"John,"
Sherlock's voice is a barely audible whisper. John can't see him, but he can feel him under his shaking fingertips as his hands search for someone to hold on to. The two men sit in the complete dark of the night behind a container in a forgotten alley. Their hands is ripped open by small stones and gravel, the warm discomfort of blood is still dripping from John's face and they are panting heavily from running.
"I know, Sherlock," he whispers to his friend and squeezes his hand in comfort."We are going to die."
He is not too discomforted by this realization. He has known it for a long time, though not consciously.
The strange figures that have chased them here are limping around in the moonlight out on the open street, and there is no doubt it will only be a matter of time before they are found.
"No John. Something else." Sherlock insists.
John turns and tries to work out the figure of him in the greyish moonlight that sneaks into the narrow pathway. John can't see him, but he can sense him. His warmth, his breath. His pulse under his skin. The sweet taste of his lips.
"I also know that." He murmurs as he breaks their kiss momentarily. "I love you too,"
It's early on a quiet April morning, and the two residents of 221b Baker Street are sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. The soft light of the rising sun flows through the windows and reveals the specks of dusts floating in the air.
It is not usual that Sherlock is awake at this early hour. Usually he either sleeps in until noon or doesn't go to sleep at all, but the police have not called him in to solve any cases for some time now and he is getting restless. He has been getting up at exceptionally strange hours, and he keeps sending impatient glances at his phone.
During the breakfast he has it lying in his pocket, his hand unconsciously resting on it while he holds his coffee with the other hand. He keeps tapping his feet against the floor. His flatmate sends him a glance and rolls his eyes as he puts jam on his toast.
"Sherlock, you're shaking the table." John says patiently as he places his knife besides his plate. "Could you just relax for a moment?"
"NO!" Sherlock says, as he smashes his hand violently at the table. "I cannot! Five days, John. Five days without a case!"
John sighs and closes his eyes. He puts away the paper and watches his friend as he gets up and starts rushing aimlessly around the room.
"This is a city, a big city! And not a single killer out there who wishes to brighten my god-forsaken day with a murder the police can't solve! Is it really too much to ask for? A good old-fashioned murder, that's all I'm asking. This city is so dull!"
John waits patiently as Sherlock rages for a good fifteen minutes. During this time he tries to get his hands on both cigarettes and heroin, but he is unsuccessful. He finally calms down and sits next to John by the table. He drinks his coffee in small sips.
Just as he is beginning to relax, Sherlock's phone lights up suddenly, and immediately he rushes to the other end of the room where he carelessly tossed it during his moment of uncontrolled rage. Victoriously he reads the message in silence and a smile brushes over his mouth.
"Come along, Watson. We have a case!"
The two of them grabs a cap and goes to the address Lestrade had sent to the phone. There is no further explanation, but Sherlock is practically trembling with joy.
They arrive 20 minutes later at an abandoned construction place somewhere in the outskirts of the city. The ground is shielded by brightly coloured tape and guarded by a dozen of Scotland Yard's people. Sherlock nonchalantly ducks under the tape and into the crime scene, and John follows.
A young girl goes up to him with a nervous, yet determined face. John does not recognize her and assumes she must be new.
"Excuse me, sir." She says in an authoritarian voice. "You are not allowed here. This is a crime scene. I must ask you to leave immediately."
Sherlock waves a police badge at her face and passes by without looking at her.
"That wasn't yours." John points out when they are out of hearing range of the new girl.
Sherlock's mouth twists in a crooked smile. "No."
He puts the badge back and walks to the group of people surrounding the body. The body lies on the ground, half-way covered in the sandy dust of the construction place and wrenched into some tangled mess. Even from their place 30 meters away they can scent the repulsing stink of decaying flesh. Everyone is wearing full body safety suits and masks that cover the nose and mouth.
"Holmes, you'll have to wear these." Sheppard says as he reaches out two suits for him and John along with masks. He is a medic in training and on crime scenes he has such important jobs as providing masks for intruders. Sherlock is about to walk past him without notice but Inspector Lestrade walks over wearing his. He pulls the mask down to talk.
"No, Sherlock, you really have to. This body here, it's definitely infected with something, and we don't know how lethal or contagious it is."
John thanks Sheppard and puts on the suit, but Sherlock seems unwilling.
"I'll take my chances, inspector. Now let me through."
Lestrade rolls his eyes and places his hands on his hips. The face he sends the detective demands him to take the safety precautions.
"Really. You have to. When you see that body, you don't want to be exposed to whatever it is it's carrying."
Minutes later Sherlock is wearing the full body suit and is sitting by the dead body.
"28 years of age, male." A medic tells him as he reads from his notes. " 6'1". Disease of unknown kind that seems to rot the meat. Large areas of skin disintegrated in face and torso. Lungs were rotten away; this was possibly the cause of death. Bones broken in left thigh, neck and the right hand and underarm is crushed under heavy weight. Damage done after death. Time of death uncertain, though probably between three/three and a half weeks ago."
He pulls in another breath of air and prepares to continue, but Sherlock cuts him off.
"Yes, now shut up."
Lestrade sighs and sends the medic an apologizing gaze.
"The body was found earlier this morning by..." he begins, but was likewise cut off.
"By three schoolchildren around the age of 12. I know."
He continues to shut everybody up whenever they dare say something for the following 5 minutes. During this span of time he examines the body carefully with his magnifying glass and pokes around a little in the large, sickly-coloured wounds that cover the half-way purple body. He then rises from the ground and puts his hands in his pockets.
"John, what do you think of the wounds?" he asks with a look at his flatmate.
The doctor pulls his shoulders.
"I don't have much experience with this kind of disease. I was trained for the army, not for a hospital or a mausoleum." he points out.
"What've you got?" Lestade asks the consulting detective carefully.
"The body was dumped here late Thursday night. A van arrived at the Northern side, and two men carried out the body, dragging it along. One was quite tall, the other quite ordinary in height. They were both trained in military, but are no longer serving the army. The men drove East right after.
The body was transported here by road and examined by professionals somewhere in the Eastern England. They were investigating the disease that killed him. They know nothing about it, and don't want anybody to know of it. We may be talking some larger organisation, since they had plenty of time and professional equipment for the examinations."
Sherlock pauses to stare at each of the people gathered around him with a look that dares them to say something.
"Well, if there is nothing else I can do for you, I must go. I have matters of utmost importance to attend to. Follow me, Watson."
Sherlock dashes away from the crowd throwing mask and suit at the new girl who had blocked his entrance earlier. John follows speechless after him into the cap.
"St Bart's." Sherlock tells the cabby.
"You don't." John tells him as they drive off from the construction site.
"I don't what?"
"You don't have any matters of importance to tend to. You haven't had anything for the last five days. So why are we going to St. Bart's?"
Sherlock flashes his crooked smile at him. From the pockets of his coat he pulls out small glass container holding a sample of the gooey rotten flesh from the wounds.
"We need to take a look at this is the lab."