fic - BBC!Sherlock - The Path that Matters
Title: The Path that Matters
Author: virdant
Length: 2166 words, one-shot
Rating: R
Genre: Gen / Horror?
Pairing: Rather strong implications of Sherlock/John. If you can even call it that.
Summary: Sherlock decides, when Mycroft is off becoming the British government, that following the rules is boring.
What isn’t boring is creating the perfect crime.
And to do that, he first has to solve them.
Warning: Major character death. Sherlock as a creepy murderer. The entire Holmes family as fairly creepy people. Blood. Major violence. Bad stuff. yeah.
Notes: So much thanks to Pann for being there while I was writing this. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how this story came about. Concrit greatly appreciated (especially as I have been completely unable to write recently). This fic is also posted on AO3 here
The Path that Matters
It’s very easy to be different.
No. That’s a lie. It’s not very easy to be different, it’s impossibly easy. Being normal is boring; Sherlock plays at it for a year before he grows bored. Plays stupid, plays dull, plays boring. Boring. He can make an entire class like him in an hour, by playing boring, but that’s only fun the first few times.
He doesn’t tell anybody this, because Mummy would sigh and Dad would frown. He loves Mummy, or at least he thinks this acknowledgement of the woman who accepts him unquestionably is love, and Dad manages the finances, and he could do with more books.
Mycroft knows before Sherlock even thinks about telling him.
*
Mycroft is older, smarter, and boring.
“Minor position in the British government?” Sherlock echoes when Mycroft has been recruited and Sherlock is trying to convince Mummy to let him build a nuclear reactor in their basement just to see if he can-he can, but it’s better to be sure, especially when it comes to science.
Mycroft smiles.
“You’re lying.” Sherlock studies Mycroft, takes in the features that are similar and the features that are different. “No. You aren’t lying yet. But you will be in six months.”
“You give me too much credit, Sherlock.”
“That’s me being generous.” Sherlock draws a mechanism to meth. Boring. PCP. Boring. Cocaine. Still boring. “Six months, Mycroft. But two years before you’ve managed to reach a position when you’re actually in charge.” Everything is boring on paper.
“Two?”
“One year and ten months,” Sherlock corrects. He grins, daring Mycroft to do it in less. “Your half of the inheritance.”
“I rather like my inheritance as it is. But I’ll get you a Stradivarius with my money.”
Sherlock has to think about that, but only for ten minutes. “Of course.”
(Mycroft does it in one year, ten months exactly. Sherlock thinks that he does it on purpose. Mycroft doesn’t deny the allegations.)
*
Sherlock decides, when Mycroft is off becoming the British government, that following the rules is boring.
What isn’t boring is creating the perfect murder.
And to do that, he first has to solve them.
*
Mycroft finds out, of course.
“Cocaine?” They’re sitting in Sherlock’s room; Sherlock is sprawled on the bed, Mycroft sitting on the edge.
“It helps me think,” Sherlock says, but that’s rote. Obligation instead of anything meaningful.
Mycroft studies him, even though his eyes are on the ceiling. “How much of London do you know?”
“I’m not going to spy for you, Mycroft.”
Mycroft smiles, a thin sharp smile. “It would be worth your while.”
“No.”
“Pity.”
They stare at the ceiling in silence. Finally, Mycroft says, quietly, “Are you any closer?”
Sherlock says, “I’ll do it when you rule the world.”
*
He throws himself into studying crime, because you can’t solve crime if you don’t know it, and you can’t commit a perfect crime if you can’t avoid getting caught. Somewhere along the line, he starts a website, starts to work as consulting detective-only the crimes that seem impossible, because he has to solve those to commit his own impossible crime-starts to gain a reputation.
(Reputations are important, according to Mummy. With a good reputation, you can do anything. She meant it for school, but she knew-mothers always know-what Sherlock would twist those words into.)
Lestrade hates him, but respects his genius. Sherlock expends time (too much) and effort (not quite enough) to give Lestrade the reputation he needs, to give the members of his team-Donovan, Anderson, all the others-the reputations that they’ll need to never realize that the murder in front of them was committed by Sherlock Holmes. He cultivates Donovan’s hate in him, so that when she accuses him of the crime he does commit, he can brush it off with scorn. He questions every single one of Anderson’s judgments, until anything Anderson says is inherently untrustworthy. As for Lestrade, he builds his reputation as a good, solid police officer. One who will most certainly be called upon for an impossible murder.
*
Sherlock decides on murder. Everything else is boring. Murder is beautiful, watching life slide away like sand through cupped hands. The harder you cling, the tighter you make the grooves of your fingers, the faster the sand pours out.
Yes, he thinks as he learns everything there is to know about ballistics. Yes. Murder would be beautiful.
*
Christmas dinner is peaceful this year. Mycroft still hasn’t taken over the world, but Sherlock isn’t ready to act yet, so he just suggests that Mycroft get a better diet and Mycroft suggests that Montague Street is a horrible place to live. Both facts are true, but neither of them plan on making any changes to their lives.
“Sherlock,” Mummy says peacefully. “How are your murders going?”
Mycroft smiles, swirls his wine, and sips.
Sherlock looks straight as his mother. “Fine,” he says. “It would probably go better if Mycroft would get off his fat arse and finish taking over the world.”
Mummy laughs at that, clear and sweet. Sherlock wonders if she knows how true their statements are.
(Mycroft wonders why that matters.)
“I’ll always love you both,” she says when they leave.
“We know,” they say in unison, her two intelligent sons.
*
Mycroft installs cameras across London.
Sherlock builds his network of homeless people.
“Does it truly have to be the world?” Mycroft asks, calling an empty payphone. One of Sherlock’s people is listening.
“What are you thinking of?” Sherlock mouths to a camera in the middle of the street the day after.
Mycroft cradles the phone close to his ear, talking to just another extension of Sherlock’s rapidly growing influence. “Just that you have a while to wait. You are not the most patient person.”
“I am not ready yet,” Sherlock says late at night, when the only people out are drunks. He says it loudly, clearly, and his network will relay it next time Mycroft calls a payphone.
I know, Mycroft thinks. And neither am I.
*
Knives are more fun than guns.
Guns are boring. Dull. There are only so many ways to customize a bullet accelerating through the air before exploding in a mess of blood and gore. Only so many times you can draw the London Underground with the blood-splatters on the wall.
Poison would be fun, except there’s little artistry in it. Poison is only fun during the process of making it. Everything afterwards is boring. Dull. Poison that is not poison until it no longer is administered is slightly more amusing, but only for those hours where the victim does not realize that he’s dying. Then it’s boring again. Just another death by poison.
But knives.
Sherlock buys a knife and keeps it. It’s a beautiful knife, and he likes to snap the blade open and then close it. He likes to use it to cut open his letters and trace the digestive system into his furniture.
*
One year passes. And then two. Murders are solved. Spheres of influence are expanded. Another year. And another. Until it’s been five years since Sherlock started solving murders, and more than five since Mycroft became the British Government.
“Still running after murderers? When will you settle down?” Mummy asks. She offers a second helping. Sherlock declines.
“I am not ready,” Sherlock says during Christmas dinner, again. He’s facing Mummy, but his words are for Mycroft. All three of them know this.
Mummy smiles. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, and his eyes are fixed firmly on Sherlock. “Whenever you’re ready.”
*
Then he meets John.
*
He asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John says, “Afghanistan.”
Sherlock thinks: boring.
Then John says, “Brilliant,” and Sherlock thinks: how very interesting.
One day later, John kills a cabbie for him.
Sherlock laughs with John over Dim Sum. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Sherlock thinks he might like John.
“I like him,” Mycroft says. “He’s loyal very quickly.”
“To me,” Sherlock snaps.
“Is that loyalty misplaced?”
He doesn’t say anything, just holds his phone close to his ear and pretends that Mycroft didn’t call him directly. Pretends that it’s late at night and he’s shouting his replies across the street.
“What are you thinking of, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks quietly.
Sherlock replies, “Don’t you know already?”
“I’ll finish Europe then, shall I?”
*
John follows him as they run all around London, solving crime.
The crimes lead him closer and closer to Moriarty.
“Wouldn’t it be better to let him take the credit for it?” Mycroft asks.
“Boring,” Sherlock replies. He doesn’t ask how Mycroft knows. Mycroft always knows. But Mycroft won’t interfere, because China is giving him difficulty.
“Everything is boring for you,” Mycroft says. What he doesn’t say is that he loathes Sherlock’s tendency towards risk-taking. What he doesn’t say is that he worries. Constantly. Instead he waits, and then when John clatters up the stairs, he talks about the Bruce-Partington plans.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He knows what Mycroft wants. He doesn’t want what Mycroft wants.
It will be mine, he thinks selfishly as he walks into New Scotland Yard and picks up a pink phone. But first, I will have to eliminate him.
He’s been waiting for years to commit his crime. It isn’t fair for Moriarty to try to usurp him.
*
Moriarty likes explosives.
Sherlock liked explosives once. That was when he was five.
*
The next few days are full of running. Of trying to solve crimes. Moriarty is the Consulting Criminal to Sherlock’s Consulting Detective. Sherlock wonders if Moriarty is waiting to solve an impossible crime.
It just means that he has to eliminate Moriarty before he commits his.
They meet at the pool. Moriarty calls this their first crime. Sherlock disagrees, but he keeps silent about his reasons. Only Mycroft (and Mummy, but Mummy always knows) knows what he really wants.
When John steps out, covered in explosives, Sherlock’s hand shakes.
When Moriarty steps out, smirking, Sherlock’s hand steadies.
When the pool explodes, and Moriarty escapes, Sherlock can only think: John. John. John.
*
By the time they are recovered, Moriarty is gone. Sherlock spends years chasing Moriarty down, and then even more years hunting down the remnants of Moriarty’s organization.
And then he returns to London, to finish Sebastian Moran, and return to John Watson.
(Lestrade is glad to have him back. Sherlock laughs about this, late at night, with only Mycroft’s cameras for company.)
*
There are a few years of waiting after completely destroying Moriarty’s organization. Sherlock solves crimes-boring ones, now that Moriarty is dead-while Mycroft finalizes his hold on Asia.
Finally, Mycroft calls. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You’re slow.”
“I hope it won’t be too messy.”
“No,” Sherlock says. John looks at him, questioningly, and Sherlock mouths: Mycroft. “Your appetite is ridiculous.”
“It’s your turn,” Mycroft simply says.
Sherlock agrees. It is. He hangs up to think.
*
Sherlock likes knives. Kitchen knives especially, because they gleam so brightly under the display lights in shops. Like the stars at night, he tells John, and John stares at him but doesn’t say anything.
Sherlock also likes a light on in the bedroom. Just a desk lamp, the light yellow, throwing shadows all over the wall. It makes the knives gleam more, makes the expression on John’s face-quiet, resigned, accepting-twist into something different. Something more like fear.
“Sherlock,” John says quietly. “Why are you doing this?”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Instead he cuts. Carefully, because John deserves his care. He wants to cut their first chase along the rooftops of London in John’s skin, wants to cut until the blood wells up and use the blood to draw the path from Baker Street to New Scotland Yard-first the path that Lestrade always takes to deliver cases, and then all of the other possible paths.
John is silent for most of the cuts, breathing harshly through his nose on occasion. Sherlock is glad of it; screaming would be uncouth. Instead, the silence of steady breaths in unison is the harmony to this melody.
And the melody Sherlock draws is this.
A cut down, curving along the ribs. Blood wells up, and Sherlock dips a finger in the blood to draw the path from Angelo’s to Baker Street along John’s chest. From Baker Street, Sherlock carves-carefully, slowly, gently-the path to St. Barts, and then draws the location of every murder he’s ever solved in London.
And when John finally sags, limp, Sherlock takes a damp cloth and very carefully wipes away London. Except for the path that matters-from St. Barts to Baker Street-because that is the path that brought them together.
*
The police find John H. Watson’s body a day later. Sherlock refuses to investigate. He cites grief. Donovan says he can’t possibly have any.
Sherlock agrees, but doesn’t say anything.
Being different is easy, after all.
End.
Masterlist of BBC!Sherlock fanfiction here
Masterlist of fandoms here
Author: virdant
Length: 2166 words, one-shot
Rating: R
Genre: Gen / Horror?
Pairing: Rather strong implications of Sherlock/John. If you can even call it that.
Summary: Sherlock decides, when Mycroft is off becoming the British government, that following the rules is boring.
What isn’t boring is creating the perfect crime.
And to do that, he first has to solve them.
Warning: Major character death. Sherlock as a creepy murderer. The entire Holmes family as fairly creepy people. Blood. Major violence. Bad stuff. yeah.
Notes: So much thanks to Pann for being there while I was writing this. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how this story came about. Concrit greatly appreciated (especially as I have been completely unable to write recently). This fic is also posted on AO3 here
The Path that Matters
It’s very easy to be different.
No. That’s a lie. It’s not very easy to be different, it’s impossibly easy. Being normal is boring; Sherlock plays at it for a year before he grows bored. Plays stupid, plays dull, plays boring. Boring. He can make an entire class like him in an hour, by playing boring, but that’s only fun the first few times.
He doesn’t tell anybody this, because Mummy would sigh and Dad would frown. He loves Mummy, or at least he thinks this acknowledgement of the woman who accepts him unquestionably is love, and Dad manages the finances, and he could do with more books.
Mycroft knows before Sherlock even thinks about telling him.
*
Mycroft is older, smarter, and boring.
“Minor position in the British government?” Sherlock echoes when Mycroft has been recruited and Sherlock is trying to convince Mummy to let him build a nuclear reactor in their basement just to see if he can-he can, but it’s better to be sure, especially when it comes to science.
Mycroft smiles.
“You’re lying.” Sherlock studies Mycroft, takes in the features that are similar and the features that are different. “No. You aren’t lying yet. But you will be in six months.”
“You give me too much credit, Sherlock.”
“That’s me being generous.” Sherlock draws a mechanism to meth. Boring. PCP. Boring. Cocaine. Still boring. “Six months, Mycroft. But two years before you’ve managed to reach a position when you’re actually in charge.” Everything is boring on paper.
“Two?”
“One year and ten months,” Sherlock corrects. He grins, daring Mycroft to do it in less. “Your half of the inheritance.”
“I rather like my inheritance as it is. But I’ll get you a Stradivarius with my money.”
Sherlock has to think about that, but only for ten minutes. “Of course.”
(Mycroft does it in one year, ten months exactly. Sherlock thinks that he does it on purpose. Mycroft doesn’t deny the allegations.)
*
Sherlock decides, when Mycroft is off becoming the British government, that following the rules is boring.
What isn’t boring is creating the perfect murder.
And to do that, he first has to solve them.
*
Mycroft finds out, of course.
“Cocaine?” They’re sitting in Sherlock’s room; Sherlock is sprawled on the bed, Mycroft sitting on the edge.
“It helps me think,” Sherlock says, but that’s rote. Obligation instead of anything meaningful.
Mycroft studies him, even though his eyes are on the ceiling. “How much of London do you know?”
“I’m not going to spy for you, Mycroft.”
Mycroft smiles, a thin sharp smile. “It would be worth your while.”
“No.”
“Pity.”
They stare at the ceiling in silence. Finally, Mycroft says, quietly, “Are you any closer?”
Sherlock says, “I’ll do it when you rule the world.”
*
He throws himself into studying crime, because you can’t solve crime if you don’t know it, and you can’t commit a perfect crime if you can’t avoid getting caught. Somewhere along the line, he starts a website, starts to work as consulting detective-only the crimes that seem impossible, because he has to solve those to commit his own impossible crime-starts to gain a reputation.
(Reputations are important, according to Mummy. With a good reputation, you can do anything. She meant it for school, but she knew-mothers always know-what Sherlock would twist those words into.)
Lestrade hates him, but respects his genius. Sherlock expends time (too much) and effort (not quite enough) to give Lestrade the reputation he needs, to give the members of his team-Donovan, Anderson, all the others-the reputations that they’ll need to never realize that the murder in front of them was committed by Sherlock Holmes. He cultivates Donovan’s hate in him, so that when she accuses him of the crime he does commit, he can brush it off with scorn. He questions every single one of Anderson’s judgments, until anything Anderson says is inherently untrustworthy. As for Lestrade, he builds his reputation as a good, solid police officer. One who will most certainly be called upon for an impossible murder.
*
Sherlock decides on murder. Everything else is boring. Murder is beautiful, watching life slide away like sand through cupped hands. The harder you cling, the tighter you make the grooves of your fingers, the faster the sand pours out.
Yes, he thinks as he learns everything there is to know about ballistics. Yes. Murder would be beautiful.
*
Christmas dinner is peaceful this year. Mycroft still hasn’t taken over the world, but Sherlock isn’t ready to act yet, so he just suggests that Mycroft get a better diet and Mycroft suggests that Montague Street is a horrible place to live. Both facts are true, but neither of them plan on making any changes to their lives.
“Sherlock,” Mummy says peacefully. “How are your murders going?”
Mycroft smiles, swirls his wine, and sips.
Sherlock looks straight as his mother. “Fine,” he says. “It would probably go better if Mycroft would get off his fat arse and finish taking over the world.”
Mummy laughs at that, clear and sweet. Sherlock wonders if she knows how true their statements are.
(Mycroft wonders why that matters.)
“I’ll always love you both,” she says when they leave.
“We know,” they say in unison, her two intelligent sons.
*
Mycroft installs cameras across London.
Sherlock builds his network of homeless people.
“Does it truly have to be the world?” Mycroft asks, calling an empty payphone. One of Sherlock’s people is listening.
“What are you thinking of?” Sherlock mouths to a camera in the middle of the street the day after.
Mycroft cradles the phone close to his ear, talking to just another extension of Sherlock’s rapidly growing influence. “Just that you have a while to wait. You are not the most patient person.”
“I am not ready yet,” Sherlock says late at night, when the only people out are drunks. He says it loudly, clearly, and his network will relay it next time Mycroft calls a payphone.
I know, Mycroft thinks. And neither am I.
*
Knives are more fun than guns.
Guns are boring. Dull. There are only so many ways to customize a bullet accelerating through the air before exploding in a mess of blood and gore. Only so many times you can draw the London Underground with the blood-splatters on the wall.
Poison would be fun, except there’s little artistry in it. Poison is only fun during the process of making it. Everything afterwards is boring. Dull. Poison that is not poison until it no longer is administered is slightly more amusing, but only for those hours where the victim does not realize that he’s dying. Then it’s boring again. Just another death by poison.
But knives.
Sherlock buys a knife and keeps it. It’s a beautiful knife, and he likes to snap the blade open and then close it. He likes to use it to cut open his letters and trace the digestive system into his furniture.
*
One year passes. And then two. Murders are solved. Spheres of influence are expanded. Another year. And another. Until it’s been five years since Sherlock started solving murders, and more than five since Mycroft became the British Government.
“Still running after murderers? When will you settle down?” Mummy asks. She offers a second helping. Sherlock declines.
“I am not ready,” Sherlock says during Christmas dinner, again. He’s facing Mummy, but his words are for Mycroft. All three of them know this.
Mummy smiles. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, and his eyes are fixed firmly on Sherlock. “Whenever you’re ready.”
*
Then he meets John.
*
He asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq.”
John says, “Afghanistan.”
Sherlock thinks: boring.
Then John says, “Brilliant,” and Sherlock thinks: how very interesting.
One day later, John kills a cabbie for him.
Sherlock laughs with John over Dim Sum. It’s peaceful. Quiet. Sherlock thinks he might like John.
“I like him,” Mycroft says. “He’s loyal very quickly.”
“To me,” Sherlock snaps.
“Is that loyalty misplaced?”
He doesn’t say anything, just holds his phone close to his ear and pretends that Mycroft didn’t call him directly. Pretends that it’s late at night and he’s shouting his replies across the street.
“What are you thinking of, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks quietly.
Sherlock replies, “Don’t you know already?”
“I’ll finish Europe then, shall I?”
*
John follows him as they run all around London, solving crime.
The crimes lead him closer and closer to Moriarty.
“Wouldn’t it be better to let him take the credit for it?” Mycroft asks.
“Boring,” Sherlock replies. He doesn’t ask how Mycroft knows. Mycroft always knows. But Mycroft won’t interfere, because China is giving him difficulty.
“Everything is boring for you,” Mycroft says. What he doesn’t say is that he loathes Sherlock’s tendency towards risk-taking. What he doesn’t say is that he worries. Constantly. Instead he waits, and then when John clatters up the stairs, he talks about the Bruce-Partington plans.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He knows what Mycroft wants. He doesn’t want what Mycroft wants.
It will be mine, he thinks selfishly as he walks into New Scotland Yard and picks up a pink phone. But first, I will have to eliminate him.
He’s been waiting for years to commit his crime. It isn’t fair for Moriarty to try to usurp him.
*
Moriarty likes explosives.
Sherlock liked explosives once. That was when he was five.
*
The next few days are full of running. Of trying to solve crimes. Moriarty is the Consulting Criminal to Sherlock’s Consulting Detective. Sherlock wonders if Moriarty is waiting to solve an impossible crime.
It just means that he has to eliminate Moriarty before he commits his.
They meet at the pool. Moriarty calls this their first crime. Sherlock disagrees, but he keeps silent about his reasons. Only Mycroft (and Mummy, but Mummy always knows) knows what he really wants.
When John steps out, covered in explosives, Sherlock’s hand shakes.
When Moriarty steps out, smirking, Sherlock’s hand steadies.
When the pool explodes, and Moriarty escapes, Sherlock can only think: John. John. John.
*
By the time they are recovered, Moriarty is gone. Sherlock spends years chasing Moriarty down, and then even more years hunting down the remnants of Moriarty’s organization.
And then he returns to London, to finish Sebastian Moran, and return to John Watson.
(Lestrade is glad to have him back. Sherlock laughs about this, late at night, with only Mycroft’s cameras for company.)
*
There are a few years of waiting after completely destroying Moriarty’s organization. Sherlock solves crimes-boring ones, now that Moriarty is dead-while Mycroft finalizes his hold on Asia.
Finally, Mycroft calls. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You’re slow.”
“I hope it won’t be too messy.”
“No,” Sherlock says. John looks at him, questioningly, and Sherlock mouths: Mycroft. “Your appetite is ridiculous.”
“It’s your turn,” Mycroft simply says.
Sherlock agrees. It is. He hangs up to think.
*
Sherlock likes knives. Kitchen knives especially, because they gleam so brightly under the display lights in shops. Like the stars at night, he tells John, and John stares at him but doesn’t say anything.
Sherlock also likes a light on in the bedroom. Just a desk lamp, the light yellow, throwing shadows all over the wall. It makes the knives gleam more, makes the expression on John’s face-quiet, resigned, accepting-twist into something different. Something more like fear.
“Sherlock,” John says quietly. “Why are you doing this?”
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Instead he cuts. Carefully, because John deserves his care. He wants to cut their first chase along the rooftops of London in John’s skin, wants to cut until the blood wells up and use the blood to draw the path from Baker Street to New Scotland Yard-first the path that Lestrade always takes to deliver cases, and then all of the other possible paths.
John is silent for most of the cuts, breathing harshly through his nose on occasion. Sherlock is glad of it; screaming would be uncouth. Instead, the silence of steady breaths in unison is the harmony to this melody.
And the melody Sherlock draws is this.
A cut down, curving along the ribs. Blood wells up, and Sherlock dips a finger in the blood to draw the path from Angelo’s to Baker Street along John’s chest. From Baker Street, Sherlock carves-carefully, slowly, gently-the path to St. Barts, and then draws the location of every murder he’s ever solved in London.
And when John finally sags, limp, Sherlock takes a damp cloth and very carefully wipes away London. Except for the path that matters-from St. Barts to Baker Street-because that is the path that brought them together.
*
The police find John H. Watson’s body a day later. Sherlock refuses to investigate. He cites grief. Donovan says he can’t possibly have any.
Sherlock agrees, but doesn’t say anything.
Being different is easy, after all.
End.
Masterlist of BBC!Sherlock fanfiction here
Masterlist of fandoms here