WELL! This is an updated version of the first chapter! I will be Submitting it to the Empty House which is going to be a book with 20 stories written by normal people about sherlock. It's going to be sold to raise money to save Conan Doyle's original house. SO PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! I NEED CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM! PLEASE! 3

Silence

"India: a country shrouded in poverty, covered in filth and home to some of the world's most interesting cultural and historical monuments. How boring, wouldn't you say John?" Sherlock asked as he handed the flight attendant his ticket. The lady glanced at him strangely, her painted lips pursing and her brow wrinkling. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her and turned up his nose.

"No need to tell me where to find my seat, I find myself gifted with the ability to do so on my own." He bit out sarcastically, "Oh, and Victor, the alluring Spaniard who you spent the night with, has four other mistresses. He's rated you as third, presumably not for your plain features."

He smirked at her furious blush and continued down the aisle. He was seated in first class, by the window; the seat next to him was logically for John. Mycroft was most kindly footing the bill; Sherlock had nabbed his credit card earlier. He was positive his brother knew he was using the card and was silently grateful Mycroft hadn't frozen the account yet, not that he'd ever tell Mycroft that.

"John, what a miserable chair." Sherlock complained. "And these stains! The pilot and the stewardess have been getting up to no good! On my chair!" His fellow passengers all turned and stared at him, with horrified looks on their faces.

"It's true! I demand a refund." Sherlock muttered. "But John! It's disgraceful and unsanitary…Yes, yes, first class. Phewy. Reclining chairs! It's a seventeen-hour trip! Frightfully long. Oh, how boring!"

A young child pointed at him and exclaimed to his mother, "Mommy! Look! That man's talking to the air!" The mother blanched and pushed the child's hand down.

"Shush! Rayburn! He's crazy darling. Don't point. It's quite sad." The woman responded quietly, but Sherlock's keen ears picked up on the comment nonetheless.

He sneered at them. "Yes Rayburn. Listen to Mommy. She knows all about mental illnesses doesn't she?" He smirked at the flush that rose across her neck. Acute depression; on several antidepressants; mild OCD; cannot help but pick at her nails all constantly; works long hours as an accountant; husband is loyal but unhappy; child is putting her on edge.

He turned swiftly around and stared at the window. "John, they think I'm crazy," he voiced a few minutes later. "They think I'm hallucinating. But I'm not John."

He was silent at the plane entered the runway and began liftoff. He did not mind flying but knew that John was not a fan. He patted the chair beside him comfortingly.

"Do not be an idiot John. There is nothing to fear; planes are the safest form of travel. Being scared of flying is so dull John."

He stared uncaringly out the window at the clouds rolled by and contemplated the downfall of every single person who'd ever worked for Moriarty and killed, hurt, raped and destroyed lives in his name. India was only the beginning; the logical place to start. It was so far away from England that nobody could possibly recognize him (not that it was likely anyways since he'd cut his hair, dyed it blond and acquired a pair of hip jeans and a band shirt) and Delhi was the headquarters of one of the biggest, if not the biggest, drug and prostitution organizations in the world—Moriarty's organization. Sherlock had no plans to show any of the criminals' mercy. As Sherlock contemplated every detail of his plan he could not help wishing that John were there. His eternally faithful John, who would at that moment be attending Sherlock's funeral, was not there for one of the first times since Sherlock had met him. It was ironic that every time John had been away from Sherlock during a crisis, it had been due to Sherlock's own doing.

John had often commented that Sherlock didn't notice when John left the flat. And in many instances it was true. When he did notice it caused him a sharp pain in his chest that he couldn't place the cause of. So, to avoid that pain, the pain that threatened to overwhelm Sherlock at that moment as he flew towards Delhi, Sherlock convinced himself that John was there and that John would never leave.

The guards pulled Sherlock aside and patted him down several times after he mentioned to John, in a carrying voice, all the possible ways to sneak a bomb or explosive through security. If John had been there he'd have said, "a bit not good." Nobody was there to explain to the guards that Sherlock was not saying he had a bomb just that he was explaining all the faults in security, and that rather than taking affront, they should be taking Sherlock's advice. Sherlock was detained for five hours; he slumped down in his cell and deduced each guard in turn, out loud. It didn't make him any friends but he didn't want any. His only friends now thought him stone cold dead.

He was beyond furious by the time Mycroft got wind of the situation and made a few important phone calls.

Sherlock stormed out of the security, "You imbeciles! I do not have guns, bombs, weapons, or drugs on me! You are wasting my time! Can you not observe? Use your eyes! That man, over there, in the red coat, he is caring 5.6 ounces of cocaine in his ass! Arrest him! Not me!" And he stormed off, leaving the people gazing, open-mouthed, at his retreating back. The man with the cocaine sprinted off as fast as humanly possible, the guards in hot pursuit.

"John! Do you see these idiots? Why, John, why? Why must I be surrounded by imbeciles?" He waved his hands in the air. It didn't matter that John didn't respond, it was a rhetorical question anyways.

Three months into what Sherlock was mentally referring to the year zero A.D. the drug organization in India was annihilated. It took one fell swoop of Sherlock's metaphorical scythe and the walls crumbled in on themselves.

Sherlock paced the room of the dingy, disgusting, joke of a hotel-room on the eve of the night when Shin-Lu, the ringleader of the organization, would cease to breathe his last breath. Sherlock's plan was brilliant; how could it not be? The second-in-command, Taou, had somehow learned through the grapevine that Shin-Lu was planning his execution. Meanwhile, Shin-Lu had coincidentally discovered a USB with Taou's plans to murder him in Taou's office, which he searched regularly. Both sides would meet tonight and fight it out; and the bombs placed in the building would take out any survivors.

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, "John! Come! Let us have some tea to celebrate! Justice is to be brought down on the necks of Shin-Lu and his ring of killers tonight! You'd approve…I think" He paused for a moment, his face haunted and his brow crinkled. He clenched his jaw and nodded. "Yes, yes you would approve. You do approve, don't you John?" When John didn't respond he clenched his fists and marched out of the room.

After Delhi he returned home and dropped into 221B Baker St. Nobody lived there any more. He made his way to John's new apartment and slipped passed the alarms. He stood by the foot of John's bed and watched him sleep; it was a fretful sleep, full of twitching and groans. Sherlock left when John started crying and murmuring his name. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to leave London that night, and the following morning he was drawn inexplicably towards John's new home—no, not home, never home—house, once more. He followed John and Mrs. Hudson to his grave and observed them from afar.

"Um. Hm. You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." John's voice wavered as he spoke and Sherlock felt shivers trail down his back. He watched his best friend soldier up and wipe his eyes.

"And so… there. I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop, just stop this…"

Sherlock straightened up, his eyes fierce; they glazed over and he blinked furiously to clear them.

"I will John. I promise. I'm sorry John." He mumbled through clenched lips to John's retreating shadow.

Time passed, Sherlock stalked Moriarty's men to their houses or safe places and took them out, one by one. Eventually he stopped talking to John out loud in public. It was suspicious behavior; Moriarty's right hand man, Sebastian Moran (the sniper set to kill John), might get wind of a schizophrenic who talked to his best friend John, made marvelously brilliant deductions and looked peculiarly like one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and come looking for him. The last thing Sherlock needed was a sniper on his tail.

Sherlock was never able to shake the habit of talking to John while in the privacy of his own quarters or when in very dangerous situations.

"John, make some tea."

"John, pass me my cell phone."

"John, text this to Mycroft: Your idea was dumb big brother. Mummy would be so disappointed. Don't worry Crofty, I fixed your mess."

John never did as he asked and after yelling at him for it Sherlock would eventually sit up and do it himself. John never reacted to Sherlock's insults or yelling either. It was rather infuriating.

"John, I'm bored."

"John, I can't sleep."

"John, where are you? Will you be out late tonight John?"

"John, I'm cold."

Sherlock was always cold these days. Or rather, it wasn't that he was cold; it was simply that he didn't feel anything at all. Cold, hot, rain, wind, everything felt the same. The world no longer held any sensations for Sherlock. The world of smells he had previously indulged in no longer intrigued him at all. He still used his nose and his senses to solve cases and track murderers but he no longer cared about every strange smell he encountered, or about knowing where it came from. A psychologist might have claimed he was depressed, but depression implied sensation, and Sherlock had none. He'd been stripped of caring when he made the decision to jump. In a vicious sort of way he was grateful he couldn't feel. He knew that John was enduring terrible grief and felt it only right that if his best friend, his only friend, should have to undergo such pain because of him, then he himself should be stripped of anything that being around John had given him. With John, life had always been fascinating. Even when he was mindlessly bored, even when his mind screamed for anything to calm it, life had been rich in sensation. John had made his life rich in sensation; therefore, Sherlock deserved no sensation.

He was a true sociopath for the first time in his life. Before John he hadn't care too much, but cases had intrigued him and he'd gained pleasure in solving them; after John there was no pleasure in anything. Sherlock did what he had to do to get back to John; he stalked, he set up deadly situations, and he killed, and he never once felt a thing. He wondered briefly if that made him truly crazy. But the people he killed were not good men and women; They were drug lords who addicted the youth and murdered innocents; They were government officials that leaked information to terrorists; They were terrorists themselves; They were snipers and trained killers, rapists and child molesters. They were true psychopaths most of them.

Sally Donovan had been right in a way: the day came when Sherlock became the mastermind behind the killings. But she had been wrong: he took no pleasure in what he did, nor did he do it for the thrill. He did it because it was the only way; he had no choice. He could never return to John if any of Moriarty's men lived.

"John, I killed Lestrade's sniper today. I made it look like a suicide. Only I could tell the difference."

"Does it bother you, John, that I've become a killer?"

"I'm going after Moran tomorrow John. It's been 2 years, 6 days, 21 hours, and 5 minutes since I last saw you John. After Moran, I can go home John."

"Will you accept me again, John?"

It took Sherlock 7 months, 25 days and a couple of hours to track Moran down to his Amsterdam apartment.

"John, cover me." Sherlock whispered as he stepped out from the shadows of Moran's room and faced the sniper. Moran's back was turned but he wheeled around at the sound of Sherlock's controlled breathing. Sherlock aimed the gun at him, his hand steady.

"Sebastian Moran. I will not tell you who I am in the rare occurrence that you escape. However, know this. You once aimed a gun at my best friend. You did not pull the trigger. I will not give you the chance to ever pull a trigger again." Moran's hands were empty. Although he was a trained snippier, his home had the best protection. He had never thought that someone could sneak up on him; Mycroft and Sherlock had proved him wrong. His gun was nowhere at hand.

He did not tremble but faced death openly. "I know who you are, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock raised his eyebrows but did not shoot. Moran gave him a curious look. "How did you do it? How did you beat Moriarty?" His voice was indifferent but Sherlock could hear the anger in it. He smirked.

"You cared for him." Sherlock commented snidely. "You fool. John, look at this man. This man cared for the spider, Jim Moriarty."

Moran's eyes widened in surprise and he gazed around him for a second before understanding dawned. "You still talk to him! You talk to your right hand man when he isn't even here!" He let out a bark of derisive laughter. "Jim was right. You're ordinary!" And he threw his head back and laughed.

Sherlock turned his head slightly but otherwise was unfazed. "You asked how I defeated Moriarty? Is that your final wish? To know?" That shut Moran up. He glared at Sherlock.

"Yes. Because Moriarty was so much better than you! He was extraordinary. You are ordinary." Hatred blazed in the snipers eyes.

Hate it? Love it? Think it needs work? Please tell me! HUGS!

"You are wrong. And you shall never know." In the split second before Sherlock pulled the trigger, Moran's eyes widened in fury; Sherlock smirked in satisfaction. The last thing Moran ever knew was that Sherlock had beaten him too. The man slumped and fell forward, spewing blood. Sherlock sidestepped the gush and smartly turned away. He dialed Mycroft. "Mycroft. Moran is dead."

"Not too messy I hope. The police have just gotten an anonymous phone call claiming that an old associate of Moran's finally caught up with him. It will not surprise you to know that the police were rather enthusiastic to hear this. He was not a well-liked character. Your flight departs in 2 hours from Amsterdam airport. Your ticket awaits you. Say hello to John for me, little brother."

Sherlock ended the call. "Mycroft sends his regards John." He muttered to the empty air and headed home.