Fanfic, Rated R, No pairing

[limpbiskit]

All right, posting this thing because I can.

Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Author: LimpBiskit
Title: None
Rating: R
Warnings: Cursing, sadness.


Based on a Tumblr post containing this gif:

Because this scene, even without the following bit and the meanness continued, was just POWERFUL to me. Maybe it's because I understand how it feels, to be looked at as if having an actual friend goes against the very nature of the universe. To see that patent disbelief on someone's face, as though they simply cannot comprehend that there would be a way for someone to actively wish for your company. Either way, I don't know if I've done it justice, but for now, it suits me.

He knows that look. That smarmy, condescending smile, as if he's actually doing him a favor by calling out in the time of need, as if there couldn't possibly be anything of importance to compete with his summons.

How he hates it, detests it in a way that goes beyond the mental and straight down to a level that can only be classified as visceral.

Long-deleted memories make themselves known once more, the way a virus can burrow deep into the secret places of an affected disk drive, waiting for a moment's inattention to sow their seeds and regenerate themselves into hateful, paralyzing infinity.

He sees that time now as clearly as if he'd been transported back to the very thick of it, the slow grins and laughter that follow him the way black flies follow the barest scent of decay, the shrill giggles of men and women that he might otherwise have fancied-

And none of them had so much as bothered to disguise their mirth, to conceal that hateful mockery behind some facade of unrelated hilarity-

Even as a fully grown and established man, the soft echoes of that place cowed him, brought him completely to his proverbial knees in an attempt to shield himself from the recollection of youthful suffering.

He drew himself up to deliver a responding blow, to set out the fact that he, too, had found a person to cherish and respect, no matter how late into the game it had come.

For a moment, those wretched eyes widened in surprise, his head turning to confirm a thing so foreign as to be entirely unthinkable.

And then John had sundered his paltry defense with a single word, absolute proof of just how tenuous and fragile a thing it was.

Colleague.

His God-Damned colleague.

But he was pitifully grateful for the sharp burn of pain that the word had wrought, for without that-

Without that debilitating, distracting thing, he might have struck the man.

Struck him with the impotent fury that his younger, softer self had nurtured so closely, at once objectifying his violent upset and extracting bloody retribution from the immediate source of his trauma.

And then those piggish eyes skimmed over him anew, openly ridiculing his assumption that anyone would consent to being grouped with him in such a fashion. In his mind, it was simply another clever trick to manipulate the unfortunate, to make use of a situation with no basis in actuality.

Sherlock Holmes had never, could never form an attachment that held even the most infinitesimal trappings of normalcy. He may as well have declared that there would be a stampede of penguins in the lobby, so laughable a thing it was.

He wondered then if it really might be possible for a person to die of utterly nonphysical pain.

But the moment passed, and he'd be damned if it would hold another instant of his time. He would solve this, no matter how much effort would be required.

He had nothing else, after all.

Comments welcome, and keep an eye out for a possibly revised version at a later date. To everyone that is owed a fic, my apologies. I'm getting to you, honest.