Sherlock's peace of mind

Chapter one: wounds and tears

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

Darkness hovered the city in a tight embrace. Streets were almost empty of crowd: once in a while a car would pass Baker Street or drunk people would stumble on the stone pavement. Letting go of the white silky curtains, Sherlock huffed and threw himself on his favorite leather sofa. His nightgown tucked under his bottom but he was too lazy to pull it out. He stared at the ceiling, arms flung over the sofa. He was on a case. John said it was a 7 but he doubt it. He was too bored to solve the case or do anything.

His phone began ringing. He knew john was fast asleep and Lestrade was either working his butt off on a pile of paper works or drinking with his idiot friends in a bar somewhere. So he ignored it. Fifteen minutes passed and his phone went off for the third time. Someone was being funny calling him late at night. His phone vibrated against his thigh. He rolled his eyes and took his phone out of his pants pocket. He blinked at the screen, in shock. It took him a few seconds to get off of the sofa and hurry outside.

At your back door. Come please.

-DB

DSHDSHDSH

John paid the cabbie and got off, slamming the door in frustration. The driver called out an insult before pulling off, that john cared less about. He shivered as the cold wind blew through his thin shirt. Sherlock Bloody Holmes called him at 3 in the morning, asking him to come over. In some sort of way it was something important. And it was rather strange; Sherlock rarely called. So John barely had any time to dress for the season. He pulled out a pair of jeans and shirt and stormed out, leaving Mary and a fussy little Rosie, crying and shouting from on top of her lungs, alone. Holding his jacket closer to him, he made his way to 221B and knocked on the door. Not a second later the door stormed open and Sherlock appeared on the door way. But before John had enough time to say anything, Sherlock spun around and hurried up the stairs. John shook his head and followed him in, closing the door behind himself.

When he entered the room, Sherlock had already disappeared into his room. John shrugged off of his jacket and put it on what used to be his armchair. "What is it again, Sherlock?" he called out while walking to the room "Are you bored? You better not be. I-"

What he saw through the half opened door, cut him off. A young girl was laying in Sherlock's bed, clothes torn apart and covered in her own blood. Her red hand were holding on to a wide open wound on her stomach. "Quick, John. She can't hold it any longer." He turned his head towards Sherlock's voice and that was when he saw blood on his face and clothes, too. The girl gasped in pain and brought John back into his senses. He hurried to the girl and examined her quickly. There were multiple wounds on her body but the deep one was on her stomach.

Sherlock pointed to a first aid kid on the side table. There were red bandages and gauzes reliving Sherlock attempt to stop the bleeding but he wasn't successful. He rolled up his sleeves and began cleaning her wounds.

DBSHDBSH

At 6 in the morning, they finally stopped the bleeding and bandaged her up. They changed the sheets and gave her some medicine and pain killer. The girl ended up with 3 deep wounds and a broken left arm.

John washed away the last blood stain on his face and turned the water off. Massaging his sore shoulders, he leaned to the sink. He was glad he had left a full first aid kid and enough medicine here else she would die on them. He ran a hand through his hair and made his way out. As he exit the bathroom, Sherlock walked out of the room, still covered in his blood stained clothes. He watched Sherlock walk to the sofa and throw him on it. John studied his face. Frustration and concern were washed over his face.

John sat on the other armchair, crossing his arms.

"Who's that girl, Sherlock?"

A/N: I'm back at it again. A new story let's see where it leads.

Thanks for reading.

xoxox