The Sociopath: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Chapter I: The "Invisible Man"

It was reasonably quiet on Baker Street, despite how busy that part of London seemed to be. People hurried or just simply walked off to work under the morning sun; some carrying a cup of black coffee without sugar due to their haste, others kindly asking for a taxi with a cup of coffee fully to their liking, thanks to not having to hurry. It was quite a normal kind of busy street, as it was always. That's if you're excluding the flat on this particular normal and busy part of London known as Baker Street: 221B. Inside of this flat, something was definitely out of the ordinary.

But not to the man who seemed definitely out of the ordinary himself. "Good morning to you too, sir!" he had said cheerfully before kicking his opponent back easily with a long leg. The opponent---an assassin wearing an odd-looking mask---had stumbled back out of unprepared surprise at the sudden lunge. He went down to his knees, groaning in pain after receiving another successful kick. "Run out of wits and strength already? How boring." the tall man commented, panting softly. He fixed the collar of his long, dark grey coat and straightened his navy blue scarf with quick, long fingers.

"Not that you had wit, anyway." he added.

Just as he turned around for a moment, the assassin had jumped onto him from behind, choking the taller man with his own scarf. But the man knew this was coming, for he had purposefully turned around. Using his leg, he kicked a shocked assassin in the weak part of his knee, which caused him to immediately let go. Turning around to face him, the seemingly intelligent, tall man hit the assassin's forehead hard with his own, which knocked the unlucky killer out cold to the floor. The man shook his head, as if trying to clear the pain that began to throb in his own forehead. With a triumphant smile, he stared down at the unconscious masked assassin before removing the decorative object that had so expertly hid his face.

"I should've known. Much too young to be an assassin, yet good enough for the job. Perhaps when you decide to come to consciousness and to your senses, you can tell me who sent you to kill me, hm?"

Straightening his scarf again and fixing his hair---even though this was at all no help; his black, curly hair seemed to be naturally untidy----he tied up the young assassin before dragging him over to a box and lifting him inside of it. He closed the box and casually took a seat on his couch, a book already in his hands, looking as if nothing ever happened.

A man looking about forty made his way to the flat 221B, wearing a black cardigan over an oatmeal-colored sweater and carrying a bag of groceries in each hand. He had put down a bag for a moment to open the door and picked it back up once more before proceeding to step inside. "Sherlock, I went out for a bit to get a few groceries." he had said.

"Oh, good. Nice of you to be back, John." replied the man whose full name was Sherlock Holmes absent-mindedly, not looking up from his book. "How do you mean?" wondered his flatmate, by the name of John Watson, raising an eyebrow. He was now in the kitchen, having placed the two grocery bags on the small table.

"How do I mean what?"

"How do you mean by 'nice of you to be back'? Were you waiting for me or something?"

Sherlock seemed a bit confused by this, but shook his head. "No."

"The reason I ask is because you sounded impatient. Or something like that." John said, having noticed the other's small confusion.

"No." Sherlock had repeated simply, still staring down at the book.

"Is that what you have been doing this whole time?"

"So what if I have?"

"Well, you can at least try to make yourself useful. Clean a bit, maybe. This is your flat, after all."