Warnings - very dark, child death, mentions of war and brief mentions of child abuse.
Found this lingering on my hard drive so i thought why the hell not. If i remember correctly I wrote this after someone called me heartless for making a decision. Something which equally pissed me off and hurt me so i applied the situation to Sherlock and voila angst. This is anytime pre-season 3 so Anderson is still a dick-although one that is having difficulties facing a tough situation in this.
Disclaimer - This is kinda dark i'm not sure i want to own it. Unfortunately the dark stuff is all mine and the rest is already owned by others :(
Very few things make hardened cops flinch – especially the veterans of homicide – however no one can remain truly unaffected when presented with the body of a child.
Indeed, the whole scene was somewhat more subdued and somber than usual. People working harder to right – or escape – the evil that had been wrought here or slower as the weight of the world dropped onto their shoulders.
Upon arrival both John and Sherlock paused, allowing a brief second, to collect themselves and allow their professional masks to fall into place. Then Sherlock began to speed about the scene making his usual deductions as John donned his latex gloves and knelt next to the body.
To the outside observer Sherlock seemed as reserved and cold as ever however, to John and Lestrade, the consulting detectives' faster and slightly jerky movements were betraying his unease. Both noticed as his eyes were repeatedly drawn from his deductive path – to the small body in front of him – before being almost forcibly dragged back again.
Unusually he even began reeling off his deductions as he went without prompt from either man. "Six years old, mothers dead, abusive father, abuse likely going back three years since the death of the mother, no extended family-"
"You don't care do you?" Anderson exploded at his back. "You sick emotionless bastard, you don't care that she was abused, you're not disgusted that she's dead, you're getting off on it! Look at you!" he sneered. "You're barely even able to conceal the sick pleasure you're getting out of this, you're not going to come away haunted like the rest of us! You won't think back with disgust and revulsion at the horror of the world you'll just enjoy it. Revel in it."
Sherlock looked sick at Anderson's implications and his face was flushed with hurt. After several moments he managed to pull some semblance of control together and re-mask his emotions, but even that couldn't hide how pale he'd become. Sherlock's expression was enough to finally snap Lestrade out of the shocked stance he'd adopted at the start of Anderson's tirade. He stepped angrily towards his forensics officer, mouth open – presumably about to yell at the man.
The yelling never came. The whole crime scene - which had been muttering about Sherlock's unprecedented display of emotion – had stilled, their attention somehow caught by a single snap of latex behind them.
All eyes on John. .
As if ignorant of the attention he was receiving, John took his time removing the gloves from his hands before slowly rising to his feet.
He did not acknowledge anyone, did not meet their gazes, and yet no one moved, no one looked away. Everyone knew this was no longer the cuddly, affable, jumper-wearing John Watson they have come to know. This man radiated calm self-assured power. This man gave orders and had them followed.
John continued to regard the floor, seemingly happy to make them all wait. Until he began to speak in a deep, calm and almost scarily controlled voice.
"When I was in Afghanistan, my unit often rendered assistance to the locals; food, information, my medical skills, whatever we could spare. One day, whilst we stopped in a village we were ambushed. All these people who couldn't care less about the war, people who had never even touched a gun, were stuck with us as the bullets came raining in. Between us my unit managed to kill enough of the ambushers to force the rest into a retreat, we didn't even lose any men."
John paused, and took a breath, raising his gaze to meet Anderson's. His body and face the picture of control except his eyes, his eyes burned. Everyone shivered at the depths of pain and suffering displayed there, even as Anderson was pinned by its force.
"However once the chaos had settled there were four villagers dead, and a five year old bleeding out in the dirt. I did what I could, but she needed a hospital, she needed equipment I couldn't carry. We called it in, waited for med-evac and I kept pressure on her wound. She was still conscious, gazing up at me even as the pain warped her face. For thirty minutes she was conscious, for thirty minutes I held pressure to that wound, completely helpless, watching the light slowly fade from her eyes. You have no idea how badly that affected me, but for those thirty minutes and all the minutes it took to get my men home safe, I was a doctor and a captain, nothing else. My orders were succinct and direct, I treated the rest of the wounded and I talked my squad, the villagers, and her parents through the panic and through the chaos."
John's voice hardened. "That, did not stop me from feeling the horror of her death, it did not stop my guilt from being unable to help her and it sure as hell doesn't stop me from waking up screaming now, but for as long as I was needed I masked all of that and got the job done"
John paused, gaze re-intensifying on Anderson as he pulled himself out of his own memories. "Do not presume that people who are capable of shelving their heart to get a hard job done are heartless, and do not presume to know what haunts a person at night from the façade they wear during the day."
With that John broke his gaze from Anderson and strode from the room.