Hello! This is my second Sherlock fic! I jsut finished The Reichenbach Fall today and sobbed my eyes out. It didn't take me long to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes all over again, and the end of this episode was just so... emotional. Which is when this little idea came to mind. And I just had to do it.
Sherlock doesn't belong to me. I'm not brilliant enough to come up with these amazing characters or to think to put them in modern day London. I also don't have a betareader, so any and all mistakes are mine! Message me or review with any mistakes you feel I should change and I will do that.
Without further ado, here it is! Allons-y!
Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man to rely on his emotions. In fact, he was the sort of man who chose to not use them as often as was possible. Emotions were like extra baggage; they weren't necessary, just a mere comfort, and they got in the way of the important things. He didn't see how men who relied solely on them managed to live their day-to-day lives. They only muddled one's brain. Maybe that was why ordinary men were never as clever or observant as he was; they had emotions clouding their judgments. He did not.
He knew this was the reason he was able to see so many things that others couldn't. Cleverness and genius aside, emotion was the one other thing that set him so far apart from the rest of the population. Even John, a man who even Sherlock knew had intelligence, allowed his emotions to cloud his brain. Sherlock realized, though, not long after meeting the soldier, that maybe, emotions were the one thing that made John a better man than he himself could ever be.
Sherlock could remember three times that emotion had taken control of his thoughts; two in which he had allowed them to take over his actions. And all three of these instances seemed to revolve around one man: John Watson.
The first time was when he and John had left behind the café in pursuit of the cab. He hardly knew the man; he knew nearly everything there was to know about him (He was, after all, brilliant and observant) but he didn't truly know John yet. He had no way of knowing that John would quickly become the only true friend he had ever made in his life, or that John would be the reason that he would soon get along with more people than just himself. He didn't know that John would have such a huge effect on himself. As he ran down the streets of London, with this soldier trailing behind him without the assistance of his cane, it never occurred to him that possibly, this man would change who Sherlock Holmes was. As they ran, though, he did remember having the distinct feeling of appreciation. He didn't appreciate many people. He hardly ever felt thankful for anything. But for some reason, he felt suddenly thankful to have this man following him through the streets.
Looking back on it, he realized that it might have been because he was grateful that he was not doing this on his own. As time went on and their relationship progressed, Sherlock realized that the nagging feeling of loneliness that he had long ago learned to suppress seemed to disappear.
No matter what emotion he had been feeling that night, running with John, he had definitely felt something he was very unaccustomed to. And although at that point, it wasn't strong enough to blur his judgment or take control of his actions, it was still there and it was still a foreign thing to the anti-social man.
The second time had happened when he had gone to meet with Moriarty. He had gone to the pool, hoping to meet with the man that had been playing this game with him, but instead, had come face to face with John. He immediately noticed the heavy coat and the stiffness of John's body and realized what was happening. He was filled with concern and worry. He was never much of a worrier; he'd never had anything to worry about before. But now, here was this man, John, with explosives strapped around his chest, and Sherlock was filled with worry.
He had managed to keep his calm when Moriarty appeared, and during the duration of the conversation. When Moriarty disappeared for the first time, though, he stopped thinking and just acted. He had rushed forward, just as eager as John to get the explosives off of John's person. Sherlock realized, in that moment, that appreciation and worry weren't the only two emotions that John had managed to unknowingly procure from him. Sherlock cared about the man before him. He cared about the well-being of another human being. He'd never cared quite this much about someone else before, and so he was determined to figure out what it meant.
When Moriarty reappeared, the worry did as well. Sherlock didn't exactly appreciate the new emotion, especially not during a moment of potential crisis like this one, but he didn't resent it, either.
The third time it had happened and the second time it took over his actions, he had been standing on top of the hospital. Moriarty lay, dead, behind him, and he stood on the ledge, watching the street below. A taxi cab had stopped in front of the building and a man got out. A very familiar man.
As John stood on the sidewalk and looked around, Sherlock was overcome with a completely foreign emotion; sadness. Down below stood a man who had changed Sherlock for the better. Down there was a man, a friend, and the only true friend Sherlock had ever had. His friend, his only friend, the only one who had ever stuck around Sherlock long enough to get to know the man behind the genius, stood below, searching for him. And he felt sadness. He realized what he had to do, and what that meant for John. So he pulled out his phone and called John. He told them that he was a fraud, that the whole thing was a lie. He told John that this was his note; his suicide note.
And he cried. Sherlock Holmes, the man who could solve any case, who thought caring was a sign or weakness, who thought emotions made it much too difficult to think, cried. He cried for his friend, whom was going to have to deal with his death. He cried because ne never really got the chance to tell John just how much he appreciated having him in his life or how much he cared about his friend.
He thought about what would happen to John if he didn't do this, though. He pictured John with a bullet through his head, lying on a table in the morgue. He hated thinking about that, he realized. He didn't want to have to picture John dead. So he did the only logical thing he could do.
Presently, Sherlock found himself once again filled with emotions. They were becoming less foreign to him, but he still had no intentions of changing his opinion of them. But he now knew that sometimes, emotions were actually quite important.
He couldn't help it, anyway. Standing, hidden in the shadows, and watching John Watson talking awkwardly to his empty grave, he couldn't help but feel all the worry and care and thankfulness and appreciation and respect he felt towards the man. As he stood there and watched the one person who would miss him the most, Sherlock felt a thousand things, all at once, and he didn't quite know what to do about it. For the first time, Sherlock was at a loss.
And for the first time, he was okay with that.
Sherlock is an extremely complicated character, so I did the best I could! Hope you enjoyed it! Review and tell me waht you thought!
Thanks for reading!