Promises Series

Broken Promises - Chapter Five

One Year, Ten Months, and Twelve Days Before the Meeting of Sherlock and Julia Holmes

Sherlock stopped talking. He didn't see the point of speaking if there was no one there to listen to him. Every now and then he had to call Mycroft, but only for updates on his progress. That was fine, though. It wasn't as if Sherlock has much to say anyway, even if he could find someone who cared.

He was cold, tired, hungry, and sick of killing. It was disgusting, what he was doing. Sherlock had killed so many people, men and women he saw in his dreams, like the one he was having now.

Ryan Montague - known by his coworkers as the Big Guns (very original, Sherlock thought) - smiled at him cruelly, his teeth stained pink with blood. Crimson liquid oozed out of the puncture wound in his stomach. He pressed his hands against the wound, causing blood to flow through his fingers. He brought his hands up to his face and covered it as he shrunk in size and shape.

When the hands were removed, Sari Dulan stared blankly at him, her left eye socket completely empty save for the bullet lodged there. Blood trickled slowly down her cheek. She was weeping, silent and haunting.

"I had to do it," Sherlock said, trying his best to remain cold. "You worked for Moriarty. You had to be eliminated."

She stepped towards him, her mouth dropping open in a soundless scream. Sari reached out to him, narrowly missing his shirt collar. Sherlock scrambled away from her.

"You would've hurt people. You would've hurt John. I couldn't let you do that. You have to understand. You were a monster."

"So what does that make you?" demanded a familiar voice behind him.

Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know who it was. He closed his eyes, willing himself to wake up. He couldn't take this again. He couldn't stand to hear what would come next, what would always come next.

"What does that make you, Sherlock?" John repeated, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. If Sherlock had been an idiot, he would've thought John was trying to comfort him. But he knew the truth.

"John, I-"

"It makes you just like them, doesn't it?"

"Please, listen to-"

It happened like it always did. Sherlock was spun around harshly. John grabbed his collar and pulled him down so their noses were almost touching. It wasn't just the proximity to the doctor that had Sherlock's heart beating so fast; he was terrified.

"You're just like them, Sherlock. You're a monster, too."

"No, I'm not. I promise, John. I have to do this."

"No, you don't. You like this, don't you?" John accused, narrowing his eyes. "You like this. It's fun for you. It's all a big game."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. Tears burned the back of his eyes. He blinked them back. He wouldn't cry, not in front of John.

"You're just like them, Sherlock," John said. He pulled Sherlock closer, so he was leaning most of his weight against John. His breath ghosted across the detective's lips. "You're... a monster... too."

"John-"

The doctor disappeared, and Sherlock fell to the floor. He let the tears fall, knowing that John was right. Of course John was right. He was a monster, even if it was all for his flatmate. He was a monster, and John would never forgive him for it. He would never accept Sherlock again, knowing what he'd done while he was away from England.

But at least John was safe in London. Sherlock was dead; the assassins had been called off. Soon they would all be eliminated. He didn't have to worry about his doctor.