Moonstruck Insanity

Sherlock is bored and lonely. Not a good mix. His dark side emerges to counter these feelings. Can his first encounter with John Watson tame his dangerous side, or will even John fall prey to the sociopath, bordering on psychopath...!
*Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. They belong to the BBC and the wonderful Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss! The plot, however, is mine.

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2. Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels. - Jim Moriarty

The cab stopped outside an inconspicuous office building in the midst of high rise flats and other, taller office blocks. Already, blue and white police tape cut off access to the buildings main entrance, while two or three police cars sat by the pavement, their lights flashing. Pedestrians went out of their way to avoid the scene, but to Sherlock the intoxicating scent of danger was too much, pulling him towards the flashing lights and controlled voices. Danger and death were a magnet for Sherlock; he could not escape the grip of a good old fashioned murder mystery once it had its claws in him.

Sherlock ducked under the tape, and strode confidently towards a side door to the left of the main entrance - a double door affair, bold letters in a faded gold colour exclaiming that this building housed 'The London Institute of Left-Handed Writers.' Too many police officers at that entrance for Sherlock's liking. He didn't mind showing off and drawing attention to himself when he knew all the details of a case, but right now, all that mattered was getting those details and examining the crime scene for himself, not arguing with stuck-up idiots like Anderson.

A voice startled him out is his thoughts.

"Hey, Freak. Come to show off, have you?"

Sherlock sighed. Speaking of idiots, Sergeant Donovan was leant against the wall of the building not 50 yards ahead of him. He really did not want another encounter with that insufferable woman, not when there was a murder for him to investigate. He ignored her attempts at an insult, opting to just carry on walking. Donovan, obviously not satisfied with her inability to get an reaction, pushed herself away from the wall and advanced towards Sherlock.

"You like this, Freak. I can see that gleam in your eyes. You enjoy this too much. I wonder when Lestrade will see sense and have you locked away? Not too long I..."

Her jabs were cut short as Sherlock rounded on her. The taller man grasped her throat with one big hand, pinning her between his body and the wall.

"Do not bait me, Donovan. I do not react well to, and will not tolerate, shabby insults from a second-rate officer who would rather spend her time getting off with that imbecile Anderson than doing her job!"

He smirked at the surprised expression on her face, quickly followed by anger, fear and betrayal. She had been right about him all along. It was priceless, the way she tried to draw breath while failing to prise his long violinists fingers from around her fragile neck. Sherlock could feel her pulse beating wildly underneath his fingers, a caged bird ready to burst. He could so easily stop that pulse altogether, as easy as snuffing out a candle. He was sorely tempted. Just one squeeze would end her miserable existence once and for all. But he couldn't. He had to keep up appearances. No use, or need, to stop pretending now. As he told anyone who underestimated his moral status, he may be on the side of the angels, but don't for a minute think that he is one.

Just as Donovan's vision began to blur, Sherlock let go. She crumpled to the ground, panting heavily. She looked up at the intimidating figure looming over her, pale face staring upwards, eyes not quite meeting his intense glare. Those eyes conveyed her fear and bewilderment for Sherlock to read. Good. She should fear him. At least she won't be telling tales to anyone anytime soon.

"Oh yes, Sergeant, I can read you like a book."

With that parting remark, he sauntered away, not once looking back at the pitiful creature he left behind.

This was a side of Sherlock that his 'friends' (or as he like to think of them, friendly 'acquaintances' as he didn't have friends,) rarely saw. His true nature broke through occasionally, mainly when his boredom threatened his sanity. Sometimes, however, he questioned his sanity anyway. The dark side of life enticed him away from the voices in his head, rid him of his irksome conscience that plagued him with guilt. No more do these things bother him. He finds pleasure in both sides of his work, getting into the heads of both the prey and the predator. This helps him deceive his enemies as well, a double agent playing both sides for his own gains. As to what his own gains were, past curing his boredom, there was no answer. He was too secretive for those tricks.

Sherlock glanced round, furtively, as he reached the door he was aiming for. He could see nobody. The door looked rarely used, which was excellent for his uses. A faded sign above the door told him it was a fire exit. He took no notice of this as he pushed it open and disappeared into its dark interior. The door slammed shut behind him. He did not flinch at the sudden loud noise, but just carried on towards the stairwell opposite the door. The stairs spiralled upwards, obviously a service exit. As Sherlock neared the next floor, muffled voices could be heard, too far away to make out any words. He went on towards these voices, up to the second floor. The nearer he got, the louder the voices became, until he was able to distinguish words and who said them.

"...no fingerprints to be found anywhere in the room." That was Clark, a junior officer making his way up the ranks.

"Alright, on to Plan B." That was Lestrade, his voice thin with stress. Ignoring the other rooms leading off the corridor, Sherlock strode straight towards the two men talking in an open doorway, both looking harried and stressed, Clark more so as he slumped against the doorframe.

"So, Clark...Ah, Sherlock, there you are."

Aside, to Clark, he murmured, "And that's our Plan B."

Sherlock smiled lightly at that. Scotland Yard really did need him.

"Not worrying were you, Lestrade?" He said. The encounter with Donovan had lightened his heart, and it showed in his voice.

"Not at all, Sherlock," came the indignant reply. His voice betrayed him. It was full of worry and concern, but more likely for the victim than himself, Sherlock thought.

He took a longer glance at Lestrade, as he approached the two men. The older man looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes suggested he had not been sleeping well. Add that to the way he held his neck - showing obvious discomfort - and the conclusion was...a night or two on the sofa. But why? A movement caught his eye, and he glanced down at the inspector's hands, resting by his sides. He was subconsciously twisting his wedding ring round his finger. The ring itself showed signs of being taken on and off a lot recently - the dull outer surface contrasting with the shininess of the inner that he could see. Ah ha! So that would mean...

"Trouble with the wife, Lestrade?" questioned Sherlock , snapping out of his reverie. His gaze flitted back up to the other mans face, registering the discontent and surprise forming on it.

"I...I...what the...but...how did you...never mind..." Lestrade seemed to be incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Sherlock didn't wait for his reply before striding past him into the room beyond.

Sighing heavily, Lestrade shook his head and muttered, "I don't know why I'm surprised. I've known you long enough to know your ways. I just don't understand them," before following the older man through the door.

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