Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction: Reason Why
Reason Why.
Summary: There was a reason why Anderson never liked Sherlock. One shot. Character study.
Disclaimer: not mine.
A/N: Because even hated side-characters deserve a little serious introspective love every now and then.
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There was a reason why Anderson never liked Sherlock.
Jonathan Anderson joined forensics for two reasons: the first being his fascination with science and crime; the second being he felt that by doing his job he could sincerely help people.
Well, he learned quickly that he remembered the times he couldn’t help more than the times he did. That’s what life boiled down to, those times you remember.
For certain, Anderson would remember this moment very clearly.
Sherlock might not have killed this man in the technical sense, but this was a crime scene he helped set up.
Anderson stared down at the body of the old man-indentified as Jeff Hope-and looked at the pool of blood that surrounded him, spreading over the floor. It would definitely stain. The school would have to be closed while rumours circulated about the murderer who was killed there.
Murderer. Serial killer. There was no denying it, but this guy was bad. Definitely bad. Deserved to die. Anderson could say that even when he heard Sally call the family-two kids in the custody of the ex-wife-and knew that there would children out there tonight crying over the death of their father.
Something cracked underfoot as he tried to step closer to the body without touching the blood that surrounded him-for all Sherlock complained of him contaminating the scene, he did care about preserving it-and upon stepping back he saw that it was a half-crushed pill.
That reminded him. Sherlock almost died tonight. Because he was blindingly idiotic. Fucking adrenalin junkie. Sherlock didn’t care about helping people. Didn’t care about the science of it all, not really. Anderson, and a good deal of the Met, figured Sherlock just wanted the adrenalin, something more stimulating than equations and theories, the rush.
Anderson despised Sherlock for his arrogance, his pride and his utterly selfish nature. He tolerated Sherlock because he was brilliant and saw details that were ridiculous and helped even when he didn’t mean to.
Then his eyes zoned in on the congealing blood of the cab driver’s chest. Tilting his head to the side, he thought it might have been a footprint. Looking around, he saw several crimson splotches leading away from the scene, like someone had stepped in the blood on the guy’s chest and then just walked away. None of the people on his team would ever do that. No normal person would do that.
Sherlock stepped on the cabbie. Pressed down on the wound with his foot if Anderson saw it right. There would have been a reason for it, there was always a reason, but Jeff wouldn’t have been dead for Sherlock to do that; no, Jeff was alive.
If he weren’t at a crime scene, Anderson might have laughed.
Though Sherlock wasn’t a serial killer, though he wasn’t quite technically insane (or a psychopath), Sherlock Holmes had tortured and killed Hope before leaving without a backwards glance.
Cruel. Cold. Inhumane.
There was a reason Anderson never liked Sherlock.
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A/N: If I made you feel a teeny weeny bit of understanding for Anderson, I’ve done my job right.