The Sociopath: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Chapter X: The Despair of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock had woken up early the next morning. The nightmare he had the night before kept him up; he tried to pretend to sleep, but it didn't work. Eventually, he decided to wake up quite early: 3:00AM. A tired Sherlock walked slowly into the kitchen, his hair more messy than usual. He made himself a black coffee and soon sat down on the chair in the living room. The flat was dead silent. The kind of silence that Sherlock liked. It helped him think more. . . And thinking was something he needed at the moment. After taking a sip from his coffee, the consulting detective set the mug down on the table and laid in an odd position on the chair(the odd positions he laid in on the chair or couch helped him think better; it got "his blood flowing"): his head upside down over the edge of the chair's armrest, his legs stretched out in front of him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes blank and distant as he thought hard about the dream and the message found on the wall back in the alleyway. Sherlock had reminded himself over and over that Moriarty was capable of anything.

Anything.
The one reminding word echoed in his head as he continued to stare at the ceiling. What did this Moriarty want? Did he want Sherlock to meet him? Why did he waste his time sending assasins and a message to him? Why Sherlock Holmes, among the millions of people in London? The questions pecked at his brain, demanding an answer. But Sherlock had none. For once in his detective life, he was stumped: he had no idea. Suddenly, he heard something and quickly looked round and saw John, putting on his jacket. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Work." the other had replied, grabbing his coffee, which he had sat on the desk for a moment.

"This early?"

"Yes, unfortuately. Duty calls. . ." John sighed, and headed downstairs toward the front door, making sure to give a wave goodbye to Sherlock before doing so. The consulting detective didn't question his flatmate and watched as he left. Once Sherlock heard the front door shut, the silence, which seemed to hide away for a while when John walked in before, had now come back into the flat. The restless man, after a few minutes, had stood up and began pacing about. Suddenly, he heard a faint sound coming from outside. It almost sounded like. . .
A song.
Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, headed out the front door quickly, as if in a hurry to know what the sound could be. Baker Street was as quiet as 221B; not even a cab drove by. Sherlock figured by the darkness of the sky that it wasn't even 4:00 yet. Maybe about 3:30---he hadn't been sitting inside very long, though it may have seemed that way. Now as he stepped out in the very early morning darkness, he heard the sound quite clearly: a song that sounded like the BeeGee's Stayin' Alive.

Sherlock, puzzled, curiously listened as the song played. He looked around, trying to find the source of where it was coming from. "Well, somebody looks seriously confused!" said a voice, giving a childish laugh.

"I am. Who are you. . . And where are you?" Sherlock asked, walking around now.

"Aren't we all confused? Being confused can be so boriiiiing! It's better to just dance instead. Don't you just want to dance when you listen to music?" the voice replied, not answering Sherlock's questions. The detective ignored this. All he knew was the voice belonged to a man, a man who sounded quite childish. . . And annoying. "Where are you?" Sherlock asked again in an irritated tone.

"Come and find me." the other answered, and the streets became quiet once more---even the song had stopped playing. Without wasting any time, Sherlock walked down the sidewalk to look for this mysterious person, his brain working like the gears inside of a clock, wondering where this man may be. And then it hit him. It hit him so hard that he felt mad at himself for not thinking of it before: the voice belonged to Moriarty. It just had to. Sherlock decided that the best place he would find him was in the alleyway, where him and John found the odd scrambled message scratched in the wall. And so he walked to where that alley was, remembering the exact location instantly(it was no hard task to remember locations for Sherlock Holmes; he knew London like the back of his hand). As he walked down into the alleyway, he saw a sillhouette standing by the wall. Walking closer, he saw the shadowy figure more clearly: a man wearing a suit as if he were going to a meeting, his hair neatly combed, and a childish smile on his face. "Oh, hullo, Sherlock Holmes! I knew you would find me." he said in a friendly tone, as if he wasn't a soon-to-be enemy of Sherlock, but an old friend that hasn't seen him in quite a while.