COLD HEART
This is the sequel to COLD BLOOD. Please read that to really understand what's happening in this
They hadn't mentioned it to anyone. Of course not; no one would believe them even if they had. "Out of sight, out of mind." Sherlock had said to him, when he was recovered, but John just couldn't accept that Sherlock had disregarded the fiasco so quickly. The bruises on his arm had healed; no sign of any changes other than… the obvious. The next few days continued in normalcy for their household (Sherlock shooting the wall and being 'bored'), until the next week, when Sherlock received a call from Lestrade.
Shouting John down from where he'd been sat using his laptop, they got into a taxi and headed to the site in the early morning. Lestrade and the familiar luminescent policemen were wandering around the site of the body; a girl, down an alley, crumpled on her side. There was a gash in her neck, dried blood on the floor and spattered up her arms. "It makes no sense." Lestrade said, when he arrived. "We can't find a weapon. I'll let you do your thing." he backed off and Sherlock crouched, glancing at John.
"Tell me what you see." he said, crossing his arms and looking at the veteran. "What's happened here?" John licked his lips and then inspected. "Two injuries, the neck and the back of the head. Someone pushed her over then slit her neck, I guess. Mugging?" he looked up but Sherlock was shaking her head. "John, no. It's obvious. Blood on the wall; she was attacked standing up. Her neck was ripped open. The wound is too clean for a knife, and that wouldn't provide the spray; I'd say a dog, but there's bruising on her wrist and no scratch marks on her skin, and also, what dog would catch her like that."
He stood up, taking a breath. "She was dead before she hit the ground, probably from shock. The bruises on her wrist means she was manhandled, forced; but no sign of anything sexual, so not rape. None of her items have been taken, so it wasn't being robbed. She was a social worker, two kids, good husband. Not a target at all." John stared at him, overwhelmed as usual, as he digested what he'd been told.
"So … someone bit her neck open." bile rose at the thought of it he swallowed hard. "Cannibals?"
"No. No flesh eaten. And a cannibal wouldn't leave their victim out like this. If anything was taken, it was blood; there's not enough there." he shook his head and looked at John. "Nothing's happened like this before. So unless we have a vampire-" he looked amused "-We'll be looking for a man about the same height, so a short man, five sixish." Sherlock ignored John's Hey! of annoyance. "Probably Caucasian, because she would've seen him coming, probably someone she knew. Did she have a colleague?" he aimed this at Lestrade. "Social workers normally go out in pairs. No vehicle. So probably her co-worker." he turned to go. "Call me when you arrest him." he announced, and John trotted after him with usual why-did-you-even-bring-me face on.
They got into another taxi to go home when John voiced that very question. For a long moment, Sherlock didn't respond, and John sighed, aware that Sherlock only answered half the questions put to him. So when that deep voice sounded, he could not have been more surprised by what it said. "I'm worried, John. Concerned." he looked to see the slate gray eyes staring at him, intently. His voice was soft, so the cab driver couldn't here. "Ever since the… incident, I've felt as if it's in me." he tapped his chest gently and turned to look out the window. "I feel like I'm walking on eggshells."
John stared at him for a long, long moment. Sherlock was normally so… but normal had been discarded lately. "Not another big experiment, then?" he said, softly, but there was no mocking in his voice. Sherlock grimaced a little, turning to look at him. "No, not quite." he whispered softly. His hands rested on his lap and he continued looking out the window. "I don't feel safe going on my own." John stayed very quite, considering this until they were back. After fending off Mrs Hudson, they went back upstairs; but she followed them. As John went to make the tea, Mrs Hudson was 'tidying'. Sherlock told her to go away once. Twice. She wasn't listening. So he lost his temper.
"Would you please GO AWAY!" he yelled and Mrs Hudson recoiled in horror. "Your eyes went strange, Sherlock." she whispered. He rubbed his face and turned away, leaning against the mantlepiece. John apologised softly to her as she departed, then shut the door and turned to face him. He saw the way his arms were shaking against the wood. "Sherlock… are you okay?" he asked, very quietly. He waited; "I'm fine." he heard with relief that Sherlock's voice had strengthened, and, turning around, he looked normal, if a little shocked. They sat with their tea, and the detective begun to flick through some case notes on something else.
His phone rang. Flicking it out and answering, he drawled, "Lestrade, you really should learn to text." but then he listened. Glancing through the newspaper, John's head snapped up as Sherlock sat bolt upright, a slight smile dancing around his mouth. "Fantastic. Okay. We'll be there." he booped the phone off and turned to John. "They've found him. He killed himself." he informed John, "They want us to have a look at it." muttering something about abandoning his tea, they swept out the room again; John was truly beginning to feel exhausted by this time. Why had he not gotten a flatmate? Then again, as much as he contemplated this question he knew he'd never truly regretted it.
In the cab Sherlock looked excited, smiling a little bit; his feet were tapping on the floor. "Why are they calling you to look at an obvious suicide?" he asked him, staring. "It's not obvious, that's what." he told John, rolling his eyes. "He's slit his own throat, apparently. With a knife. They ran a DNA on his knife and the hand he was holding it in, and he did it, apparently. But - they found a blood lab there." the cab pulled out and John paid him. When they walked into the festering house they saw someone John had really hoped against. Anderson.
"What in the blood hell is HE doing here AGAIN!" he yelled. Lestrade gave him an annoyed look and looked at Sherlock. "Hello." "Where is it?" with a sigh, the DI led them to the little kit, and Sherlock looked - for once - impressed. "Her blood. Why in the hell would he want her blood?" he asked, utterly confused. Sherlock stared at the kit and then leant over, reaching out and taking up a petri dish. "Get your hands off the evidence!" Anderson stormed over.
The plastic dish landed where it had been picked up from as Sherlock whirled, baring his teeth with a hiss, reversing into John. The result was what Anderson saw lasted only a fraction of a moment, but John saw the canine teeth huge and draconic, the eyes changed, and recoiled slightly. "Sherlock, calm down!" he hissed, voice cracked, and a look of panic went into the grey. He put his head in his hands and spoke with amazing skill considering the teeth. "I am under a lot of stress right now, Anderson. Please don't interfere with things you don't know." he looked up again and John let out a breath of relief that his eyes were clear. "Because you don't know what might happen."
