Hey! This is my first fanfiction novel type thing...I hope you like!
I am not exactly sure when this takes place...its about right after season 3 really, but the whole thing with 'Did you miss me?' hasn't really taken effect.
I don't want to get too far into that...I may have a mental breakdown if I talk too much about Moriarty. I'll leave that part up to Moffat and Gatiss. :) thanks! I really hope you like it!
It's basically just Sherlock and John solving a case. But not just any case...DUN DUN DUUUUUN.
Sherlock paced rapidly through the messy flat, his hands placed openly on his chin, his mind unsettled, as always. His expression was twisted into a look of distress; his eyes lurking in sadness below the ridge of his long, dark curls of hair.
John sat in his usual chair, watching him carefully.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" John sighed as a question.
"No." Sherlock snapped hastily, closing his eyes and exhaling in irritation.
"Alright." John huffed, and got to his feet to get two cups anyway.
He clanged and clinked in the kitchen, rustling through the cupboards, as he strained to find a way to get through to Sherlock.
He knew it would be difficult. His friend was a hard person to chat with.
"Sherlock?" John called out, "Why does this case have you so frazzled?" More than usual at least, John thought. He sighed once more as Sherlock only answered with an aggravated silence.
"Alright." John muttered again, as he shuffled back to his red armchair, and placed the tray of tea onto the small coffee table. Sherlock turned his way and quickly sat down in his own black, leather sofa chair, sat in front of John's, crossing his legs and folding his arms.
"Name John." Sherlock seemed to order, much to John's confusion. "What?" He flinched awkwardly, gazing at his friend with narrowed eyes.
"Case name, John. What are you naming it on your blog?" He snapped in a deep breath, and shut his eyes softly, as he had done before, as if attempting to concentrate harder.
"Um," John hummed, and winced, "I don't know…Cabin Fever?"
Sherlock got to his feet.
"A log cabin in the middle of nowhere bursts into flames, nothing left by ash, and you want to name it Cabin Fever?" Sherlock scoffed, and went back to thinking. John shook his head in aggravation. He stared at Sherlock with gentle eyes. Something was off. He seemed to be more upset about this case. As if this one was driving him completely berserk. At least far more than usual.
"What is it Sherlock?" John questioned with suspicious eyes, as he glared at his friend.
Sherlock simply shrugged, "What do you mean?"
"This case has you on edge. Is there something you aren't sharing?"
Sherlock shook his head quickly, "I'm thinking."
John sighed, and smiled a weary, crooked smile, which soon vanished. "No, it's more than that."
This case seemed to be consuming him, his best friend, in ways John couldn't describe, nor understand. What was so completely abnormal about this case, than any other? Nobody had died. Nothing had been lost, but a simple old cabin.
"It's nothing, John." Sherlock snapped hastily, and began pacing again.
He reached for the cup of tea, and took it with him on his continuous journey around the dusty flat. John narrowed his eyes and watched as Sherlock fell into his mind palace once more. He sighed, "Stop shutting me out Sherlock." John spat.
Sherlock turned slowly, gazed at his friend, blinked, and then swayed towards the window.
"The last time you did that, you jumped off a roof and died for two years." John only mumbled his comment, but he heard Sherlock hold his breath for a moment, before slowly releasing it. After what seemed to be a decade of dead silence, Sherlock spoke.
"I thought you'd forgiven me."
John chuckled, "You're my best friend, of course I've forgiven you. But I don't want to be confronted with the chance of losing you again. Not for real, this time."
John swallowed, remembering that moment that struck his heart harder than he thought possible. He remembered sitting in the flat, staring at Sherlock's empty black arm chair, the moment he hit the ground replaying over and over again in his head like a broken record. The things his best friend had said to he was a fraud. That everything he had said and done was fake. That he planned every case, every code, and every victory. That Moriarty never existed; that he was a simple actor. But John knew it couldn't be real. Every hateful word spoken about him thereafter wasn't the truth. But the fact of reality, that he had lost his truest friend, took ages to set in. That he'd never hear his unplanned insults, and certainly miraculous deductions where he seemed to know every little thing about everyone else. And just as the pain had found its way into the storage center of his heart, tucked away only to come out when John was alone, Sherlock had returned unexpectedly. And John had been outraged. But that didn't stop him from returning to Sherlock's side again. Even with Mary in the picture now, he wouldn't abandon his best friend. Especially now, when Sherlock needed him more than ever. This case. It was getting to him. Scratching at the door of his soul.
Sherlock was staring at him now, his blue-green eyes apologizing repeatedly.
"I have to go see Mycroft." Sherlock stated, and cleared his throat.
He trotted over to the door, where his dark navy blue, nearly black, trench coat hung. He grabbed it, pulled it on, and followed with his blue striped scarf.
"About what?" John asked, and turned to face him, as he still sat in his red chair.
Sherlock froze.
"Redbeard."
And in an instant, he was gone.
