The Exception // SHERLOCK x READER //

Chapter 3

3rd Person POV

While (Y/n) remained inside, contemplating her actions in correlation to her neighbor's treatment, Sherlock seated himself next to John in the cab. He cleared his throat and ordered the driver to set off towards the morgue. Afterwards, he adjusted his scarf and closed his eyes to rest. That is, until he felt the harsh stare emitting from John's narrowed eyes.

Irked, Sherlock scoffed. "What are you staring for?"

"You haven't spoken anything about helping (Y/n). So, did you finally get over your own stubbornness and invite her over like a good neighbor?" asked John.

"Of course not," he sternly stated. "And I'm not stubborn; I just know what my priorities are." Sherlock then folded his arms across his chest like a pouting child, thus unintentionally displaying John's point.

The exhausted writer rubbed his face. "Of course you didn't. Well, anyways then, what happened?"

Sherlock shrugged and plainly responded. "After helping she introduced herself, asked for my name, I answered, and then I left."

"I can only imagine how rude you must have acted back there," John sighed and turned away to look out the window. "It's like you want everyone to think you hate them."

The cab grew quiet for a couple of seconds over and the air felt riddled with tension. Sherlock fiddled with his thumbs and turned forward after feeling a strange ping in his chest. As he looked before him, his eyes caught sight of the cabbie's glance. He wore knitted brows, making Sherlock feel even more self-conscious and guilty. Quickly, Sherlock coughed into his scarf and turned at an angle to peer out the window. The scenery was bleak and dreary; rain sprinkled on an off during the short drive.

Eventually, they had made it to their destination. As usual, Molly was there in the lab running tests and looking over her findings. When Sherlock and John walked in, she beamed and blushed; it was evident she had a crush of the sociopathic detective.

"Good afternoon, John," she said. Then, she turned to Sherlock and stuttered a greeting, "and g-good afternoon to you too, Sherlock." Molly's smile faltered, leaving her to anxiously reach for the papers in front of her on the desk. But, with Sherlock's lack of social cues, he eagerly snatched the documents from her reach and began to examine them himself.

"Aha, that's what I was looking for," he said, nearly crossing his eyes while holding the paper so close. "I think I've figured it out."

"Figured what out?" asked John with Molly standing by in confusion.
"The case, what else?" said Sherlock, waving the papers around like a madman.

Molly held out a hand, too afraid to take back the papers from his hands. "Uh, Sherlock, I need those back, really, please?" She meekly walked over while avoiding Sherlock's flailing arms. Eventually, he stopped his eccentric celebration and tossed the papers back to Molly, leaving her to attempt to gather them through the air like confetti.

"Oh, right, here you are," he said. "Come along, John." Sherlock briskly walked out the room as fast as he had entered with his friend quickly following behind.

John rolled his eyes, turned around to see Molly, and apologized. "I'm sorry he's like this, really, I am." He stormed out in a march, desperately wanting a word with Sherlock. Once he caught up, John could not help but lecture his friend once more. "What did I say about treating people with kindness and, what was it again? Oh, yes, courtesy?" He felt embarrassed in having to explain human empathy to a grown man, but it had to be done. "You treated Molly, like you usually do, as if she was a stranger- No, not a stranger, a pest!"

"John, not now," he pleaded with a hand raised to shush his friend's complaints. "I'm not in the mood to hear one of your lectures on trivial etiquette." Sherlock sped up his pace as if it would help shut John away from speaking on the topic once more. But, it was no use.

"You're just scared," said John, causing Sherlock to blink over several times. Realizing he struck a nerve, he continued. "That's right, you think you're immune to emotions, but you're not. You're just scared of being attached, being close with others because you're too egotistical to let anyone in."

The two stopped talking shortly after that. Sherlock had initially felt annoyed, then excited, and finally defeated. How could he just let anyone in? Not everyone could be trusted into one's own life. The truth was, although Sherlock was considered a genius to many, being able to solve mysteries like none other, the one mystery he couldn't crack was himself.

'Why can't I accept others into my life?' he had thought. 'Why must I always feel so distant? So alone...'

* * * 

After reporting the solved case to the police, Sherlock and John parted ways. John just couldn't stand to watch Sherlock progressively sink into his bad habits without attempting to change for the better. He knew his friend well enough to know he was better than that. The two of them decided they needed space until their minds were clear. So, there was Sherlock alone in the cab until arriving at the apartment building.

Once inside, Sherlock paused to take in his surroundings. It was quiet.

Sure, it was late, but not a sound could be heard from any part of the building. It only made him more self-conscious and his thoughts sound louder than before. After a brief reflection, Sherlock quietly walked up the stairs, pausing to look at the door down the hall, 221C, briefly.

'Was I perhaps too harsh to (Y/n)?' he thought. But, he shook the idea out and solemnly made his way to his apartment.

After tossing his coat off and unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt, Sherlock pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. John didn't like it when he smoked, but he wasn't around, so he gave in and indulged. Soon enough, the smokey scent would merge within the room, stick to his clothing, his hair, and he wouldn't be able to notice the difference; though, everyone else would.

But what did it matter what others thought? What mattered most to him was solving the case, catching the killer, enjoying his mysteries like little puzzles, and, most importantly, entertaining himself with whatever he pleased.

After the cigarettes were gone, Sherlock walked to the refrigerator and drank whatever was left in the bottle of alcohol. It was usually drunk on special occasions, such as solving a case, but all in moderation. Though, tonight it was irrelevant on why it was poured.

Sooner or later the bottle was empty and Sherlock's mind was filled to the brim. Nearly passed out on the couch and all he could ask himself was this: 'Am I really that bad of a human being?'