Title: John's Niggle
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairings: JohnLock
Rating: M (to be safe)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship
A/N: This is my first Sherlock story. I fell in love with the fandom a short while ago XD haha I hope you like it and I hope it isn't too OOC :/ A little bit graphic and all mistakes are mine. This is a friendship fic but feel free to squint if you want more, I know I did ;) haha
Enjoy! :) and please feel free to leave a review :)
Summary: John gets a little niggle in the back of his head after he notices a change in Sherlock's behaviour. Hopefully John's senses help him to help Sherlock in time. DarkFic. Rated M to be safe. Graphic content.
John's Niggle
John shook his head, watching as Sherlock spouted off a deductive monologue. The man was amazing at what he did. It was so rare to see and be around such impressive intelligence these days. It truely was a marvel and a pleasure to watch Sherlock Holmes while he worked. John snapped his head back to Earth to smirk at Donovan's obvious annoyance.
"And that, dear Sergeant Donovan, is why you should always observe instead of just seeing." said Sherlock smugly, his hands clasped together behind his back as he paced the length of Lestade's small office, while he explained who the murderer of their latest case was.
"Incredi-" John began, almost smiling at Sherlock's lips were about to twitch into a smirk.
"Freak." interrupting John before turning on her heel and leaving the office, her tight curls shaking as she shook her head, annoyed at Sherlock and his ways.
Lestrade sighed and stood. "Sherlock-"
"Oh, no need to apologise for your staff, Inspector. Apparently people get very offended when the obvious is pointed out to them." said Sherlock, before leaving the office, his hands still clasped behind his back.
John looked at Lestrade. "I'm sorry, you know what he's like." he said, moving quickly to follow his friend, worry lines etched onto his face. He quickly caught up to his taller friend, which, was no easy feat given the length of his legs and strides. John buttoned up his coat as the cold, miserable London air hit him. "You alright, Sherlock?"
John continued staring at Sherlock, waiting for him to answer his question. John sighed, he was used to getting ignored and Sherlock acting as if he was not there, but there was something niggling the back of John's mind. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock inwardly flinched before letting out a heavy sigh before looking at the shorter man next to him. He stared at him, confused. "John?" Had he always been there..?
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together further in confusion. "Why would I not be? Sergeant Donovan's remarks are nothing dissimilar from what she always has to say. It is expected and it is met with indifference." he said haughtily, before sticking his arm out to hail the black cab travelling towards them.
John bit back a reply, the niggling in his brain still making itself known. "Well, in any case, you did it again, Sherlock. You solved the case." he praised as he went around the back of the taxi to sit in his side.
Sherlock opened the door and climbed into the cab. "Of course I did. It was easy. Simple. Even you could've done it." said Sherlock, before staring out of his window, watching the Londoners mill around in the frigid air.
"Nice, Sherlock." replied John as the taxi began moving towards Baker Street. He was used to the silence of the taxis they frequented too. John looked at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, observing the curly haired man. His jaw was set and he was making a fist and releasing it repeatedly. It was not often John saw visible traces of emotion on the consultative detective's face, in fact, it was very rare. But something had bothered Sherlock enough to make him forget that he was supposed to hide the emotions he hated to share. John studied him a bit more. Perhaps the case was boring to him, it was - and he quoted - a six and a half after all. John innately shook his head, no, that wasn't it. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him to it.
"Honestly, John, if you think any louder, you might make me deaf."
"Sorry?" asked John, momentarily thrown.
"The gears in your head. They're very loud." said Sherlock, never taking his eyes off of the scenary they were driving past.
"Oh, well-"
"I told you I was fine. Do you not listen?" he said, looking at his colleague.
John swallowed. As quickly as Sherlock displayed emotion, it disappeared. John was now locking at the Sherlock he was well acquainted with.
The cab came to a halt outside 221B and Sherlock got out after tossing the correct money at the driver. He promptly walked into his flat, leaving John to apologise and see the cabbie off. He stared hard after Sherlock's form as he walked further into their home. The niggling was back.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Sherlock lay still, his eyes staring at his bedroom ceiling, unblinking. His fingertips pressed together as his hands rest upon his torso. He sighed before turning his head slightly to look at the luminous clock on his bedside table.
0335.
Wonderful. He turned his head back to stare back at the ceiling. He had an itch. There was something trying to wiggle its way from the back of his subconscious to the foremost part of his conscious mind. Sherlock smirked. He knew was it was and he was determined to keep it back, to try and not succumb to the itch. He begged his mind to think about something else, anything else. And it settled on the events earlier that evening.
John had climbed the stairs shortly after Sherlock did. In fact, Sherlock was already sitting in his chair, waiting for the inevitable telling off from John. But after the exArmy doctor closed their door, he was disappointed as the telling off never came. He watched as John shrugged off his coat and attached it to the hook.
John checked his watch. "I'll start dinner if you want?"
"If that is what you want to occupy your time with..." said Sherlock, before getting up to find his violin. He stood at the window space - his usual performance arena - before resting his chin on his violin and letting his bow meet it. He barely paid attention to the sound he was creating with his hands, his mind went to John and the way he had looked at him in the cab. He had seen that look on John's face before, he had seen it when Mrs. Hudson had been attacked. It was a mixture of care and concern. What alarmed Sherlock the most is why it was directed at him. He had told the man he was fine, but still, that look. It almost chilled Sherlock to the core. He couldn't remember the last time somebody had looked at him like they cared. Still, the good Doctor really had nothing to worry about, Sherlock was plenty capable of fixing himself if needed.
John's voice had eventually drifted over the violin, letting him know that his dinner was ready. After Sherlock ate, he washed up and retired to his room. Not sure if he wanted to be alone because he wanted to be or because he felt he deserved to be. He had quickly gotten dressed into his silk pajamas and laid upon his bed. He had been lying in the same position since 2305. He had heard John wash up and tidy around around midnight before he retreated to his own room. He heard his door shut, the bedsprings being disturbed and a little after 0100, he heard John's gentle snores as he slept peacefully.
Ah, there was that itch. Sherlock looked at the clock again.
0341.
The itch was getting unbearable. He needed to scratch it. It was the perfect time, he rationalised. John and Mrs. Hudson were asleep, he wouldn't be disturbed. It wasn't as if it was a habit... Well, it was actually, he argued with himself. Regular active participation in an event was the telltale sign of a habit. He looked again.
0343.
"Oh, blast it." he muttered, getting off of his bed and padding softly to his door. He opened it slowly and made his way to the bathroom. Once he located what he was looking for, he crept silently back to his room, closing his door with a soft click. He held his breath, only releasing it when he heard John's snores.
He walked around the other side of his bed, got on his hands and knees and pulled out a small box from under his bed. He moved to the wall and slid down it. The itch all he could think about. He slowly took the lid off of the box and set it down next to him before he rolled up his sleeve. He let out a breath. The moonlight that shone through the cracks of the curtains highlighting parts of his arm, the raised stripes looking almost magical in the night's glow. He reached into the box and pulled out something small and sharp. He pressed it to his skin, waited for a moment for John's snoring, before closing his eyes.
"Freak." he said softly before digging the blade in deep and dragging it across his skin. His brow knitted together as the bittersweet familiarity of pain struck him. He pulled the blade away, looking at in fascination as some of his blood stayed on the edge, before looking at his arm. He moved his arm to rest above the towel he had retrieved from the bathroom earlier.
Even in the dark, the crimson stood out in massive contrast against the ivory. It made Sherlock feel.. Well, it made him feel. He waited a moment, watching the small pool grow before he made a move to stem the bleeding. He pulled the towel away shortly after when he was sure the blood had stopped. He reached into his box and produced a small bandage and began to wrap his newest wound. He folded the towel and left it in the box as well as the recently cleaned blade. He pushed it back into its space under his bed before he got up off of his floor and sat on his bed.
He eventually laid down, his arm throbbing as it rest next to his head. Sherlock smiled sadly before closing his eyes to drift off.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Four months had passed and it was a chilly morning that John had woken up to. He stumbled groggily towards the kitchen and was surprised to see Sherlock was already up, he was also surprised to see that one of his arms was a tiny bit thicker than the other. He ignored it for a second, putting it down to an overdose of nicotine patches and sorted his breakfast out before he sat at the table with a cup of coffee.
John studied Sherlock over the top of his newspaper. He was currently crouched on his chair looking at his phone, willing it to ring. "Sherlock-"
"I'm fine." came the short reply.
John rolled his eyes and rustled his newspaper. "Bored?"
"Yes."
"We had a case yesterday!" said John, setting down his newspaper to look at the tall man's ridiculous posture.
"I solved it."
"Obviously." retorted John, earning him one of Sherlock's eyebrow quirks and hard stare. "We have plenty to be doing. We need to go shopping-"
"Correction, you need to go shopping." said Sherlock, making John mutter under his breath. "Why isn't the phone ringing?"
"Half of London have no idea where you are, so no murder can be committed." huffed John, standing up from the table.
Sherlock looked at him before a dry laugh escaped his lips. "Very funny, I enjoyed that."
John was about to reply when the phone buzzed on the table.
"YES!" exclaimed Sherlock, jumping up from his position. He picked up the phone and answered it. "Please be a seven."
John watched Sherlock talk on the phone. The man truely was an enigma. One moment he was all broody and sulky, the next he was practically jumping for joy. Still, something about Sherlock bothered John deeply. And he knew something was wrong because he could see it in Sherlock's eyes. John was a heavy believer in the eyes being a window to the soul. Most people said Sherlock didn't have one, but John knew otherwise. It wasn't often he caught a glimpse of it but when he did, he felt honoured. He felt as if Sherlock had allowed him temporary access to something unavailable to everyone else. If anything it showed him that Sherlock trusted him. So, given that he had been afforded a minute view into Sherlock's extraordinary brain, John felt a small sense of duty.
There was something wrong. On what scale, he had no idea. Why? Again, no idea. What? Not a scooby doo. But he felt it in his heart and he felt it in his head that something was wrong indeed. So, he decided to figure it out before it eventually made Sherlock crumble.
"You think too loud." commented Sherlock, wrapping his navy scarf around his neck.
John spun around to look at the sleuth looking at him with an amused expression. "A seven?" he asked, taking his jacket from Sherlock.
"Oh, a potential eight." said Sherlock, glee radiating from his face similar to that of a child on Christmas Day.
"You do know that you aren't supposed to be happy that somebody died?" questioned John as he followed Sherlock out of the flat. They stopped on the side of the road and as per usual, a black cab had magically appeared.
Sherlock looked at John, a trace of amusement on his face. "Not good?"
John chuckled, and for a moment, he forgot about the niggling.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Lestrade, Donovan and John watched as Sherlock practically danced around the body, muttering to himself and making notes, bending down and straightening up as quick as the weather in London changed. John could hear the impatient sighs from Donovan as they waited for Sherlock to do his thing.
"Problem?" asked John.
Donovan looked at him before rolling her eyes. "You know there is."
John turned to face her square on and was about to reply when he was interrupted.
"John, look!"
John afforded the Sergeant with a glare before walking over to Sherlock. "You figured it out yet?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course I have. However, a fresh pair of eyes are always useful in any circumstance. What do you see?"
John inwardly sighed. Another test? He crouched to mimic the position Sherlock was in. He followed the curly haired man's line of sight which was fixated on the victim's fingers. "His fingers, they're stained."
"Good, John. Why?" asked Sherlock, his almost clear eyes boring into the man opposite him.
"Smoker, maybe?"
"Very observant. What appears to be the problem?" asked Sherlock, standing up.
John followed suit, taking note of the brief flash of pain etched across Sherlock's face as he stood, before looking at the victim's pockets. "He has no cigarettes!" he said excitedly, after seeing Sherlock's face, he rolled his eyes. "I don't know why you ask me to bother."
A smirk tugged at Sherlock's lips. "That's what makes it fun, dear John." He looked over John's shoulder, a hiss escaping his lips, before he addressed Lestrade and Donovan. "Your victim was poisoned."
"Poisoned. Are you sur-" A look from Sherlock made Lestrade stop his sentence. "Well?"
"While the stains on his fingers are similiar to smoking stains," Sherlock gave John a bemused smile before continuing, "They are also akin to iodine."
"Iodine?"
"Yes, iodine. Your suspect worked with iodine for whatever reason, perhaps he was a chemist of some sort. His shoes are slightly worn suggesting long periods of standing like over a work station for an experiment, and he apparently has a heavier tread on his left foot, his right seemingly suffered a burn of some description, again perhaps chemical. Judging by the slight trace of blood in the corner of your victim's mouth, he ingested enough iodine to cause a seizure, thus resulting in him biting his tongue. The indents of the grass around him indicate that he had been seizing for a while."
John let out an impressed whistle while Lestrade wrote everything down. "And what about the person who-"
"There is a clear footprint in mud over there-" Sherlock pointed, "I noticed it on my way over, it rained this morning, so the person involved has a muddy right shoe. Size ten, he approximately weighs thirteen stone, and the same as our victim, favours his right foot. He is about six foot and I can tell you it is a male because there is slight smell of cologne in the air, none of which belongs to us here. This happened at least two hours ago."
Before the other men could say their thanks or praise, Donovan beat them to it. "Freak." She pulled her phone out to call Anderson over, who was waiting in the police van.
John turned on his heel and began to walk after her, when he felt a strong grip on his wrist. He looked at Sherlock, who shook his head, a barely there wince on his face. "Sherlock-"
"I'll be seeing you around, Inspector." said Sherlock, releasing his hold on John and beginning his walk towards the road where he could hail a taxi.
"Sherlock, you can't let her speak to you like that." said John, anger lacing his words. "None of them should!"
"Well, they aren't exactly wrong, are they?" offered Sherlock, his arm outstretched.
"Don't you care how they speak to you?" John asked angrily.
Sherlock looked at John, the cogs in his mind turning. "Why are you angry?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because you should be. You are human, like them, whether you would like to admit it or not. They shouldn't treat people like that. Nobody should."
"Yet, here we are solving murders."
The silence that followed was astounding. All John could do was stare at the man he called his friend. How could someone not care about how they were spoken to? How they were treated?
"I understand your sentiment, but it is futile, Doctor Watson."
John raised his eyebrows. Doctor Watson? "You don't care?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. And neither should you."
John shook his head with a laugh. "I'm afraid I can't do that." he said as a cab pulled up to them.
"Why not?"
"Because it's what friends do, you ignorant prick! They care about one another!" said John, his voice raised enough so that pedestrians around them looked at them.
"Well, that's the great thing about me." said Sherlock, opening the cab door with a grimace. "I don't have any friends."
And at that, he climbed in and closed the door. He looked out the window to see a mixture of hurt and anger radiate from John's face. He half contemplated to open the door to tell him to get in, but John took that opportunity from him to turn around and walk away. Sherlock slumped back as the cabbie began to drive. He rubbed his hand over his face and into his curls before sighing. That itch was back.
oOoOoOoOoOo
John's feet pounded the pavement as he stormed his way back to Baker Street, his hands in his pockets and his face down to save as much of his face from the icy wind as possible. God, that man infuriated him beyond no end. Of course he had friends, that idiot! What the hell was up with him? And why, for the love of Mary, hadn't John figured it out yet? He looked up to see a familiar black car parked in front of him.
"That is bloody good timing." he muttered as the back window rolled down to reveal Mycroft's expectant face.
John hurriedly crossed the road and got into the back of the car to sit next to Mycroft. "Stalking again, are we?"
Mycroft snorted. "It's my job, John."
"I assume there's a reason for this pick up?" asked John, not bothering to beat around the bush, that was the best way to deal with either of the Holmes brothers, but especially Mycroft.
"I'm concerned." said Mycroft lowly.
"About?"
"My brother."
John froze, the niggling suddenly appeared stronger than ever, his military trained senses proving him right. "You too?"
"He hasn't been answering my texts."
"He doesn't do that anyway-"
"I've not seen him out. None of my people have seen him leave 221B unless he has a case. Straight in, straight out. No Angelo's. No Homeless Network. No sneaky cigarette. Nothing!" said Mycroft.
John's resolve softened at the hint of desperation in Mycroft's voice. "I knew something was wrong, but I don't have any idea about what it could be."
"I was afraid he was using again." he uttered so softly that John had to strain to hear it.
Suddenly everything in John's head clicked. The behaviour, the solitude, the mood swings. It made sense. "He talks in his sleep sometimes." said John, his heart sinking. If his friend had resumed a habit as damaging as taking drugs, something must have pushed him over the edge. "I was getting a glass of water, I heard him say something about an itch."
Mycroft paled. "An itch?"
"That'd explain his arm. I think he's overdoing the nicotine patches too." said John, recalling what he had seen that morning.
"Oh, what has he done?" muttered Mycroft, his eyes closing in fear for his little brother.
"We can both go in and talk to him about it." suggested John, though they still had a while until they reached Baker Street. But that would give them enough time to figure out what they needed to say.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Sherlock slammed the door behind him and climbed the stairs two at a time. He practically pushed past Mrs. Hudson and after muttering a quick apology, he retreated to his room and shut the door harshly behind him.
He walked around the side of his bed and pulled out his box. He opened it and studied the towel. It was a pristine white colour four months ago, but now it was a rag home to several different shades of red. Sherlock threw it across the room and pulled out his blade.
He rid himself of his shirt and stared at his cuts, all in different stages of healing. He moved from his arms to his torso after John almost saw them. The torso was painful, almost every move he made tearing each cut open. He raised the blade, watching his reflection in the small mirror in his room.
"Freak." he spat, glaring at his reflection menacingly. He made a quick motion with his right hand and he sucked in a breath of air as his left wrist stung.
A knock sounded on his door. "Sherlock, did you and John fight again?" asked a soft feminine voice.
"No, Mrs. Hudson." said Sherlock through gritted teeth as he made another quick motion. "Liar..." he muttered under his breath, still staring at his reflection.
"Well, I'll make you a tea. I'm sure you'll fix whatever it is. You always do. Such a clever man..." said Mrs. Hudson, her voice trailing away as she left the door in favour of the kitchen.
Sherlock hesitated, watching her retreating form. He opened his mouth to call her back, for her to save him. He caught sight of his reflection and his resolve hardened. "I'll fix it, alright." said Sherlock, making another slicing motion.
oOoOoOoOoOo
The car halted to a stop outside 221B and both John and Mycroft left the vehicle before opening the door to the flat. They hurried up the stairs and were met with Mrs. Hudson.
"Oh John, I was hoping you had come back." she said softly. "I made tea. Sherlock is in his room. Hello Mycroft." she added, almost as an afterthought.
John grabbed Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, alarming the woman. "Mrs. Hudson, how long has he been there?"
"Since he came in."
"Have you spoken to him?" asked Mycroft, panic starting to creep into his voice.
"I did earlier. I asked him if he wanted tea but he didn't answer, he must be aslee-"
John let her go and ran towards Sherlock's room, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson followed him, though Mrs. Hudson was unsure why. "What is going on?"
"I think he's using again." said Mycroft, watching John bang on Sherlock's door.
"He wouldn't!" protested Mrs. Hudson. She shrieked when John kicked it down, but she let out a blood curdling scream at what the room revealed.
John ran into the room and crashed at Sherlock's side, ignoring the sharp shoots of pain that went though his knees at the rough compact. "Sherlock? Sherlock?! Can you hear me?!" called John, pressing his two forefingers to Sherlock's neck. "Mycroft, get towels, we need to stem the bleeding! He has a pulse but it's weak. Sherlock!"
Mrs. Hudson sunk to Sherlock's bed taking in everything playing out before her. She barely registered Mycroft's exit and return. She didn't even notice her best towels were being used. "Oh, Sherlock..." she whimpered.
"Mycroft, we need to go!" said John, somehow finding the incredible strength to carry Sherlock over his shoulder.
"I'm on it, it'll take too long to wait for an ambulance. My people can get us there faster." he said hurriedly, helping John.
They trooped downstairs and after Mycroft promised he'd send someone to clean Sherlock's room, they left.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Sherlock twitched. There was an irritating noise... What was it? Beeping? Why in God's name was his bloody alarm clock going off at- Wait, what was the time again? And why couldn't he move his arms... Oh God...
He opened his eyes to see he was in a dimly lit room. His eyes roamed the room and they settled on the only figure in his room other than himself. His dear John. He studied John's face, it was tired and stressed.
And then everything clicked.
"Oh God..."
At that, John's head jerked up, he forced his weary eyes to open and he took in the sight of his friend awake and more importantly-
"Sherlock, you're alive."
"... Yes." sounded his voice. It was weak, he almost couldn't speak. Almost. "What-"
John stood and brushed a stray curl away from Sherlock's face. "You need to rest." he said softly.
Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat at the tender motion John did. He swallowed harder at the glassy sheen that covered John's eyes, and it certainly wasn't from tiredness. "John..."
"Rest, Sherlock. I promise we'll talk about it later." It must have been because they were in the hospital, or the fact that he nearly died but Sherlock looked at John with such raw emotion and vulnerability, it took everything he had to stop himself from cracking and his tears spilling. "I'll be here. You're okay. You're safe. Rest, Sherlock." he repeated, squeezing Sherlock's hand with his own.
Almost like magic, Sherlock's eyes closed and he drifted back to sleep, his hand intertwined with John's own.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Sherlock woke up again, relieved to still feel pressure on his hand. He looked at John and watched him as he slept. His mind ticking over. How in the world was he going to explain himself? John was going to be absolutely disgusted. He was going to leave him alone. He'd lose his best friend. How could he explain himself?
"You think too loud." sounded a soft voice.
"John." breathed Sherlock, watching the man to his side. "Ruffled hair, turned up collar, tense posture. You didn't sleep well."
"How could I?" asked John, gently squeezing Sherlock's hand. "It's just you and me right now, okay?"John's heart broke. If possible, Sherlock seemed smaller in his hospital bed.
"Where's my brother?"
"Mycroft left shortly after you went back to sleep, he had somethings he had to sort out."
Sherlock nodded. "And Mrs. Hudson?"
"She's okay. She's worried about you. We all are." John rolled his eyes as Sherlock huffed, but another squeeze on his hand made him want to retract it. "It's just us. No boxing up emotions, no lies, okay? We need to talk."
Sherlock pulled at a stray thread on his bed cover. He focused on the thread and the warmth of John's hand. "I don't know how to start..." he admitted quietly.
"How long?"
"Since I was twenty. University wasn't great. But it was rare, once in a blue moon as it were. I only started again recently..."
"Why?" asked John, watching Sherlock intently. "What made you-"
"I'm a freak." whispered Sherlock, nodding as if accepting a diagnosis.
John closed his eyes, memories of Donovan, Anderson and a myriad of others overtaking his senses. All he could hear was their voices labelling Sherlock. "Oh, Sherlock..."
"It is true. I'm a freak, my intelligence surpasses almost everybody... My social interactions, however, a newborn could beat me into the ground-"
"Sherlock, you're not a freak." interrupted John.
"Doing what I did... It makes me feel. It reminds me that I'm not as much of a freak as everybody says. Freaks like me can't feel. So as much as I hated it, I made myself feel." said Sherlock, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I hate emotions, they are so irrelevant, illogical, it takes up too much brain space, yet I understand I need them. But I hate it, with every fibre of my being."
John moved so that he was sat closer to Sherlock. "I don't think you're a freak." Once he felt Sherlock's teary gaze on him, he continued. "I think you are bloody brilliant. I would love to do what you can do. You're eccentric, you're intelligent and as annoying as it is, you're always right. And, for a minute, I thought the little bit of colour that London had to offer was gone. I can't-" John stopped, his emotions getting the better of him.
Sherlock watched him and after a long while, John looked up, visible tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. "John-"
"You're not a freak, Sherlock. Not to me and certainly not to those that care about you." His breath hitched at the back of his throat. "As for emotions, you can't bottle them up like that and release them like that. As much as it hurts you, it hurts those around you. We care, Sherlock and we had no idea you were hurting. God, if only we knew...!"
John stopped talking and let his tears continue their journey down his face. Sherlock watched him and felt the unfamiliar sting of tears in his own eyes.
"I'm here for you always, Sherlock." said John, reaching over to tussle those dark curls that he loved so much. "For anything."
"Thank you, John." whispered Sherlock, returning the hand squeeze, his ice like eyes observing the man in front of him. He could detect no ill will, all he could see was love and caring, just like he did all those months ago.
He suddenly felt tired again and this time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face and a hand still attached to his, warmth and strength for him to borrow.
oOoOoOoOoOo
Two months later..
"John, get up! We have a nine... A NINE!" exclaimed Sherlock, opening John's bedroom door and wrenching his curtains open, pouring bright sunlight into John's room.
John stretched in his bed and watched the eccentric detective with one bleary eye. "What is it?"
"A drug ring suicide, I think. Oh, this is too exciting!" declared Sherlock, leaving John's room.
After throwing on whatever clothes were closest to him and wolfing down a light breakfast, Sherlock and John raced to their crime scene in their ever reliable black cab. They paid their fare and they strolled across the thick green grass to see a warehouse. They quickly met Lestrade.
"Ahh, Sherlock! Nice of you to join us. Let's get on with it." said Lestrade, extending his arm in the direction of the body. Sherlock, as predicted, took the lead and began his work as soon as he saw the body.
Almost like dejá vú, Lestrade, John, Anderson and Donovan watched as Sherlock performed his dance around the body, muttering his findings to himself as he went, drawing up theories and either proving or discarding them quicker than the blink of an eye.
"Genius... Very clever." commented Sherlock as he stood up straight. "Very smart indeed."
"Sherlock?" called John.
"We're looking at a forced suicide. Definitely a nine." he commented under his breath as the four behind him joined him at his position.
"Well?" asked Lestrade, a grin quickly forming on his face.
"The slash across your victim's throat is right to left."
"So?"
"Anderson, you are really unbelieveable sometimes.. Anyway, your victim is right handed, judging by the callouses on his fingers, you can tell by the way he held a pen. The direction of the cut on his throat is significant because there is no way he could have done that himself. The killer is left handed and probably two inches taller than your victim, which would account for the angle of the cut. The knife was planted in your victim's hand, it was wiped before it was planted, you can tell by the smudge on the silver lining, you might be able to get a print off of that."
"Well done, Sherlock, thank you." said Lestrade, finishing his notes in his book.
"Thanks, Freak." muttered Anderson, pushing past Sherlock to get to the body.
John opened his mouth, but surprisingly, Sherlock beat him to it.
"The next time I work with you, Anderson, you will speak to me like a human being. I am not a freak, I am just a lot more intelligent than you."
Anderson looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "Right..."
"If you don't, you might end up like him there.. The only difference is I'll get away with it. Try not to mess up my work." said Sherlock, buttoning up his coat. "Good day."
John and Lestrade shared an amused look at Anderson's face before John hurried after Sherlock.
"Brilliant!"
"Thank you." said Sherlock, as they walked back up the grassy hill.
"Feeling better then?"
"Obviously." said Sherlock, smiling at John. "Good?"
John squeezed Sherlock's elbow affectionately. "Good."