Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[eighteen]

Unsettled by his dream, Sherlock woke suddenly, his eyes springing open to see only more darkness. He had this constant headache but it seemed to be only worse now - snaking around his brain, tightening it's grip on his precious and fragile organ.

John looked so peaceful, Sherlock thought. His eyes were delicately closed, his lips slightly open where little exhales of invisible breath swirled out. His toffee hair was a mess on his head, a tangle of moderately curled locks.

Sherlock felt weird, looking at this naturally beautiful boy - a person he could call his friend. He felt he owed so much to John.

His mind calmed when looking at John - there was something about him that lay Sherlocks mind to rest, though Sherlock failed to connect it with a scientific explanation, which is why he felt... uneasy?

It was 2am when someone knocked aggressively at the door and Sherlock was still yet to sleep.

He didn't recognise the knocking pattern at the door: it was urgent and needy but unfamiliar. Clenching his fists, Sherlock peeled back the door with caution, standing unexpectedly face to face with his timid looking headteacher.

"Its 2am," Sherlock growled, tugging self consciously at his pyjamas that fit loosely upon his collection of bones; his body.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the headteacher said, surprised to see Sherlock due to his disappearance from school. "I need to ask you... why have you been away? Mycroft has, certainly, kept confidentiality but he can be very persuasive and we have been lenient on how much we have noticed your absence, but due to recent events-"

Recent events? Sherlock scanned his headteacher, noticing the tremor in his hands and the tense way he stood.

"There has been another murder, has there not?" Sherlock questioned.

"Mr Holmes, you need to come with me,"

The school had a different feel in the night: totally deprived on irritating students and cheap lights, it depended on the moonlight and the fairly large windows. Their footsteps echoed uncomfortably through the isolated corridors, bouncing off wall after wall.

Again, there were two police officers: one Sherlock recognized from last time, the woman, and now a new, younger policeman.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The man called in a questioning voice.

"Yes, thats him," the woman confirmed, smiling at Sherlock; she really did look bored.

"There has been a murder," The policeman explained, expecting Sherlock to freak out (which of coarse, never happened), "right, well - Do you happen to know anything about it?"

"No, though I expect it to be similar to the last one, but possibly different. This murderer doesn't want to show the same skills over and over again, that would be - well - tedious," Sherlock replied, reading the policeman.

"We are aware you have been absent from school for the past few weeks,"

God, Sherlock still felt the immense presence of what he had taken, lingering over his body; an overwhelming weight dragging him down. The illusion of happiness no longer present, just the empty realisation that this was it, this was how his life would always be.

"Yes," Sherlock co-operated.

"Apparently you were getting a rough time from some students here, which worsened following the death of Alexa Brown, did people accuse you, Sherlock?" The policeman continued.

"Who the hell told you that?" Sherlock spat, his hands shaking in rage and he didn't even know why.

"Sherlock, please, calm down. Is this the reason you left school without permission for a while?"

"No! I don't care about them or what they say about me - they, and their false opinions, - accusations - are boring," Sherlock snapped.

"Okay, where did you go? You could have people seriously worried and nobody knew you had gone,"

"I won't get people worried," Sherlock chuckled, bewildered by the police offers complete stupidity and oblivion.

"Of coarse you will, your family and friends," The policewoman chipped in.

"I don't have friends and my family is not one for caring,"

Sherlock could see the two offers making wrong assumptions about him, about his family; he had yet to receive a reason to correct them.

"Where did you go, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply, he pinched his lips stubbornly together, like a small child. He observed the police officers' each individual actions, the way they moved, talked, looked.

"Sherlock?" They persisted, eagerly.

Silence.

"Okay," The policeman gave in, visibly annoyed by Sherlocks reluctant attitude towards co-operating.

"Why am I here?" Sherlock quizzed, it was his turn at an interrogation, "You've been asking about me, why? I'm not important, I'm not well known... Oh. You remember me," he stated, nodding at the policewoman, "So, I get accused of the brutal murder of Alexa Brown and suddenly I disappear for several weeks, only to return on the night of a murder. Of coarse, you remember me from the crime scene, at Alexa Browns death. I black mailed you, took a particular interest and then knew so much more than you?"

Sherlock groaned, knowing what was happening - no he hadn't killed Alexa Brown.

"That's not all..." Sherlock added, seeing right through the two so called professionals.

The woman pulled something from her pocket, it rustled in its plastic evidence bag. She passed it over to Sherlock, where he questioningly thumbed it, twirling it around to the other side. A laminated piece of paper, on it: 'Sherlock Holmes and John Watson'. Which Sherlock instantly knew was a threat, a threat towards John's life. It was a taunt, using John as the blackmail - yet he was never going to be able to explain this to the police.

"So you think I murdered Alexa Brown and whoever just got murdered, then you think I wrote my name - and John's - on a piece of paper?" Sherlock paused, "Oh! I'm your number one suspect? I look the guiltiest but the laminated paper is not making sense to you, so you are to investigate further. Is this you telling me to lay low because I'm in the middle of a tsunami of trouble?"

The two officers shifted uncomfortably, knowing Sherlock was correct.

"So who died this time?" Sherlock quickly asked.

"His name is - was - Samuel King," the headteacher informed him sadly.

The name meant nothing to Sherlock and he did not join in with his headteachers sombre expression. As he went to leave, Sherlock quickly span around, with one more tormenting thought on his mind.

"You know, if I didn't act like... this," he indicated to himself and everyone knew he was talking about his sociopath poisoned personality, "If I wasn't different... would I still be in this situation?"