#oh_im_the_devil

[hanahaki-with-me]

"Hanahaki || Johnlock"

~prologue~

Advisory detective, consultant, sociopath (or as he like called himself, highly functioning sociopath), genius, scientist, madman, or simply Sherlock Holmes. He had many names and names.

Those that hurt him, he hid deep within himself, not letting them get to the light of day; to people's lives, or rather their miserable, idiotic existence.

Freak, psychopath, liar, murderer.

This last insult was, of course, not true. He may have been insane, but he certainly didn't kill anyone (possibly seriously injured anyone).

The world hurt Holmes. Nobody ever taught him to love him. It was always only required of him. He was always the sillier and troublemaker child. Microft, his brother seven years his senior, knew about his problems, although Sherlock had never told anyone about them. He knew about drugs and saved him every time his little brother overdosed on them. Eurus. Sherlock did not remember his younger sister; he wiped it out of his mind.

The detective suffered in silence, in the nothingness of a world full of fools and idiots, he was drowned in the palace of memory, he was dying. He got rid of his emotions; at least the visible ones. He was glad inside, he cried inside, he lived inside and died inside. He kept telling himself that loneliness protected him. With time, he began to push away even love, explaining that he did not need it, and that he "disturbed the thinking process by blah blah blah ...". The detective grew indifferent; he looked through emotionless eyes. Thread. Just emptiness. He got lost in it a long time ago, unable to control it.

Greg, Gavin, or Graham (Sherlock never remembered his real name, although he had known him for a long time) Lestrde, a policeman, could even be called Sherlock's friend. But Anderson, the most irritating and idiotic man in the world. He was like a weed in Sherlock's mind backyard. Completely unnecessary to him and his outstanding deduction.

Sherlock got lost. He understood it a long time ago. And Microft only made him aware of it by asking a seemingly simple and rather average question.

"Everything's all right? " he didn't have to ask. After all he knew; he knew him all too well.

Sherlock paused, his thoughts drifted back to the mind palace. He walked through its empty corridors, opening individual room doors. After all, people were standing in one of the many halls. People who didn't believe him, even though he had proven them so many times that he wasn't lying. All faces turned to him. "Liar, murderer, freak, madman". The crowd chanted newer insults again and again. They were all terrible, they hurt; they were like thorns.

And then John. One of a kind, John Watson, stood in the center of the room. Sherlock's assistant, closest friend. When he was around, it had to be okay, right? Truth?! People moved aside to form a corridor at the other end of which was Dr. Watson. He was smiling, so Sherlock didn't hesitate a moment and walked over to his friend. He felt more than friendship for him. The detective loved him. He didn't want it, but he loved him.

Sherlock from the mind palace stood in front of John and smiled friendly and affectionate, though it seemed almost impossible. The doctor came closer, stood on tiptoe and just as he was about to kiss him...

"Freak. Did you really think I could love you? How can you love murder and psyhopath."

... these sentences rumbled in Sherlock's head and echoed through the endless corridors of the mind palace.

The detective stepped back sharply thereby losing his balance. He felt a slight twinge in his heart and an unmerciful burning sensation in his throat. Then he had quite a fit of coughing. Sherlock put his hand to his mouth, feeling something or someone want to come out of his mouth. He spat it out on his hand. It was a small white rose petal slightly stained with blood.

"Sherlock, SHERLOCK!" The detective opened his eyes to see Microft in front of them.

"I'm okay. All is well. It has to be" Sherlock said. But Microft knew nothing was right. Never was righat  with his little brother.

Sherlock got up, not waiting any longer for his brother's reply, and headed for the room. His face showed no unnecessary emotion other than indifference, and the painful pressure in his chest increased with each passing second. As soon as the door to his room closed behind him, he had a fit of coughing. Just like in the mind palace a moment ago. Again that strange, scratchy sensation in the throat and the feeling that something is persistently trying to get out of him.

So he did what he thought. He put his hand to his mouth and fell out of his mouth again...

...rose Flake. Same as in the memory palace; small, white, stained with blood. Sherlock knew what that meant.

He was terrified.

Full story on my wattpad: oh_im_the_devil