The Struggling Sociopath

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I have to keep holding on

Sherlock did not understand how the police had not captured this man earlier. He was so insatiably stupid. It just frustrated Sherlock. How was it possible for one such as him to perform such intricate murders? Ones that Sherlock had been asked to help with. It had even baffled Sherlock for a few days. He didn’t understand why. One look at the man and you could tell that he was rather stupid. Not normal person stupid. Worse than that. And because of the police’s incompetence Sherlock was now being forced to contain him himself. By fighting him in some abandoned flat.

Damn those police.

Sherlock ducked another blow, darting out of the way. The man facing him was rather large. If he was going to murder someone you would expect him to go for strangling them to death not poison. Yet he was quite clearly the murderer. Sherlock was never wrong. Not in things like this.

Sherlock darted to the side, avoiding yet another punch before spinning in for a kick of his own. He aimed for the knees in an attempt to knock the larger man over. His plan didn’t exact work out as he had wanted it too. Unfortunately. The man grabbed Sherlock when he got near, throwing him as if he was a sack of flour. Sherlock crashed against the wall, landing in a crumpled pile. He forced himself up, breath coming out in ragged gasps. That had hurt. Quite a lot. He narrowed his eyes, preparing to dodge yet more attacks. Try to outlast him before the police came. Unfortunately, there was one variable he had failed to take note of.

Sherlock was facing down a gun. As stupid as his opponent was Sherlock had no doubts about whether he could use it or not. And he had no risk to lose his life by testing the man’s aim through making a run for it. No, he couldn’t die. Not properly. He had to keep going and to stay strong. Think about John. His John. Only one and a half years before they could be together again. He had to live for that moment. So he was not going to make any risky moves.

“Think about what you are doing before pulling the trigger,” Sherlock spoke slowly. Reasoning wasn’t exactly one of his strong points but he was going to try. “You’ve already murdered three people. Adding another to that list will only make it worse.”

“Can’t prove I murdered them,” the man growled, gun pointing steadily at Sherlock.

“Well if they cannot prove that they will be able to prove this murder.” Sherlock kept an emotionless mask over his face. It was all too easy to wear. After all he was well practiced in the art of hiding feelings. And not feeling them.

A sudden loud banging on the door followed by the shouts of “open up, it’s the police!” Well it was about time that they got here. Sherlock had sent them the address ages ago along with the identity of the murderer.

Who was unfortunately panicking. If Sherlock didn’t have such solid evidence he would be convinced that there was a flaw in his logic somewhere along the road (which did happen, which he hated to admit). Sherlock saw the shot before it came, managing to sort of leap to the right. It was an ungraceful action but was rewarded with him being shot in the left arm rather than the heart. Overall a good bargain is Sherlock’s opinion.

Luckily the police barged down the door before the man got another shot in. They swarmed in, taking him quite easily by force. They all wore bulletproof vests; about one of the only half intelligent things that the police did. At all.

Outside there were a few police cars and one ambulance. They had obviously expected Sherlock, or the murderer, to be in quite a bad way. Sherlock frowned as the murderer was led towards a police car, shrugging off those that were trying to get him to the ambulance. He moved away from them before they could force him anywhere, striding over to the detective inspector in charge who now had the murderer handcuffed and about to be taken away.

“I need to ask him one question.”

The DI pretty much glared at Sherlock. “You will have to wait until the court case, Mr Holmes.”

“I caught him for you, remember. The least you can do is allow me this one question.”

“Fine.” Sherlock smirked when he got the answer he was looking forward. His many coloured eyes were narrowed as he rounded on the murderer, ignoring the blood sluggishly escaping from the wound on his arm.

“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the murderer snarled.

“You know perfectly well. You’re far too stupid to have thought up the murder yourself. Who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“Who do you work for?! Tell me or I will apply force. Believe me, I do not care I get arrested.”

“He calls himself... Moriarty.” The word washed over Sherlock. No. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t heard of Moriarty for ages now. It had been as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. And now, finally, he was making a reappearance. Stepping back onto the stage. Seemed things were going to get a little more interesting. Sherlock just hoped that Moriarty didn’t know that he hadn’t actually died. That would complicate things just a little. But then again, Sherlock loved complications. Made everything a bit more fun. Not boring.

Sherlock’s mind spun, working quickly and deep in thought. He didn’t notice as he was lead over to the ambulance to get his wound treated. He didn’t hear them telling him that it was serious and he would still be able to use his arm. He ignored the blanket they put around him for ‘shock.’ They asked him if they could call anyone to come collect him to which he just gave a glare. He was nineteen going on twenty! He didn’t need anyone to look after him. Especially if they were his relatives. Or Mycroft. After what Mycroft called the drug incident just over a year ago Sherlock had been forced to live with his older brother. Who still didn’t trust him. It had been over a year! And Sherlock was clean now. Sure he still smoked but he no longer turned to drugs. Well... most of the time he didn’t. He just wanted to go back to having his own flat. Which he was sure would happen soon. There was no way Mycroft could put up with his presence any longer.

But it seemed like everything had taken a step forward in that one night. Moriarty was in England, that much was for certain. And he was helping people with crimes much like he had helped people cause trouble in school. He and Sherlock were still very much alike. Except where Sherlock was a consulting detective Moriarty was a consulting criminal. The only ones in the world.