AN: My first Sherlock fic. Don't judge it too harshly. No fangirl will ever be able to write a good Sherlock Holmes. I can only do my best.
Sherlock gripped the flashlight in his hand, shining it into every possible nook and cranny of the service tunnel. He was looking for clues—a woman had been found murdered in Shepard's Bush, yes, found murdered, but judging from her positioning and the timeframe of her discovery, not actually murdered there. It was here, in this service tunnel, in North Finchley, where she had been cut down. He needed to find the proof. If they found where she had been killed, it would lead to the killer.
"Ugh, the stench," John mumbled impatiently.
"Silence," Sherlock ordered, eyes and torch darting around the dark channel.
"Who would want to kill anyone here?"
"Someone who didn't want to get caught, obviously. Now silence."
There was nothing. Sherlock looked in every spot twice and saw nothing. As time passed, he became more and more frantic. He knew he was right. He just couldn't find the evidence.
"Sherlock, are you sure—"
"Silence!"
John let out a heavy sigh.
"The great Sherlock Holmes," he whispered to himself, thinking that Sherlock couldn't hear him, "Can tell an airport pilot by his left thumb, but now, in this wretched sewer he picks to be stumped."
"How about you then?" Sherlock said defensively, approaching John, "You take a look."
"N…no, Sherlock, I can't—"
"Oh sure you can. Quick enough to make quips about it. You give it a go."
Sherlock ferociously shoved the flashlight into John's hands, and walked a few paces away in a huff.
"I really can't, you know—"
"Do. It."
John sighed and started to futilely look around the tunnel.
Sherlock, faced with only the darkness, closed his eyes. He had been on edge for the past several nights. Usually a case would successfully distract him from petty emotions, but for some reason, this one only intensified his frustrations.
He felt the flashlight light up his back.
"Are you okay, Sherlock?"
"Keep looking."
John sighed again and continued searching.
Sherlock wasn't sure what had possessed him to be so exasperated. He usually had tight control over his emotions but they had been getting the best of him lately. That only made him angrier.
It started last Wednesday, though he wasn't sure what had caused it.
What happened on Wednesday? He thought to himself, mapping it out in his mind.
It was before the woman in Shepard's Bush was found, so Sherlock had not had a case on his desk. Without cases, Sherlock's life was a blur. All events meshed together. Nothing mattered when he wasn't working.
There was only one thing he crisply remembered occurring on Wednesday, more specifically, Wednesday morning. Sherlock had been watching some rancid American talk show where plebeians argued about who had affairs with who. He made a guessing game out of it.
John had been out, but Sherlock heard him when he had returned to 221B Baker Street. He could hear him as he stumbled up the stairs to his own room, but he was not alone, no, there was someone with him. Judging by the weight of the footsteps it had been a woman, and from the sound of the pacing, they both were under the influence of alcohol. Sherlock heard the events of the night go on until the wee hours of the morning, and couldn't bring himself to not listen. He needed to know what would happen. He needed to know about John. He needed to know—
"Sherlock?"
"What."
"How could you miss this?"
Sherlock's eyes darted open. He turned briskly.
In the light of the torch, John held a golden hair, the same color and length as the dead woman's. His eyes widened.
"That's not even all," John said, shining the flashlight to a wall where there were small specks of blood.
Sherlock's jaw unhinged only slightly at his elementary mistake.
"Sherlock are you alright? You don't usually…"
Sherlock grabbed the flashlight, shined it on the wall and looked at the blood closer. The splatter matched the way the wound appeared on her body. This was the proof. And he missed it.
This is it, Sherlock thought, my emotions got the better of me.
He couldn't let this happen. He needed to rectify this situation. He needed to know.
"Who was that woman?" Sherlock challenged John.
"What?"
"That woman. Wednesday morning. 3 a.m."
"How did you—"
"Do you really need to ask that question?"
"She was… a friend."
"A very new friend."
"Look, Sherlock. Just because we are flatmates doesn't mean we need to know everything about one another. You could back off."
That stung Sherlock slightly, but he didn't let it show.
"Fine."
He inhaled, refreshing his mind.
"We best tell Lestrade about this then. Good find, John."
"Sherlock."
"I suppose I'm not on top of my game this evening."
"Sherlock."
"Oh what is it?" Sherlock snapped, flipping around.
"Is that why you've been so touchy?"
"Sorry?"
"Since Wednesday. You've been touchy… is that why?"
"That… why? What?"
"I slept with someone. Yes."
"Why would I possibly care about that?"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock gave no hint to his emotions whatsoever. But John was right. For once the man was right.
"Does it… bother you? Why would it bother you? My other girlfriends never bothered you…"
Wrong.
"Or wait… wait no… they did bother you didn't they?"
Correct.
"You goaded every single one of them… Sarah, Jeanette…"
Correct.
"In an effort to… what, make them leave me?"
Wrong.
"An effort to… get my attention."
Correct.
"Why would you want my attention? You know it's almost always on you."
Sherlock couldn't say it. No, he had to hear it said to him. John had to deduce it. John.
"Sherlock. Sherlock… do you…" John blinked, slightly abashed. Sherlock looked at him, stoic, emotionless, unwavering.
"Sherlock, are you in love with me?"
Sherlock's lower left eyelid twitched and it gave everything away. Hopefully John hadn't noticed in the darkness.
"Excellent observational skills, Watson," Sherlock cleared his throat, "A year ago you wouldn't have even noticed those specks of blood on the wall."
"Sherlock."
"Let's call Lestrade then, shall we?"
"It was just a one-night stand. I couldn't even… you know, I was kind of tipsy, so I couldn't even…"
"Yes, John, I heard."
Sherlock could hear John's face reddening. Sherlock smiled as he faced towards the exit. He was back in control.
"Light the way then, Doctor."
John sighed, giving up on the prospect of an answer to his question. He walked ahead with the flashlight.
"Excellent observational skills indeed, John."