the sociopath immerges. (drabble)
Series: Sherlock
Rating: PG 13.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes
Summary: That famous sociopathic rage rears its ugly face.
Author's note: Kink meme fill.
There's something intensely satisfying about solving an impossible puzzle. It's settled comfortably on his chest, and whilst he doesn't necessarily feel much of anything, he can, at the very least, imagine what it might feel like, and he imagines that it's like this. Warm prideful and egotistical. Worth his time and his patience. Even euphoric.
Still, though, he's on his guard. It's when his eyes meet hers that he knows that something's about to happen, that someones's going to get hurt. It's easy to read body language, it's easy to predict the most likely outcome of her pose and it's easy to tell that she's about to launch her way towards an unsuspecting John, who happens to be giving Sherlock a kind, tired smile. He can see it in her eyes, that rage that she's been holding back, that pure and utter fury and contempt she has for those who've outsmarted her. He wouldn't survive it. John's going to die. Sherlock can see it all in slow motion, the way she disentangles herself from the idiotic police officer and she moves with a dangerously gentle but fast paced step. John only notices when it's too late, when he's been pounced on and pushed onto the floor. When he's been knocked out.
She's laughing, and Sherlock can't hold himself still any more, when though the police have picked her up and dragged her backwards. It's not good enough. Control's slipped, something's snapped, and he's utterly blind to absolute anger and rage, launching forwards to take that pretty face of hers and smash it against the curb. He needs her dead, he needs to be the one to do it - he can feel it, that absolute and indestructible hate, it's there, it's real, it's pure, and it's driving him forwards. He's lunging for her, a look of pure murderous intent; his eyes aren't calculating any more, they've fallen from that intense stare into something darker, something cold and menacing and genuinely unnerving.
He just needs to take her by the hair and show her that you don't touch his things, no one can touch John, no one at all.
It takes six people to hold him back, six grown men, because none of them are sure just what Sherlock's capable of.
But Lestrade's sure. One look and he knew. It's a look they all get, just moments before they hold the knife up and they use it to their hearts content, they cut through skin like works of art, they leave blood like it's a trail of something beautiful, and maybe it is. To them. They're the psychopaths, the sociopaths. The crazies. And it's almost hard to watch, to see those brilliant eyes turn into something so murderous and hateful - he's never seen it before, not on Sherlock's face, and he doesn't want to see it again.
It only stops when that other Holmes announces his presence, and it's not by way of choice on Sherlock's part. But he stops, and he's pulled away by someone like him, someone that seems to understand.
It's with a dully registered slap of horror that Lestrade realises that there's more just like Sherlock Holmes, and that isn't a comforting thought. Not at all.
Rating: PG 13.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes
Summary: That famous sociopathic rage rears its ugly face.
Author's note: Kink meme fill.
There's something intensely satisfying about solving an impossible puzzle. It's settled comfortably on his chest, and whilst he doesn't necessarily feel much of anything, he can, at the very least, imagine what it might feel like, and he imagines that it's like this. Warm prideful and egotistical. Worth his time and his patience. Even euphoric.
Still, though, he's on his guard. It's when his eyes meet hers that he knows that something's about to happen, that someones's going to get hurt. It's easy to read body language, it's easy to predict the most likely outcome of her pose and it's easy to tell that she's about to launch her way towards an unsuspecting John, who happens to be giving Sherlock a kind, tired smile. He can see it in her eyes, that rage that she's been holding back, that pure and utter fury and contempt she has for those who've outsmarted her. He wouldn't survive it. John's going to die. Sherlock can see it all in slow motion, the way she disentangles herself from the idiotic police officer and she moves with a dangerously gentle but fast paced step. John only notices when it's too late, when he's been pounced on and pushed onto the floor. When he's been knocked out.
She's laughing, and Sherlock can't hold himself still any more, when though the police have picked her up and dragged her backwards. It's not good enough. Control's slipped, something's snapped, and he's utterly blind to absolute anger and rage, launching forwards to take that pretty face of hers and smash it against the curb. He needs her dead, he needs to be the one to do it - he can feel it, that absolute and indestructible hate, it's there, it's real, it's pure, and it's driving him forwards. He's lunging for her, a look of pure murderous intent; his eyes aren't calculating any more, they've fallen from that intense stare into something darker, something cold and menacing and genuinely unnerving.
He just needs to take her by the hair and show her that you don't touch his things, no one can touch John, no one at all.
It takes six people to hold him back, six grown men, because none of them are sure just what Sherlock's capable of.
But Lestrade's sure. One look and he knew. It's a look they all get, just moments before they hold the knife up and they use it to their hearts content, they cut through skin like works of art, they leave blood like it's a trail of something beautiful, and maybe it is. To them. They're the psychopaths, the sociopaths. The crazies. And it's almost hard to watch, to see those brilliant eyes turn into something so murderous and hateful - he's never seen it before, not on Sherlock's face, and he doesn't want to see it again.
It only stops when that other Holmes announces his presence, and it's not by way of choice on Sherlock's part. But he stops, and he's pulled away by someone like him, someone that seems to understand.
It's with a dully registered slap of horror that Lestrade realises that there's more just like Sherlock Holmes, and that isn't a comforting thought. Not at all.