The Struggling Sociopath

Chapter 4

Author's Note

I'm terribly sorry, but I kinda made a mistake in the last chapter. It said that it had been 2 and a half years since Sherlock's death. It should in actual fact be only 1 and a half years. I will go and change it when I get time. Sorry ;) Anyway, Thanks for reading!

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Chapter 4

To want things you cannot have

The suspect was blissfully unaware of his presence, chatting with friends and drinking copious amounts. Sherlock let a slight smirk fall across his pale lips. It wasn’t like the suspect would recognise him. After all, Sherlock had put on a copious disguise. So not to be recognised by anyone. His coat was dark and pulled around his whole body. A completely different style from the one he normally wore. Underneath it was a hoody, a thing he normally disliked but came in handy here. The hood was used to cover his hair and shadow his face. His trousers were jeans. Normally looking attire and far from what Sherlock preferred.

Anything to gather more information on the suspect. Who was most definitely the perpetrator of the crime Sherlock was investigating. In the past year Sherlock had continued to poke his nose into police business and eventually grew rather infamous for his incredibly deduction skills. Now he was contacted by normal people, through his blog, for help. Also by the police when they were stuck. Which was most of the time.

He truly was on his way to be a consulting detective. Like what was written on his grave... No, don’t think about that. Focus. He had to concentrate on the task at hand. The man he was studying was a crafty one. Good at covering his footsteps. But he wasn’t too clever for Sherlock. No, Sherlock would figure a way to convict him.

The suspect was well on his way to a drunken state. His speaking was easily heard by Sherlock but frustratingly he hadn’t let anything slip. Not yet. One of his friends hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, though, and kept on glancing about nervously in an almost suspicious manner. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned slightly. He would have to keep his eyes on that one.

The door opened did not catch Sherlock’s eye. It was the man that walked in that did. Twenty years of age. Sandy blond hair already touched grey. Slightly tanned skin. Baggy wool jumper and jeans; casual attire. Deep blue eyes filled with a hollow look... Grief? Had a dog. Most likely a bull dog, not a newborn puppy but not yet an adult.

John.

Sherlock’s eyes followed the handsome man as he proceeded to the bar, greeted by another familiar face. Lestrade. He too was twenty and beginning to grey. Still training to be a detective inspector, Sherlock assumed. There was a large chance that they would cross paths sooner or later. Sherlock hoped it would be later.

He forced his eyes away from the two men and back to the target. Concentrate! He had to concentrate if he was going to fully gather all the facts of the case. But he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering over to John. Sucking in the perfect person so close in proximity yet unapproachable. It truly was torture to see him within reach knowing they could not meet. Not yet.

Lestrade disappeared a bit later, leaving John on his own. The short man surveyed the room before glancing at Sherlock, who noted that he glanced down to where there was a tiny amount of his blue scarf showing. Darn he shouldn’t have worn that. It was a liability. He felt the urge to glare but resisted. That would only further convince John that what he was seeing was real. Let John think it was his imagination.

Then their gazes met. Damn John still had eyes that Sherlock could get lost in. Such a brilliant blue... Sherlock couldn’t look away. Luckily John did so first. This gave Sherlock a chance to turn his head away, cheeks hot. Damn John looked so good. Sherlock missed him so much. Wanted to run up and hug him, kiss him. But he couldn’t.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered back to where the suspect was... well, were he had been. Now there was only an empty chair. Either they had suspected that they were being watched or just decided to get home. Sherlock though it was the former. It was much too early to leave a pub.

Silently cursing, Sherlock rose and silently left the place. Now he had to find them again! Get back on their trail... what a nuisance. Sherlock glanced about the dimly lit street with narrowed eyes. Kept his ears wide open for any signs of sound. He cautiously crept down the closest back alley and was enveloped by shadows lit by the lights of the main street, the stars and the crescent moon. Sherlock glanced about. Completely focused.

Yes, they had certainly come down here. The dirt on the ground had been slightly disturbed. Sherlock continued at a swifter pace, following a near invisible trail. The sound of loud voices hit his ears suddenly and then they came into sight. There were four men; three drunk and one not. The sober one being the one who had continually glanced about. Sherlock was beginning to change his mind as to who the perpetrator of the crime was.

Sherlock proceeded to approach, hand going to the gun in his pocket. There was a possibility he may need it. Slowly, quietly. They weren’t in a rush to get anywhere.

“Hey, what are you doing following us?!” One of the drunks had turned around when he stumbled, noticing Sherlock with unfocused eyes. Sherlock mentally cursed. He hadn’t been careful enough. The sober one looked at him suspiciously, before his eyes widened as he recognised Sherlock as a man from the bar. In an instance he was off, darting down the street.

Sherlock tore after him, pulling his gun and so he had it at the ready. He barged past the drunks and shot down after the fleeing man. He knew London like the back of his hand having spent much of his childhood slipping away to explore the city. Still, the man he was chasing was surprisingly fast and knew London just as well. Sherlock managed to keep him in sight as they ran down the alleys, entering onto the main street. The place bustled with people and taxis, just making Sherlock’s job harder. His eyes followed the man as he pushed through the people in that direction.

Then, Sherlock stopped. Damn. The man had got into a taxi. There was no way Sherlock could follow him now. At least he knew who it was, though. But it still felt like a failure.

All because he had seen John.