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.


4. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield - Douglas McArthur

On some unknown impulse, Sherlock didn't immediately shout Lestrade to tell him about this new information. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the feeling that something was wrong; it didn't seem to fit they her in a way that made sense. He pushed it to the back of his mind. He would ask to talk to a few of Jack's colleagues, including this John Watson, before making any judgements on anyone. His mind made up, Sherlock set out to find Lestrade again. He kept wandering off in a most inconsiderate way. Sherlock had already deleted the fact that it was himself who had, in fact, sent Lestrade and the others away, deeming it 'unimportant'.

He was easily found, though, and the message conveyed. The employees he wanted to 'interrogate' (which was a harsher way of saying 'talk to') would be available for him within the next half-hour, back at the crime scene. At this comment, Sherlock sighed. That meant another tedious cab journey. Oh well. it was all in the name of science. Well, technically, it was in the name if the law, and justice, but Sherlock didn't play by Scotland Yard's rules. He most definitely was not their puppet; more like the other way around. He was the one that pulled the strings. One word from him and all the officers were rushing to meet his demands, however weird they might be. So Sherlock could force himself to endure a taxi ride if he got results.

When he arrived back at the crime scene, most of the hubbub had gone down. There was only one police car left, and not many officers still on site. A couple of the forensics team were manhandling the black body bag into an inconspicuous van, ready to be taken to the mortuary at St Barts, as the nearest hospital. Sherlock knew who would be doing the post mortem; he had wooed with her many times before, examining victims for clues to aid an investigation. Molly Hooper, a bright woman who's looks were deceiving. She was more intelligent and caring than people gave her credit for, and that's why Sherlock liked her.

Enough about Molly. His brain was getting sidetracked. He went through the main doors this time. Here, he could see people milling about, working and trying to pretend nothi g was wrong. He looked about him in disgust. So many people, all following each other like sheep. That lady over there was upset because her son hadn't written to her; the gentleman over by the coffee machine was trying to stay awake due to the nightmares he had been having over the recent banking crisis; the lady with the volcano orange hair was having an identity crisis; the man...Stop Sherlock, he told himself. Get back in track. Why was he getting so distracted? He set himself in his mental zone of concentration, a room in his mind palace that was impenetrable. When he was in this zone, nothing else mattered apart from the case he was studying.

He spent the time before he could talk to the workers checking around the building, sniffing for anything that could lead to new information, anything that seemed out of place. The occupants of the building gave him strange looks as he glided through the corridors, occasionally looking in waste paper baskets, under desks, tiptoeing past doors and staring into surveillance cameras. All unusual things to do, but all things Sherlock would do. He found nothing of real interest.

Eventually, he was called back to the crime scene. First, he talked to Jack's colleagues; two men, Henry and George, and a woman; Jessica. Separately, of course. It bored him, as these people were so ordinary, so dull. Henry was a tall, pompous man who's attitude towards the police was that they were useless. Needless to say, he got nothing important out of him. George was more interesting. He told Sherlock that Jack had not been a very nice man to work with, he had many 'enemies' within work. Surprisingly, he named Henry as one with a grudge against Jack for being promoted before him. That was interesting, Sherlock thought. Jessica was next. She was also pretty useless. All she could tell him was that Jack hardly ever took the tube to work, unless he was carrying something either big or heavy. This was also interesting. Why had he taken the tube today? Sherlock had found no evidence of anything big or heavy on his person, or in the office.

Then it was time for the final person: John Watson. He walked into the room with a limp, and immediately Sherlock's brain started whirring. He loved deducing people, under his strong gaze people would wither. But not this guy. He stood tall even when Sherlock offers him a chair. He took in this man, his gaze raking over his body. Ex-army doctor - tan lines, but not above the wrist, held himself with military precision, used to taking orders. Sherlock checked that last one. Instead of asking John to sit down, he told him to,

"Sit down, John."

John, in his turn, looked faintly surprised, but sat down anyway. Sherlock smirked, his suspicions were right. Blond hair, not dyed, mid 30s, unmarried, struggling for money, and that's why he had a job here; a right handed working in a left handed institute. Why not test him even further?

"Can I borrow your phone?" The request was so random, it struck the other man off balance for a minute.

"What? Why? I thought this was supposed to be an interview?" This was the first time John had spoken during the supposed 'interview', and, oh that voice! It spoke of war and hardships, and loneliness. Sherlock found it interesting. John fished his phone out of his pocket anyway, without waiting for an explanation. This man was surprising. Sherlock liked it.

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