My Kingdom for a Cigarette
It wasn't logical, of course- yesterday had been a terrible one, weather, weather-wise, and today was, in fact, probably a bit better. But, upon surveying the scene, Sherlock swore that the gray clouds overhead were thicker, the air was chillier, the dampness even more miserable. But that wasn't logical, unless there was some chemical explanation within his own body to account for making his whole world seem colder.
Of course, to acknowledge the true cause would be to admit to having feelings, to react emotionally to a crime scene, something that- though he was working on it- didn't come very easily, so instead he tried, valiantly, to take in the scene.
Every time his mind catalogued something, it slipped right away from his memories and from his sight. And he knew why, heard it when Donovan whispered "gruesome," so reverently it sounded like a prayer, knew it when he felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder.
Right, Lestrade. The Yard. They were all here- standing around what he could only describe as a massacre. And he knew that there were eyes drilling into the back of his head, wondering why he wasn't skipping for joy. After all, as Donovan had so astutely pointed out, the more twisted it was, the more interesting it would be.
There was nothing interesting about this.
Lestrade wasn't thrown off by his uncharacteristic silence (at least outwardly), so he turned and barked, "Anderson! Break it down."
"The, uh, the victims… were ages six, eight and two. Cause of death seems to indicate… internal injuries compounded with exposure, approximately dead for seven hours, reported missing two days ago, which places these injuries anywhere within that time frame."
Sherlock simply nodded, unbidden pictures rushing to his mind's eye. It seemed fairly consistent, maybe not dead on but close enough. He didn't trust his fickle body to make a noise to insult Anderson or even voice his approval of the diagnosis.
Or say, however quietly, that he was… glad that John was laid up at home with the flu, and not here. Right now, Sherlock knew what option he'd take.
His phone buzzed in his hand, and he answered it immediately, assuming that it was either his flatmate checking up on him, or Mycroft trying to bother him yet again.
Instead, the sender was restricted and the message was two simple words that brought his entire world to a screeching halt, tearing down the last of the walls that kept others away, ripping apart his sociopathic façade.
Merry Christmas.
No, this couldn't happen. Not to him, not for him.
He turned, meeting Lestrade's eyes, feeling like a child. Suddenly, Sherlock understood exactly why the inspector was going grey prematurely, why his face held ages and ages beyond his years.
He opened his mouth; even though his back was now facing away from the crime scene the images were burning on his eyes.
"My kingdom for a cigarette," he managed to croak out. Lestrade's eyes, those eyes that were so old and so tired but not nearly prepared for a scene like they had just witnessed, fumbled in his coat and handed what he found to Sherlock.
He even provided the lighter.