High Functioning Sociopath

John Watson sat in his armchair, looking over the newspaper while Rosie sorted blocks on the floor in front of him. Sherlock entered, set down his violin case and headed straight for the kitchen without giving either of them a glance.

The doctor lowered his paper, watching his flat-mate carefully. Sherlock had just returned from Sherrinford, his monthly visit with his sister.

Sherlock microwaved a cup of tea from the morning, a sure sign that all was not well.

"You all right?" John called gently.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, impatiently waiting for the appliance to ding. "Fine," he replied.

John shook the pages of the paper and pretended to read it, but he knew Sherlock was not fine. He continued to gaze over the pages at his friend.

"Eurus," Sherlock called through the glass. "Let's play."

She sat on her bunk, her violin sitting on the chair beside the bed. She did not make a move toward it.

DING!

Sherlock retrieved the cup and took a hasty sip of the tea, burning both his lips and his tongue. He set the cup on the table, watching the tea slosh over the edge and puddle beside the cup.

"Sherlock?" John called again, growing more concerned.

"It's nothing," he replied, a little too quickly.

He stood for several minutes, his violin in hand, and she sat almost catatonic, staring at her bare feet on the floor.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do, so he began to play.

She finally moved, grabbed her pillow and wrapped it around her head, to cover her ears. She screamed, loud and long, until he stopped playing.

Sherlock's heart was racing. His hands trembled. He watched his sister carefully. "Eurus?"

"Why, why, WHY do you come here?!"

He swallowed. "You're my sister."

"And so what? You love me, do you?" She stood and marched to the pane of glass, staring him in the eye. "You love your dear sister, Sherlock? The one you forgot existed for nearly 30 years?"

"Right," John said. He put down the paper, stepped carefully over the blocks, and went to the kitchen. "A bad visit, then."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "John, do not try to deduce."

"Sherlock, you can't expect every visit with your sister to go well. She's seriously… disturbed." Sherlock threw a glare in John's direction. "Now, don't go taking offense at that! We've been all through this before. You and your sister are very, very different. Jesus, Sherlock! Don't you remember how it was? You could never do the things she—"

"Enough, John!" He realized his hands were in fists. Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed them. Then he reached for the tea and took a long sip.

"My point is, you can't expect every visit to go well. That's all, really, all I wanted to say." John turned to check on the toddler. Fortunately, she hadn't decided to move on to another activity yet. "You can talk about it, you know. Might do you some good." John waited, but Sherlock sipped his tea silently and made no move to start talking. Finally, John headed back to his armchair.

"She wouldn't play violin this time," Sherlock said.

John blinked, and tried to imagine what went on instead. "She spoke with you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked down at his teacup and nodded. "She spoke… at me."

"She got inside your head, you mean."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sipped his tea again.

"I don't want your pity, brother. I don't want you to pretend you love me. If you really loved me, you wouldn't let them keep me in this isolated hole. Just go. Get out of my sight."

"Eurus—"

"All right, then," she said, and a bitter smile crossed her lips. "I know you, Sherlock. I have always known you. I know exactly how you think. You owe me. It's your fault I ended up here, you know. All you had to do was pay attention! Simple observation… but instead, you were selfish and cruel. And so I did what had to be done."

"Eurus, I had no idea—"

"Convenient for you, isn't it." She mocked him. "I was just a child, the trauma, blah blah blah." Her voice grew heavier, more stern. "You do owe me, Sherlock. Better than a near-empty cell on an island in the middle of nowhere."

Sherlock shook his head. "What do you want?"

"Look, Sherlock, I'm your friend, but I'm not a bloody therapist. You need to talk to someone. You can't let her manipulate you like this." He was momentarily distracted by his daughter, who had decided to start throwing the blocks.

"There's nothing I can do for you, Eurus. Your room is sparse for your own safety."

"My safety?" She laughed. "Who would possibly care if I lived or died?"

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and held back his retort. He cared, his parents cared, and Mycroft, in his own way.

"It's not my fault, you know. How was I supposed to learn about FEELINGS when I was locked up in a prison a million miles away from the people who were supposed to care about me?"

"I know it's not your fault," Sherlock said quietly. "It's not anyone's fault. It just… is."

"Sherlock," she said more calmly. "You were always my favorite. We had some good times, didn't we? And even when you didn't know who I was, we had chips."

Sherlock had to smile at that. There was something between them, a connection, an understanding. It certainly came through the day he'd met her as an adult.

"Please, Sherlock, just ask them to give me a phone. I'd like… I'd like to be able to call you, and Mummy and Daddy, now and then."

He closed his eyes and sighed. "A phone in your hands could be dangerous, Eurus."

She began to cry, and something inside him told him they were crocodile tears, but still she was so convincing. "Please, Sherlock! I'm just so…ALONE!"

And he'd promised her he'd do what he could. And he asked her to play music once more, but she declined. So he left, knowing he'd made another promise he couldn't keep.

"She wants a phone," Sherlock said. This was just about the only part of the whole exchange that he revealed to John.

"Oh, God, no, Sherlock. Remember what Mycroft said about her? 5 Minutes with a phone and she could solve his toughest cases."

Sherlock sighed again. "Yes, I know."

"You didn't say you'd get her one!"

"Of course not. I said I'd inquire about it. But we all know she can't have one."

"Look, Sherlock…" John waited until his friend's gaze met his eye. "You are far more generous than anyone else would be in this kind of situation. She's dangerous. She could hurt people, even you or your parents. Just by visiting her once a month, you're doing all you can for her."

"It's not her fault… she doesn't understand… she was never in the real world, not really…"

"Sherlock, it's not your fault, either. Maybe your uncle might have handled it differently when she was a child, but he didn't. And Mycroft did what he thought was best, too."

"She cried. She's lonely. She's bored."

"Okay, Sherlock, promise me you'll listen to what I have to say." He waited until his friend looked him square in the eye.

"A sociopath is not devoid of emotion, just unable to understand, process, and act on emotion appropriately. I'm sure she is lonely sometimes, and bored. I'm sure she wishes her life had been different. But she sees other human beings as expendable. She will act on her boredom by killing people. She's a high functioning sociopath, and I supposed that makes it all the more difficult for… for the ones who do care about her."

Sherlock scoffed a bit and looked down, inspecting his fingernails.

John continued. "You are closer to her than anyone, Sherlock. I know it, and you know it. But you cannot bear the responsibility for who she is. She is a killer. She will use people -anyone- to suit her purposes. You do right by her by going to visit, but don't expect it all to be roses. Take the good times as they come, but never ever forget who she really is and what she is capable of. And never ever forget that it's NOT your fault!"

He reached down to pick up his daughter. "I think… that little Rosie needs a bath," he announced.

"Sherrock," she said. She giggled, then threw a block at him. It bounced off his shoulder.

Sherlock smiled. It was refreshing to be around a human being who could always, always surprise him. He thought about how he used to tell people he was a high functioning sociopath. He thought about what John had said. He held out his arms for the toddler, and when he held her, the completeness in his heart told him he had never been more wrong about anything. He never described himself in that way again.