Human

Chapter 1

“Maybe I can still surprise you,” said a woman who looked to be in her late 50’s to early 60’s, her head tilting ever-so-slightly. Vivian Norbury was her name.

Vivian Norbury worked for the British Government as a PA in the security services. She had explained that she was “A.M.M.O.”, a batrayer of the secret services and of A.G.R.A - the assassination unit that Mary was once apart of early on in her life. She held a gun in her hand, and it pointed directly at Sherlock Holmes, the one-and-only Consulting Detective in the world.

“Come on, be sensible.” Greg Lestrade spoke up as soon as Vivian had raised the gun, leading everyone to be very cautious of making movement to avoid the trigger being pulled.

With a shake of her head Vivian spoke with disinterest, “Hm, no, I don’t think so.” Not a second later did she pull the trigger of her gun, directed towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stood there frozen with his arms slightly raised. He was ready to take the bullet; time slowly moved as the bullet inched closer and closer. In that moment he didn’t care if he was killed or not; only as long as those he loved were safe. He never knew he - as a high functioning sociopath - would be able to love and care for others in his life: Mycroft (though sometimes they never got along very well, nor showed any hint of care for one another visibly)... Lestrade… Molly… Mrs. Hudson… Mary… Rosie… and John.

    Just as the bullet was about to hit him, time seemed to have gone back to normal and he briefly closed his eyes, expecting to be hit… but nothing happened to him as he opened his eyes, realizing Mary had just jumped in front of him. 

    Just as before when the trigger was first pulled, time seemed to have slowed down once again as Sherlock turned and looked down at Mary. His face was ridden with shock, horror, and fear as he stared down at the now-lifeless body of Mary Watson.

Sherlock shot upright in his bed, heaving and hyperventilating, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Cold sweat dotted his pale, white face in which was filled with many emotions: fear, sadness, anger, and guilt. His eyes were red and puffy from crying overnight, leaving his cheeks tear-stained. Shakily Sherlock pulled his legs up and hugged them to his chest, burying his face in them and continuing to sob.

    A few minutes had passed since his wakening and by this time his sobs had soon ceased into small sniffles here and there. Never did the consulting detective guess he would ever cry in his many years of adulthood. Many times did he cry when he was child, but as time went on and he came of age - when he came to be around the age of fourteen - was when he chose to give up on sentiment altogether as to shelter himself from everyone else around him; that was the first time he decided that alone was what he had; alone protected him.

Sherlock laid back down on his bed, his duvet covering his frail and crippled body. He stared blankly up at the ceiling, feeling no emotions at all in that moment. But the consulting detective did know that that wouldn’t be the last of his crying for the rest of his days.

At around midday he slowly sat up and moved his legs off the bed. Slowly did he move as he stood and walked over the end of his bed, grabbing his silk bathrobe and slipping it on before walking out of his room. It had been days since Sherlock had changed his clothes as he felt too miserable to even do anything about it - although on some days he would change and shower as to not smell like a dead corpse. 

Sherlock rarely had any sleep since the death of Mary as the nightmares always haunted him; taunted him of how terrible of a friend he is. If he ever did get the chance to sleep, though, it would only last or about an hour or two before he awoke once more to continue on with his day. For months he had stayed isolated in his flat since you-know-what-happened. Mycroft had even then put him on high security in case he ever left the flat - he never left once. If he ever did, though Mycroft would almost immediately be informed.