The Struggling Sociopath

Chapter 16

Chapter 16

A step off the edge

Sherlock let a small smile slip over his lips as he looked at the small vial of liquid before him. This was it, the thing that the case depending on. And antidote; to the poison used in a recent string of murders. If this was the right antidote, which it was (Sherlock rarely got things wrong), then he would be step closer to solving this. So much closer... The murderer would be within reaching distance. He would be in Sherlock's grasp.

Now he just needed someone, something, to test it on. He had acquired some of the poison (he did not wish to divulge how) and now just needed a test subject. That might be hard to find... Wait. He had one right under his roof. Gladstone, who had formerly been John's dog. Sherlock doubted that the dog would complain and it wasn't like it was dangerous or anything. If the antidote wasn't quite right then the dog would die but... It was correct. Sherlock was never wrong in these things. Never.

Sherlock tried not to feel to gleeful as he called for the dog. It trotted through into the small kitchen, which Sherlock used for all his experiments. He was obedient and well trained, Sherlock would give John that. Though first his first owner had left it had turned rather lazy. To say the least.

Sherlock quickly filled a needle with the poison and another with the antidote. He crouched down next to Gladstone, soothingly stroking him as he gently injected it with the vile liquid. It took a few seconds for it to work, the dog's breathing becoming sort and ragged as he began to be pulled into an everlasting darkness. Sherlock didn't have much time to watch. No, he had to inject the antidote instantly. He pushed the needle in where it would get right into the bloodstream, watching carefully. This had to work. He injected the liquid, watching with an intense colourful gaze.

No. Something was meant to happen. Everything was meant to be fine! Why was the stupid dog's breathing decreasing. He was now scrambling about, trying to stop its fate. A glassy look fell across its eyes and then it was still. Silent. Dead.

Sherlock slowly stood up, keeping his emotionless eyes on the dog. He had done it now. He was dead. When John came back... John would hate him forever.

John.

Sherlock's mind was working at incredible speeds, bombarding him with thoughts. Memories. He almost blindly clutched for a chair. Sitting down so he did not fall over. It was all coming back. The things he had tried to lock away. Had tried to keep out of his subconscious memory. John... Meeting John for the first time. Talking with John. Kissing John. Being with John. Lying to John. That final phone call to John... John's face. His expression. Grief. Watching John over the years. John moving on. Going out with others.

Losing John.

A sudden, vivid daydream came across his eyes. It would be a nightmare if he wasn't awake. There was John... He was so close. Yet so far. His deep blue eyes seemed lifeless. Haunted. Boring right into Sherlock. There were distant explosions, the sounds of fighting raging about. John himself had a gun. He was fighting in what seemed to be a war. Sherlock wanted to shout at him. Tell him to come home. But he found that he was only a spectator. Nothing more. Then a gunshot rang through the air, loud and clear. A bullet hit John, directly in his heart, and he fell to the ground. Dead. No. This couldn't be real. John wasn't dead. He was safe.

Sherlock slowly turned to face the man who had killed John. Shock barely registered in his mind as he face down the barrel of the gun. As his eyes raised up to the one holding it. Dark curls, a pale face with sharp, high cheekbones. Eyes of many colours. It was him. He had shot John. He had killed John.

Sherlock broke out of the vision, breathing ragged and mind still dwelling on all. This. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. But it was a possibility.

He needed something to clear his mind. Forget. Something, anything. Where was his secret stash?! Sherlock got up and stumbled into the small living room of his flat and desperately searched around. It had to be here somewhere. He knew he had put it somewhere. Somewhere Mycroft wouldn't look.

An almost smile appeared on his lips as he found it. Got out a needle and filled it with what he needed. Rolled up his sleeve and injected. Got another needle. Injected some more. He didn't care if Mycroft was watching. He just needed to forget. He needed to forget everything. All that had happened. To forget John.

Sherlock welcome the darkness that began to embrace him. The clearing of his mind...

White. Everything was so white when Sherlock woke. And the smell... Ugh, it was that of antiseptic. Seemed he was back in one of the places he hated the most. Hospital. And sitting beside his bed was one of the people he hated the most. Mycroft. He was getting a slight sense of déjà vu about this. Probably because it had happened before.

"Ah, you are awake," Mycroft comment in his normal drawl, eyes watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position, glaring at his brother.

"Your deductive skills astound me."

"This is not the way to deal with it. To deal with your... emotions." Mycroft sneered the final word. "There are other ways to forget." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Like Mycroft really cared.

"Oh, I know. Believe me this won't happen again," Sherlock replied coldly, calmly. This time he knew he was telling the truth. It wouldn't happen again. Because he had another way to forget.

"I do not want the risk of it happening again," Mycroft pursed his lips.

"I am not moving in with you again."

"God forbid it."

"And I am not going into rehab. I'm not addicted."

"Then what do you suggest? And many facts towards that. This is the second time you have overdosed, Sherlock."

"Stop pretending to be concerned. Just confiscate all my drugs. Or something."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Fine. I will not force you to go into rehab."

"Good. Now please, leave me. I do not think  I can suffer your presence any longer." Sherlock dismissed his brother, turning his head to look away. Mycroft stood to leave, pulling out his phone to make a call if he did so. He didn't trust his brother... Not one bit. So it seemed a meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade would have to be organised.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pressing his hands together under his chin. He blocked out everything that was around him and ventured into his mind palace. He was going to forget. Permanently. Detach himself from his emotions. He moved through his memories. All those of his last year of high school. They were deleted. Every single one. Well... Not every single one. Those happy ones with John... they were locked away. So he wouldn't remember them but so that he didn't delete them. He felt he couldn't.

Then the years while he had been 'dead.' All the things related to John. Everything to do with John. It was all locked away or deleted.

Then the day he went to the army. That too, was deleted.

Sherlock let out a sigh. Finally he could truly forget. Continue without emotions.

And when he returned home he would burn all the letters he had received.