The Sociopath: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Chapter XX: "Say Something"

{FANFIC WRITER'S NOTE: Vedui' il'er!("Greetings, everyone!" in Elvish) I am afraid to say that this is the last chapter of The Sociopath. . . . The end of this fanfic. I'm kind of sad about it, to be honest, but hey. . . . Some things must come to an end, right? Welp, it truly has been a long road writing this fanfic. Most days I'd just give up writing a chapter for a long time. And sometimes it would take me days to start writing it again. As I've wrote in the About section of my profile: I believe that in order to write fanfiction, you must be driven towards it. And if you wish to make a good fanfic, you must work hard, even if it takes you the longest time. That's what writing a fanfic is all about: stress, relief, hate, love. And indeed, writing this fanfic brought me stress and hate. . . But it also brought me relief when I finally finished a chapter, and love when I saw people adding it to their Reading Lists and the amount of Reads I got. Okay, to the people who have been reading The Sociopath, I just want to let you know you're the main reason why I continued to write. Why I kept on going, even when I felt it wasn't good enough. The amount of Reads and people putting it to their Reading Lists just melted my heart so that I was encouraged to write. Also, I would like to thank ironicblue22 for the positive comments! I really appreciate support; even some good criticism makes me happy, too. Anyway, I hope you have overall enjoyed this Sherlock fanfic, and please don't kill me, I know I'm a horrible person, but. . . . There may be a definite chance of a sequel, so hang in there, my readers! Remember to read always, and may the odds be ever in your favor.~~~

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Days passed by slowly for some, or quickly for others on the busy streets of London. Except for Sherlock Holmes--to him, the days seemed to just drag on purposefully. And while the days were normal to the ordinary people walking about out there, to Sherlock, they were not. Like most days, the sociopath stayed in his home, staring into space or smoking for about thirty minutes outside. There was a time when he almost smoked for half an hour, but Mycroft, who came to check on his 'progress' made him stop. There was a bit of a row between the two brothers, but nobody was really harmed. After that, Mycroft Holmes decided that it was best that his younger brother stayed in his flat, for however he wished---after the violence he displayed, he could be dangerous when provoked on the street. . . . Especially if he were to go into a pub and get himself drunk. Sherlock obviously didn't care; he didn't seem to mind staying locked in his flat, as if he were back at the prison again, only getting a cell with a comfortable place to sleep, good food, and even a telly. But at the moment, and for a while now since John's death, Sherlock had felt as if he were actually in prison. The comfort of the flat was nothing to him but pain. The food felt tasteless in his mouth. And the telly, of course, did not matter at all to him; all they ever spoke about on it was the 'shocking news of Sherlock Holmes actually a fake'.

"The telly can be quite tedious, anyway. I do not understand its purpose except to entertain people for money." Sherlock had remembered muttering to John once. John. As Sherlock sat staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft rain outside Baker Street, the memory that bravely flashed in his mind made him close his eyes tightly, shaking his head to get rid of it. He didn't want to remember. The pain. . . . It was just too much. Sighing, Sherlock tried to focus on Molly and remember yesterday's conversation with her. Molly had come visit him for a cup of tea. He had began to like the pathologist. And not just like. But love. He wasn't sure if it was real, or just an act of the emotions because of his lonesome, depressed state, and desperate for somebody to fall in love with and kiss, but. . . . He thought it was possibly the latter. The conversation between them was unfortunately short, because Molly had began talking about John. Perhaps she had forgotten that Sherlock Holmes had really lost his mind upon the loss of his best friend. But he knew she didn't mean it---she was only trying to help. To be there for him.