Chapter Text
Sherlock is a closed off, arrogant, psychopath (or sociopath, depending on who you’re talking to), incapable of feeling, expressing, and seeing other’s emotions. At least that’s what most people thought. And in their defense, they seemed to have a lot of evidence. No had ever seen Sherlock with anyone, of either gender (and there was a pool at the Yard as to which one he preferred). It seemed like he could only hold conversations if he was insulting the other person. If anyone ever tried to get close to him, they were immediately shoved away and (in some cases) reduced to tears. In fact, the only people that seemed to care about Sherlock despite him being… Sherlock was Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, Lestrade, his employer, and Molly Hooper, the pathologist. And even they didn't know much about him. There was the mysterious brother, but no one had ever seen him, so they didn't count him. Beside, if the brothers were anything alike, they didn't think there was much hope there.
So when they met a man that seemed to disprove all of this, it took a moment to realize that there was something special about the both of them.
Lestrade had pulled out his phone the moment he had walked onto the crime scene. In his seven years of being a detective he had never seen anything like this. They were in a small abandoned house, and every single room was covered in blood. It looked like it had been thrown, smeared and painted across every surface. But there was not a single body. When Sherlock had arrived, he walked right past Lestrade and Sally,took one look and broken out in a huge grin.
“Excellent.” He said before pulling out the his magnifying glass and walking away.
Sally sneered in disgust. “Why did you call him?” She said, turning to Lestrade. “We don’t need him.”
Lestrade scoffed. “So you have something?” When Sally didn't say anything, He smiled. “That’s why I called him.”
“Oh, come on! We should not allow someone who is barely human and gets off on blood and guts to come to a crime scene! He doesn't care about the victims or families. Hell, I don't think he could care about someone else if he wanted to!”
“Alright Sally, enough.” Lestrade said. “You know that a number of our cases would still be unsolved if it weren't for Sherlock.”
“137, to be exact.” Sherlock said as he strode back over to them. Ignoring Sally’s eyeroll, he immediately started to tell them everything he had found, starting from the number of people killed (6), to the profession of the killer (artist). Just as he was starting to get into the specifics, his phone rang. Sherlock frowned, then muttered “bloody Mycroft” as he quickly answered his phone.
“This better be important.” Sherlock said sharply. Lestrade was about to turn to Sally when suddenly Sherlock went pale (well, paler than he already was) and a look of fear crossed his face. “When?” Lestrade thought that he saw Sherlock’s hand shake ever so slightly. “Is” Sherlock quickly cleared his throat. “Is he…” After a moment, all the tension drained of Sherlock’s body to be replaced with tired relief. “Oh, thank god.” Another pause. “No, Mycroft, it’s a common expression one uses to express relief.”
By now, Lestrade and Sally were staring at Sherlock like he had grown another head.
“Where is he?” Sherlock said into the phone. Then Lestrade had to resist the urge to back away as a cold fury filled Sherlock’s eyes. “Why the hell didn't you call me earlier?” He said in a fierce whisper. A pause. “That is not your call to make!” He yelled, causing Sally and Lestrade to jump. “Tell him I’m coming. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” Sherlock then hung up the phone, and quickly turned to Lestrade. “Go to the Camberwell College of Arts, the murderer is a fourth year whose thesis is on the color red. Also, I am going to be busy for the next month, so please refrain from calling me.”
Lestrade mouth was hanging open, and he seemed unable to speak. Sally, on the other hand, had no such problem.
“What the hell? You come here practically skipping and now you’re taking a month off? You’re not even paid to do this! And who is ‘him’? Hey, freak, I’m talking…” But Sherlock had already walked away.
Sally spun on Lestrade. “What the hell was that? And who is ‘him’!”
Lestrade was still staring dumbly in the direction Sherlock had gone. “I have no idea.”