to appalled as he could with Sherlock. "What? I've said worse, I'm stating the facts anyway. They were obviously murdered, because they're all too fit to have heart attacks, and heart attacks within the same hour? Not a coincidence. What's baffling me, only temporarily of course, is how someone murdered six people without any of them struggling, because they obviously didn't struggle. Something would be out of place, about them and their surroundings, but it's not. But how?" Sherlock wandered off, rambling about the crime scene the whole way. John rolled his eyes then began to inspect the bodies himself. Sherlock was right, nothing was out of place or wrong. "Sherlock?" John called out for him, having formed two questions that he was sure Sherlock would have a condescending, self esteem shattering answer to. Sherlock entered the room with a intrigued expression, though he already had the 'all knowing and powerful' smirk that John hated to love. "Yes?" Sherlock sounded overly amused, John had already been done with Sherlock's behavior for today, his regret was already building up from now. "How were they murdered? There's nothing here to prove they've been murdered." With that, Sherlock chuckled. "I'm glad you asked, my dear. Obviously, they're too untouched." Sherlock paused for dramatic tension, he walked around the room he looked at each body. "These people died at night, yet none of them have messy hair or ruffled clothes, and the way the house looks, it's obviously been polished recently, like within the last four hours, which does not fit with the time of death for this family." Sherlock glanced up expecting to see an amused John smiling back at him. All that met his eyes was an exasperated John huffing and nodding his head. "So, did the murderer scare his victims to death? I'm sure you already know how they died, because you're Sherlock Holmes, right?" John huffed as he glanced over at the smiley Sherlock. "No and yes. No, that would be stupid, the killer would have to know how to scare the whole family and them not defend each other. Yes, I do know, would I be Sherlock Holmes if I didn't?" Sherlock whirled over to John then rubbed his hands together, preparing to tell John. He had a gigantic smile the whole time. "The killer is obviously obsessive compulsive, they left everything cleaner and more organized then when they arrived. One item that I couldn't help but question was the socks look at them," Sherlock pointed to them then swayed his hips as he began speaking again. "They are all right above the ankle, on all of the bodies. One centimeter above each bodies ankle bone to be exact. Did the whole family measure out where their socks rested on their ankles? I presume not, that would be tedious. Plus there are two adolescent bodies, they wouldn't be capable of being that exact at their age." Before Sherlock continued John stopped him. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock! They are not just bodies! Those are not 'two adolescent bodies'! Those are children, who died, horribly. Could you not be a insensitive freak for once." John fumed, the bullet had been triggered and hit Sherlock right in the chest, a feeling he knows all too well. The giddiness John saw in Sherlock before slowly left him with that smile he already misses, the walls were already building themselves back up, his expression stabbed John in the heart like he knows he just did to Sherlock. He was flushed with regret and self loathing. Sherlock straightened his fallen postured, began to rid any sign of pain or tears and cleared his throat. "You... You must forgive me, Watson, Lestrade, I need to excuse myself. I obviously have been acting beyond bad." With that Sherlock exited the crime scene. John was left with this overwhelming guilt that he couldn't seem to overcome, he stood there, not saying a word or even moving. He couldn't still feel the 'once' formed on his lips. Sherlock took the first cab he came across home, he tried reciting key points in previous cases to clear his mind of the events that just occurred. Nothing was distracting him from his tortuous thoughts. When he arrived at 221b baker street he ran up the stairs and straight to his violin. He tried to start composing a new piece he was thinking about for the past few days but his hand reverted back to the same tune he composed for John in his free time a few months ago, John doesn't know about it and Sherlock intends for it to stay that way. When he couldn't get that ridiculous tone out of his head he decided to take a shower, he started the water and undressed. He starred blankly at the reflection of scars in his mirror. I did it all for you, John Watson. He couldn't help but think, why couldn't he stop thinking about John's cruel words? He forgot completely about the shower and decided his mind palace was the best place for him to reside for now, he got dressed and began to concentrate on trying to forget. He kept replaying a certain shot to the chest back in his mind again and again, the bride with the revolver morphed into the flatmate who destroyed his heart. "Why?" Sherlock whispered, his voice was brittle and there were tears stuck in his throat that he couldn't comprehend. It had always been a confusing up hill battle with the emotions John H. Watson caused Sherlock to feel, and he didn't want to remember one happy moment he shared with John, but there were too many to forget, so instead he began to flood his mind with the painful, horrid ones. He began to recall that faithful day at Bart's, when he heard his broken friend rush to his side, begging to get close to him. Then the first night back, after John had left Sherlock a little bloodied, he sat in 221b wondering what he could have done differently to earn a warm embrace from John instead of the painful reaction he knew he deserved. Or the day John beat him to a pulp at Culverton's hospital. He found it, the memory he needed to block out all the good ones. He was back on the morgue's cold ground being beat by John, he didn't feel any anger towards John, because he knew, he still knows, that he deserved it because after everything he did to John Watson one or two beatings still wouldn't make up for what he has done. All good memories became tainted with this broken, hurt John Watson that he knows now. "You should've known better, Sherlock. You were doing so good before Watson came along. No human could comprise you, but look at you now. The same stupid child I remember from when we were young." Mycroft taunted as he watched Sherlock, now being tortured. But his torturer is now John Watson. He finally snapped out of Ms. Hudson yelling John's name between repeatedly calling Sherlock. He found himself on the floor with Ms. Hudson standing in the doorway. "Sherlock?" Ms. Hudson called out again, this time she sounded less concerned this time, since Sherlock has opened his eyes. He mustered up the consciousness to pick himself up and walking towards Ms. Hudson. John on the other hand walked expressionlessly off the crime scene and made his way to Sarah's house. Though he didn't have the guts to fully commit to going anywhere so he just sat on a park bench and reminded himself of all the ridiculous and hurtful things he's done to Sherlock. At around six John made his way home. When he approached baker street there were two extremely familiar cars parked in front of 221b baker street. John sprinted towards his flat, his mind raced with possibilities that were all his fault. "Sherlock! Sherlock?" John called, there were no ambulances so he wasn't dead, but Greg was here, and so was Mycroft. It had to be bad enough for Ms. Hudson to call Mycroft. John slowed as he reached Speedy's entrance then stopped at the door to 221b. He observed the crooked knocker, Mycroft always straightens it. He didn't really know why he left the knocker crooked if he knew Mycroft was going to fix it whenever he had the chance. That didn't matter though, he needed to man up and go apologize to Sherlock, his flatmate, friend- no scratch that- best friend, colleague, his detective. He opened the door that lead to their flat to see Ms. Hudson sitting at the bottom of the stairs, he smiled briefly at her. She jumped up and began hitting him with a newspaper. She repeatedly yelled 'you broke him! You broke Sherlock' as she hit John with the newspaper. If he didn't feel so guilty he'd be laughing "Ow! Will you quit it! I know what I did! I'm going to go fix it!" John informed Ms. Hudson as he backed away, Lestrade came barreling down the stairs after Ms. Hudson, he took the newspaper out of her hand then instructed her to make herself some tea.

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