Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXVII • 67

Sherlock's POV:

I was used to disguises. I used them all the time for cases- they could usually get me anywhere.
But this wasn't a disguise. This wasn't something I could throw off in time for tea. I had to become the homeless man I was playing and I had to stay that way.
I ran my hand over my dirty face as I climbed out of the underground station. It was early morning on the fifth day of my living down there. I had made these rounds of Westminster daily, leaving at sun up and returning at dusk. The people underground had no idea where I went off to, but as long as I brought back food- which I always did- they didn't mind.
The truth was that I was trying to keep myself occupied. I'd find a crime- something which was all too prevalent- and solve it on my own. It bothered me that I couldn't announce my findings. I was so used to laying the scent for Scotland Yard to pick up on, but now I just had to stand in the shadows and watch them chase their tails. It was obscene how simple of a problem could baffle them.
Simple to me.
You'd told me once that I saw the world differently from everyone else and that that didn't make me better or worse or a freak- it made me idiosyncratic.
I smiled. I'd loved it when you'd called me special. I'd gone so long believing I was the crazy one, and I'd spent so much time building up the mask that ignored those claims.
I didn't have to hide with you. I could be myself and you appreciated it.

I was concealed in a corner alley watching everyone go about their daily life when I heard a scuffle behind me. I turned, curious.
It was standard bullying- something I wouldn't normally waste my time on. But something about this one was different. Personal.
It was just a schoolboy, 17 at most, and he was being beaten up for no reason other than a disability. One quick look and I could tell that he suffered from some sort of a mobility disease, likely cerebral palsy. He couldn't defend himself so he was an easy target. Something about the scene before me triggered a memory.

Flashback:

I'd been 11 years old, walking home from school. I'd turned a corner and the next thing I knew I was on the ground, the taunting face of Jared Wilson looming over me.
"Hello Billy." He'd sneered, knowing how much I hated my first name, especially that shortening of it.
"Gg-go away Jared." I'd said, trying to keep the stutter that had been so prevalent in my primary school years out of my voice, but failing.
"Nn-no." He mocked me.
I tried to get up, but he shoved me back to the ground, a rough hand on my chest.
I'd been small as a child and I couldn't get up with him holding me down. 
"You're such a loser, William." He'd said, using any fuel he could find to anger me. "You don't have any friends, just that stupid runt of a dog. I bet even he'd run away if he knew how much of an idiot you are." He'd sneered. "Sherly even you know that." He'd said, making fun of my preferred name.
"Neither do you. Not any real ones." I'd said, evenly.
He'd snarled and punched my nose.
"I know about your dad, Jared." I'd said, deciding it would be best to stop struggling and use my brain to overpower him.
"Shut up, git!" He'd snarled, but I could see the fear in his eyes.
"I know what he does to you." I'd continued, mustering up courage I didn't know I had.
"I said shut up, Sherlock!" He'd repeated, forgetting to call me by my first name.
"I know it's not fair." I'd said, wiping the blood from my nose.
"You don't know anything." He'd growled and punched me again, harder this time, on my jaw.
He'd left after that, and I'd gotten up, rubbing my bruised jaw.
I'd finally made it home, looking forward to seeing my beloved dog.
But he wasn't there.
That was the day Redbeard had disappeared.

Present:

That memory had come and gone in a few seconds, but it was enough to jolt me into action. Jared and I had only been kids and he hadn't been able to inflict much injury on me, but this man had a knife and he was threatening the boy.
"Drop the knife." I said, stepping into view. The man wheeled around, now holding the blade on me.
I nodded at the boy, urging him to go, and he stumbled away, as fast as his weak legs could carry him.
"I said drop it." I repeated. "Don't make me do it for you." I added with a snarl.
"You couldn't do that even if you tried." The man sneered, likely noting my scrawny appearance.
"Don't underestimate me." I said in warning.
"Try me." He said, arrogantly.
Without hesitation I allowed my arm to shoot out, twisting his behind his back and grabbing the knife, but not before it had slashed me. I gritted my teeth, but the adrenaline didn't allow me to feel much pain.
"Pick on someone your own size." I growled into his ear, then shoved him away from me.
He grunted and stumbled off, his conceit now lacking.
I gripped my arm where the knife had cut me. It was deep and it was bleeding a lot. I took off my sweatshirt and wrapped it around the wound, then pressed on it as hard as I could.
I still had my phone, for which I was thankful. I wrestled it out of the pocket of my sweatshirt with one hand.
I dialed a number I knew by heart and let it ring against my ear.
"Hello? Sherlock?"
"Hi John." I said, trying to keep the pain out of my voice. Since the adrenaline had worn off, the four inch gash in my arm had finally started hurting. Bad.
"What's going on Sherlock? What did you do this time?" It took a lot to fool John.
"I got hurt." I admitted.
"How bad? Did you get shot again?"
"No, it's not bad." I answered, glancing down at the now blood soaked fabric.
"Where are you?" He sighed. He knew I was lying.
"Uh.. An alley. Hang on." I looked around, moving my arm as little as possible. I soon recognised my surroundings. "Somewhere between Linhope and Balcombe. I'll be in sight when you get here." I informed him. "And John? Bring some food, please."