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.


1. The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity. – Ellen Parr

Sherlock Holmes was bored. A mind-numbing boredom that seeped into every pore in the sociopath's system. Another of his experiments had failed to produce the expected results. This one had ended in an explosion of white, covering both Sherlock and the kitchen in a fine layer of dust. Irritably, Sherlock had had to change, disregarding his navy blue shirt for an almost identical one in his trademark purple, muttering about chemicals and implosions, generally being Sherlock.

He admired his figure in the mirror as he passed it in the hallway. He was not normally prone to fits of vanity, but he had to admit, this shirt made him look good. Sexy had never been a word that he felt applied to him. Good looking yes, even handsome in his own unique way. He did notice the appreciative glances from women and men alike that took in his appearance and strove to gain his attention. However, on that front he was not interested in either gender. He considered himself asexual, married to his work. Of course he had experimented back when he was a student at university, but always in a detached way. It was all just an experiment. He had come to the conclusion that sex was a waste of time, and relationships just weren't important.

He surveyed the kitchen, taking in the powder covering the mess that was his equipment, the ever-growing pile of dirty plates in the sink the evidence of his less than great domestic skills. Laziness, others would call it. Sherlock called it low down on his priorities. He left the kitchen like that for the time being, knowing that Mrs Hudson would clean it if she saw it left like that. She was a stickler for cleanliness, so maybe Sherlock wasn't the best tenant for her. But she loved him like the son she never had. He smiled to himself, imagining that inevitable conversation.

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she would say, with that endearing smile that meant she would do it anyway. Mrs Hudson was lovely like that.

The consulting detective folded his gangly frame into his armchair by the fire, in a way that looked painful, but was actually quite comfortable. He tapped his fingers on the armrest, subconsciously tapping out the rhythm to one of his favourite compositions. The composer, why, himself of course. Sherlock stared at the skull on the mantelpiece, his gaze intense, his  (gorgeous) stormy grey eyes burning a hole through the bone, flecks of blue and green prominent in his silver gaze. If the eyes are windows to the soul, Sherlock's soul was a mass of swirling colours, dark and confusing, his intentions and morality clouded. His look conveyed his boredom, as if the skull could give him a case to solve. Lestrade hadn't contacted him for several days. He exhaled, exasperated. The last case he had  solved in a day or so. It had been ridiculously easy. Of course it all revolved around the mirror! Couldn't Scotland Yard do anything for themselves? Obviously not! It was a wonder the flat was still standing!

But it wasn't just boredom the sociopath felt. This feeling was new. An unknown entity that  overwhelmed his mind, and assaulted his senses. Sherlock sighed, not used to this feeling of not knowing. There was a pit in his stomach; a hole that food could not fill. It felt it couldn't wasn't possible...but it was the only logical explanation. Feelings and emotions weren't Sherlock's forte, but even he could recognise this. Although he would not admit it to anyone, not even himself within the confines of his own mind, he, Sherlock Holmes, was lonely.

All his life, he had been alone, apart from the perpetual presence of his brother, Mycroft. He could hardly be counted at company. In spite of this absence of friends, he had never felt lonely, or not like this at least. An ache, almost an itch; deep, persistent, profound. This was stupid. Normal people felt lonely and Sherlock was far from normal. This couldn't happen to him! He had always been able to rely on his intellect and incredible mind to keep him occupied solving puzzles. No, not puzzles, that was to mundane. A game, distracting him from the monotony of  everyday life. Sherlock was not accustomed to this not being enough to satisfy his curiosity. It scared him. As Mycroft kept reminding him, caring is not an advantage. Sherlock knew this and had made his own judgements, mainly that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing  side. Self-loathing filled his mind. He could not allow himself to become weak. He worked alone, so caring could not become a weakness. A weakness that his enemies could exploit. It would not happen.

Sherlock was deep in his mind-palace, a place that only he could access, where he could be alone in times of chaos or crowded areas. It was where he sorted information, storing any useful data on his hard-drive, deleting any unnecessary information to stop it clouding his clarity when it was vital. His mind-palace took whatever form his subconscious felt was appropriate. At the minute, Sherlock was in a school. He smirked at the irony. The very place he had been most alone. How very like him. He rushed through blank corridors, not pausing to glance into any of the classrooms on either side of him, or to read the labels on the doors. He passed the door labelled 'Mycroft', one labelled 'Parents' and countless others before stopping at one that  simply said 'Unwanted'. Into this room, he pushed his conflicting feelings, filing away his chaotic emotions before they betrayed him. He hurried to put the mask back in place, the mask that he could not let slip again, not even when he was on his own. Gradually he became aware of a noise in the background. He vaguely recognised it as a ringing sound, almost imperceptible but increasing in volume all the time. It was irritating, like a fly buzzing around him.

"Shut up!" vociferated Sherlock, as the corridors swirled into each other in a whirlpool of grey. Abruptly, the colours faded, leaving a heavy blackness that surrounded Sherlock like a blanket. His shout echoed in the shadows, an illusion of a crowd, when there was only Sherlock, a lone silhouette amidst the darkness. The ringing reached a crescendo, bringing Sherlock back down to face reality with a crash.

He opened his eyes with a start, as if realising where he was for the first time. He identified the noise as his ringtone. Looking around for his phone, he reluctantly got to his feet, stretching his muscles like a cat. He padded over to his desk and checked the called ID. His eyes lit up in the way that only an investigation could do. Lestrade. He answered, impatience clouding his voice.


"Finally! Great!" His voice was heady with excitement, betraying his anxiousness to be there.

"Of course. Be there in ten."

He hung up without waiting for Lestrade's answer. Grinning like a child on Christmas Day, he dashed around the flat, throwing on his coat, knotting his scarf around his neck. He was out of the door before you could say 'Vatican Cameos', leaving a flustered Mrs Hudson in his wake.

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