Violet Haze (A Sherlock Fanfiction)

Prologue

Contrary to popular belief, fear does not come from the infliction of pain and the threat to mortality. Fear is a shade of dark blue, physical pain is an electric orange, like fire. Anxiety comes at the anticipation of fear. Fear at the anticipation of pain. But true, undiluted pain is neither. It is like being stuck in a soundless dark room with a cream white silk sheet tangled in your limbs and held over your mouth until all you can think about is one breath, one sweet inhale of relief to reprive you. Because no amount of screaming or crying will exhaust the turmoil going on inside.

And yet, there is a sound one cannot stifle when one is in such pain. It comes after you have left and no-one is around to ask questions when you shed the mask and break apart completely. Its a silent scream of agony hid behind a cry for help or a repeated mantra or tears running down one's face. Its unmistakeable, and only when one hears it will they truly understand what pain is.

I never became used to that sound even after years of hearing it. I didn't hold the hope I ever would.

Redemption and compassion also come in many different forms. There may be no god, but likewise, no matter how corrupted your soul is, people will stop and share a word of confort and sypathy even if it means endangering themselves. As I found right now when I heard it. The sound of that undiluted pain echoing through one of the darker and grungier allies I identified as being Master Cohel's drug territory.

My extremely equivocal conscience should have made it so that I should be able to shrug of the sound of that irrevocable pain but for some reason, I found myself stepping into the ally with no hint of hesitation as I watched a figure bent over on their hands and knees, sobbing and crying out for some sort of reprive. I felt no ounce of sympathy, but a strange feeling I identified to be empathy, not a feeling a had expirienced in years. I couldn't tell how to interpret it, much less what to do with it.

I looked over each shoulder, it was dark and bleak at night with the sounds of domestic abuse and break-ins around every street corner, laughing fits of drunkness and endless sin. People would like to think that this was the filthiest part of London, but I didn't think so. It was just more open about the darker sides of humanity than the rest of the world was, it was always there, some parts just hid it better.

Finding no-one there that might pose a threat, I smoothly walked over to the huddled figure, fingering the small knife in my pocket as I knelt down in front of their hidden figure, observing the small papers that littered the ground.

LSD, that made sense, hallucinogens didn't always end up sunshine and rainbows.

Flicking open the penknife, I held it at the ready as I slowly placed my hand on the shoulder of the sobbing figure and rolled them over, tensing for a fear-driven assault at any moment only to find the figure had yeilded completely to whatever turmoil they were driven by in their head. Whimpering and muttering, the man (I could see his face now) mumbled madly.

"Not me, never me, not good enough, won't accept..." The man opened his eyes and I could see the self-loathing and unfocused deliruim in them as he swayed slightly and tried to stand up.

I forcefully pushed him back down, there was a higher potential for him to be mugged standing up than sitting down which led me to believe he was new to these parts of town. I placed my hands in his pockets, finding a few odds and ends. A wallet with a liscence in it that read, 'Sherlock Holmes', a syringe of some drug I couldn't identify, a couple 100£ notes, a lighter, a phone with several missed calls from a person that read 'MH', and strangely enough, a tiny fold-in magnifying glass.

I put his phone, magnifying glass, and lighter back in his pockets and placed the rest in my own jacket pockets. Anything of value he could and would be mugged and beaten, possibly killed for. I retrived a small card that said proudly across the front, "Megree Hotels, one night free," and slid it in his own jacket pocket for when the drug wore off.

Standing up, since there wasn't much more I could do for him, I started to walk away and found myself stuck in place by a hand around my ankle. I was well prepared to cut his throat if he didn't choose to let go, the only thing keeping me from doing so was his eyes, still unfocused but clearly looking up at my face underneath my hood.

"Please, help me." He begged, a fresh wave of tears blanketing his already damp cheeks as his grip tightened, "tell me how to be better."

My expression did not change as I looked down at him for a long moment, alien emotions stirring at the sight until logic overruled it.

"I'm sorry," I said, my hardened voice not betraying my confliction in the least as I shook him off and walked back the way I came.