***Hi! So this is my first time writing crime/romance/angst fan fiction(normally I write fiction/fantasy), so please understand if some events don't really link or doesn't make sense. Please leave reviews to let me know what to improve and what you enjoyed!
The overwhelming sound of the exploding bombs and firing of the guns tore John's ears. Bullets so fast that he could not even see flew everywhere, and he got down, pressed against the cold mud. His vision was a blur, and he helplessly watched as his friends got shot down, one by one. The heavy strap gun at his side dangled, as if daring him to shoot. Just then, a bullet raced towards him.
"Aah!"
He blinked his eyes open. A dream. He'd been having the nightmare everyday since he was dismissed from the war due to his injury.
He leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He was even too tired, too empty for tears. He just wanted this to stop. For the pain to stop. For the nightmares to stop. He just wanted some peace, that was all. And this bloody world was giving him just the opposite.
John Watson, former army doctor of the Afghanistan war. He'd gotten a flat in London, where he payed off the rent with part-time jobs. He was tired of his life. He wished he'd died in the war. People thought that army was a horrible place, but it was the opposite for him. He felt comfortable there because it meant steady meal. He had someone to command him, someone to tell him what to do next. Here, he had to find his way himself.
He sighed and got up, getting ready to go to his therapist, though he knew that it wasn't going to help him much.
"Let it all out," soothed Ella, his therapist.
"Let what out?" retorted John. He was tired of this. Everyday, he had hope that maybe today he was not going to have the nightmare again. And everyday, he was disappointed.
Ella sighed. John felt a pang of guilt, but it didn't stop him from being so snappish. She didn't know, for heaven's sake. He was tired of people trying to empathise with him, when they just didn't understand. He wasn't sad or upset or scared. He was just… empty.
"John," she started, but he stopped her.
"I know, I'm sorry." He leaned back into his chair. "I had another nightmare."
"About the war?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it will ever go away?" Same routine of questions. Everyday. And useless ones, too.
"I don't think so. At least not entirely."
"You need a friend, John." The question took him completely off guard, and he felt heat rising to his face. Yes, I'm the loner with not friend, good point.
"Yeah, okay." He coughed, hoping that the awkwardness doesn't show off. Ella seemed to pick it up anyway.
"Seriously, it will help a lot. A close friend to take the burden off your shoulder and make you forget what happened, at least a bit." Ella looked into his eyes, and he could see that she was sincere. He nodded, if only to make her happy.
"Maybe… get a flatmate. Don't just live alone, have someone to make sure that you're okay, make sure you're eating. Someone to soothe you when you have one of your nightmares." John nodded, but he didn't let his hopes grow. Who would want to be flatmates with him, anyway? John Watson, the helpless and broken army doctor. He wasn't even sure he was a doctor anymore, not now. He couldn't even cure himself.
A few hours later, he met up with Mike, his colleague. They talked about nothing for some time, about the weather, their job, their life.
"Ah, how much have hanged since we parted," sighed Mike, his belly jiggling as he leaned back in his chair, munching happily on a donut. John smiled, but his mind was on something else.
"Listen, Mike. My therapist… she said that it would help a lot if I had a trustworthy friend to… you know, take off the burden a bit, and make me forget what happened there." He rubbed his hands against his knee. This was getting awkward. He wished he had shut his mouth. "So, ah…"
"Oh! I know a friend — I mean colleague — who also needs a friend. More specifically, a flatmate. Would you like to meet him?"
John looked up from his hands, surprised. He had proposed to Mike to be his friend, but he seemed to not have gotten the message. Oh, well. It was fine either way. Who would want to be flatmates with him anyway? He was sure that after hearing his story, the man would politely nod and smile until it was time for them to part.
"Yeah, okay."
Mike smiled, getting up. He swept away some donut crumbs at the side of his mouth, and patted John on the shoulder. "Follow me, then."
"Wake up, my baby brother-who-owes-me-since-you-live-in-my-house!"
Sherlock startled at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He felt a surge of annoyance tug at his stomach. "Will you stop it?"
"No, I shall not, brother-of-mine-who-lives-in-my-house-since-he-got-kicked-out-of-everywhere- else. You should be grateful and be on your knees, thanking me, shouldn't you?" Mycroft smirked. He always loved taunting Sherlock.
Finally, with a sigh, Sherlock got up, dressed, and opened up his laptop. He signed onto his website, The Science of Deduction, and typed away.
"What are you doing now, brother-who-lives-in-my-house?"
"That's it!" Sherlock shut the laptop with a loud bang and put on his coat. "I'm getting a flat!"
"As if you can, baby brother. No one will take in a psychopath."
Sherlock walked up to Mycroft, coming nose-to-nose with him. Temporary rage boiled at the pit of his stomach. "I am not your baby brother, and as I've explained thousand of times before, I'm a high-functioning sociopath, NOT A PSYCHOPATH!" And with that, he banged the door shut, breathing hard.
Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Baker Street, where he visited Mrs. Hudson, a landlady he knew well. Though he secretly cared for the old lady, he carefully hid his affection well, afraid of his own emotion.
"Oh, Sherlock!" cried Mrs. Hudson when she caught glimpse of him in her cafe. She quickly slid off her apron and ran out to greet him. Grabbing his face, she cheek-kissed him, affectionately petting his back. Impatient and uncomfortable, Sherlock drew back, frowning. Emotional scenes always made his fidgety.
"Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson. Quite nice to see you. Do you have a flat you could rent me?"
Mrs. Hudson, being used to his abrupt and straight-forward manners, wasn't surprised at all. "Why, have you fought with your brother? And yes, I do have a flat at 221B. Come on up, I'll show you."
Muttering thanks, Sherlock followed her upstairs. 221B was a nice and simple flat, and he had to admit that he rather liked it. It had a cozy atmosphere, and overlooked the street. "Yes, yes, this'll do great. No requirements or anything?"
"Oh, I don't know. Get a flatmate, won't you? Preferably a doctor, mind. My bones aren't the same as before…" she giggled and trailed off downstairs. She meant it as a joke — I mean, who would believe that anyone would want to be flatmates with Sherlock? — but he took it seriously. He cocked his head, trying to figure out who would want to be flatmates with him. As he knew no doctor, he went out, muttering to himself. It occurred to him that Mike was some sort of doctor after all. He decided that he would have to talk to him, though he didn't really like Mike.
John nervously stood at the door to Sherlock Holmes's lab, gripping his walking stick tightly. He was about to meet his potential new flatmate. Mike knocked on the door, to which a very female voice replied, "Come in!"
Startled, John glanced at Mike. Was he suggesting that he get a flat with a woman? Especially a stranger woman?
He shot Mike a sharp look, but he just opened the door, smiling mysteriously. John nervously went in, wondering at what to say. The first thing that caught his eyes were the equipments in the white lab, everything from microscopes to X-rays. Then, he caught sight of a man intently staring at a substance. Relieved, John assumed the man was Sherlock, and he was relieved. He didn't know what he would have done if Mike had actually taken him to a stranger woman to get a flat together. He coughed to get Sherlock's attention, but the man either completely ignored him or had not heard him. John decided to believe the second option.
A pretty woman, the one John assumed who had answered the knock, came out from behind a tall machine. carrying a big bucket. John almost choked with surprise when he took a glance at it.
"Is that - Is that a brain?"
"Yeah," she replied. She didn't even look remotely disgusted. Finally, the man, Sherlock, looked up. John felt strange under his glare. It felt like the man was scanning him.
"Former army doctor in the Afghanistan war, sent back because of your injury, right?"
"How did you know all that?" he certainly felt strange now. But not scared. No, he've seen much more horrible and surprising things than this.
"Observation," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "People see, but don't observe." He placed his hands together under his chin as if praying.
"Yeah, okay," John straightened, hoping that he didn't look as baffled as he felt. Sherlock stood up and took off his gloves. "I'm John Watson."
"Sherlock Holmes, address is 221B Baker Street. Meet you tomorrow 7 pm at the flat, give you some time to pack up your stuff and come." Then, smiling widely, Sherlock was out of the lab.
"What?" John turned to look at Mike, who was chuckling. "We've literally just met and he wants to get a flat with me?"
"Yeah, he does that. Sorry," called the pretty woman, now eyeing a plate full of green liquid. "Name's Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you."
"Um, I'm John." he coughed. God, why did he have to be so awkward? "I'm… well, you heard what he observed. I was an army doctor."
"Mmm hmm," mumbled Molly. She was mixing some substances.
"Well, it was nice to see you. Gotta go now." John looked back to say goodbye, but her back was turned to him. Sighing, he dragged Mike with him, who was trying to flirt with Molly.
He didn't know why he'd accepted the offer to be that man's flatmate, but for some reason, he was inexplicably drawn to him.
"Well, did you find your flatmate, then?" prompted Mrs. Hudson when he entered the flat. She giggled at the impossibility.
"Yes, actually," replied Sherlock, pretending to be offended by her incredulous look. "Why, is it that surprising? For a sociopath to find a flatmate?"
"It is very surprising, really," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she sat down his tea on the coffee table. Sherlock plopped into his usual chair by the table, falling into his usual 'thinking' posture. "Who is it, then?"
Very annoyed, he hastily replied, "A retired army doctor, Dr. John Watson."
"Ooh, a doctor!" Mrs. Hudson squealed, opening the fridge to check that he had enough to eat as he 'never went out to buy foods,' as Mrs. Hudson muttered all the time. She shuffled to his seat and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "You really have been trying to make friends, haven't you! And a useful one, too! Now I can get my hip tended, see." Then, she made to go down the stairs when she suddenly stopped. Sherlock shifted, annoyed. He could sense that she was about to ask another question.
"Wait, he's not like… you, is he?"
He snapped his head to her direction. "Like me? What's that supposed to mean?"
The old landlady scrunched up her face, trying to find the right words. One wrong word and Sherlock might erupt into one of his 'states,' as she called it. "Well, you know. A bit… crazy and noisy."
Sherlock sharply drew in his breath. This conversation was getting really annoying now. "Mrs. Hudson, if you call highly intelligent but anti-social people 'crazy and noisy,' then no, the man is not very intelligent, and not at all anti-social. Now please go away so that I can think. And please check the mail for me."
"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson muttered as she stomped downstairs.
Sherlock sighed. Really, as much as he did not hate Mrs. Hudson as much as anybody else, she did get annoying sometimes. Or most of the times.
"Could — you — help — me, Mr. Holmes?" gasped John as he tried to drag all of his luggages up to the flat. It was very hard to carry a big bag up a narrow staircase, especially with a bloody limp. Sherlock, who had been thinking, opened his eyes.
"What? No. I'm thinking. Also, Sherlock suits me just fine. For God's sake, we'll be living together. Off with the formality."
"Yeah, okay," sighed John as he finally got all the way upstairs and threw his bag on the floor. He looked around, taking in the sight of his new home. It actually looked quite cozy and comfortable. "So, where's my room?"
Sherlock looked quite confused. "Your room?"
"Yes, my room. Where would I be sleeping?"
"Isn't the couch a great place to sleep? Look, it's all comfy." To prove his point, Sherlock got up with a grunt and threw himself onto the big couch.
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What? I don't even get a bed? For Christ's sake." He sat down onto another couch, opposite from where Sherlock had been sitting moment ago. He glanced at the cold tea at the coffee table. "Where do you sleep, then?"
"Why, right there," Sherlock pointed at the far room at the corner, just across a short hall. John snorted, getting really pissed off now.
"So you get a room, and I don't?"
"Problem?" Sherlock looked up at him so innocently that he gave up and started unpacking his things. Nothing much, really. Just some clothes. Then Sherlock smirked, chuckling. John looked up, his face crumpled. "What?"
"Did you really believe that I would be so arrogant as to give myself a bedroom and you none? Really, do I look that careless?" John suppressed the urge to reply 'yes.' Sherlock continued. "Your bedroom is upstairs."
"Sherlock," called the landlady from down below. "Is Mr. Watson here?"
"Yes, yes," replied Sherlock, clearly bored. John got the feeling that the old woman have been asking the question more than once before.
"Yes, hello," John said when she finally hobbled upstairs. Giggling, she cheek-kissed him twice and hugged him tightly. Unaccustomed to such affection, John stiffly patted her on the shoulder. "John Watson, Mrs…"
"Mrs. Hudson, dear. Oh, I've heard of you. An army doctor! Dreadful war, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson squealed.
"Ah, yes. Quite nice to meet you too."
Just then, Sherlock's phone rang. Sighing, he fished the phone out of his pocket and got it.
"Yes? Dead?" John's head snapped up, shocked. He turned to look at Mrs. Hudson, expecting her to look horrified, but she only tut-tutted and muttered something about being glad that Sherlock wasn't going to be bored anymore. Frowning, John listened to the rest of the conversation, which was not much. A slow smile spread on Sherlock's face. "Yes. I'll be there in five minutes."
Sherlock got up, put on his coat, and ran down the stairs before remembering John. Popping his head back inside the flat, he called, "You coming?"
Incredulous, John stared at him. "You mean, I should come to investigate a dead body?"
Sherlock squinted at him as if that was perfectly obvious. John sighed, annoyed. He was starting to hate that oh-come-on-isn't-it-obvious look. Clearing his throat, he replied, "Yeah, I'll go."
Even before the he finished his sentence, Sherlock fled downstairs. Grunting, he stood up, straightened his shirt, and followed Sherlock, hobbling. He wasn't sure if he liked this new flatmate of his or not, but he couldn't deny that Sherlock was rather an intriguing man.
"Sherlock," nodded Lestrade as he stepped into the murder scene.
"Yes, Gavin, what is it this time?"
Lestrade sighed. Sherlock smirked internally. He knew that it was Greg, but he loved pissing him off. "It's Greg. And a car accident, it seems, only it's happening abnormally a lot in a row in the same style. We're not quite sure if it's murder or not, but it seems like it. We tried checking the black box, but we couldn't find much of them, and in the few we've found, the number is either too smudged to recognise or it's sprayed with yellow paint."
Without replying, Sherlock walked around the car, taking in details.
3 years in use. The back crumpled from the crash. Stuffed animals covering the back window.
He barely noticed as John came hurrying in. "Sherlock!"
"I'm sorry, you can't come in here."
Sherlock looked up to find John blocked by Donovan. Carelessly, he muttered, "Let him in."
"What?"
"He's with me. Let him in." He got to the driver's seat, where a woman had been killed in the car crash.
24 years old. Japanese-American. Unmarried. Has a boyfriend who is cheating on her. Right-handed. Wheel driven into her chest, immediately killed after the collision.
He vaguely heard John introducing himself to Lestrade. "John Watson, former Afghanistan war army doctor."
"John, come here," muttered Sherlock.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Come. Here."
As John hobbled up next to him, he pointed at the woman. "Tell me, how many hours have she been dead?"
Clearing his throat, John squatted and took the wrist of the dead woman. After inspecting the body for a few seconds, he confirmed, "about an hour ago."
"I thought so."
"What?"
God, he was getting tired of people making him repeat everything. So instead, Sherlock decided to ignore it. It was much easier that way.
"Connection," he breathed. "I need to see the other cars."
"What?" This time, it was Lestrade. Feeling his temper rise, Sherlock fired back at him.
"Where. Are. The. Other. Cars? For God's sake, why can't you just listen? Do you have problems listening or are you just stupid?" Seeing that Lestrade drew back with an injured look, he calmed his temper. "No, no, no, don't get offended. I'm talking generally."
Lestrade, used to his outbursts, sniffed and seemed to forget what Sherlock had said. "Yeah, follow me."
John still looked at bit alarmed at his temporary rage, but Sherlock tried to ignore it. Now was not the time.
John stared at Sherlock while they were driving to the scene. The man was strange… yet fascinating. He was mysterious, but he was blunt. He was fascinating, yet intimidating. He was unlike anyone he'd ever met.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" John flinched and turned his head to look ahead. Sherlock, apparently uncomfortable, shifted in his seat. John could feel heat creeping up his neck.
"I — um — sorry," he stuttered. Did he look like he liked Sherlock? Like-like?
"No… it's okay," muttered Sherlock. An awkward silence fell, and he felt sheepish.
"Got yourself a boyfriend, then?" crowed Anderson, who was driving the car.
"I'm not his boyfriend—"
"Shut up, Anderson," snapped Sherlock. John didn't know whether to laugh or be ashamed.
This car was trashed at the side of a highway. Sherlock circled around the car, taking in all information he can. Japanese anime lover. Collision at the back. Lives alone. Anime stickers on the back window. Driver is obese. His mother died about an year ago.
Squinting, he crept up to the driver's seat, where a fat man of about 47 was sprawled on the seat. He had a few whiskers of hair and broken glasses. Right handed, Anime lover, Drinking habits, Video game addict.
Sighing, he realised that he would have to go to every single one of the cars to clearly make a connection. This wasn't proving to be a very exciting case, as there weren't exactly clues. He glanced at his watch. It was just past midnight.
"I'm going," he muttered to Lestrade. Lestrade's eyebrows arched, surprised, but he didn't object. "Send me the pictures of all the cars."
"Yeah, alright." He shuffled closer. "Listen, if you happen to have any idea of what's going on, let me know immediately. I don't want to see any more corpses."
Smirking, Sherlock barely nodded. He nodded to John, who was leaning on to his crutch at the side, afraid of interfering. "Come on. Aren't you going?"
John looked at him and nodded, his face strangely slack. Never mind, Sherlock told himself. A dumb flatmate is better than a smart-arse.
They got a cab after walking for some time and sat in an awkward silence. John shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Sherlock had forgotten that most people found total silence unnerving or awkward. He made to say something when John said, "So, what's your job? Some kind of detective?"
"Consulting detective." John looked puzzled at the statement, so Sherlock cleared it up for him. "You might not have heard of it. I'm the world's only consulting detective, I invented the job."
John looked still mystified. "Ah, so, what does a consulting detective do, then?"
"Police come to me when they can't solve case, which is always." He may have sounded arrogant, but he didn't really care. It was true, anyway. To his dismay, John laughed outright, though he seemed to think better of it and tired to disguise it as a cough. "What?"
"No, it's just…" John smirked, glancing at Sherlock's incredulous face. "No offence, but police don't consult amateurs."
"Amateurs?" he'd never heard a more insulting word than that. "Amateur? Well, I'll show you what this amateur can do. I see that you are an ex-army doctor, as already said, and that you retired from a leg injury. You have a limp, but it is at least partly psychosomatic, which means that it's related to mental problems. You have a therapist, but the therapist isn't really helping you, is she? Also, you have an alcoholic brother who had just left his wife." He paused, having said all this in one breath. He didn't glance at John; he was too intent on impressing him.
"Now, how did I know all this? Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, tells me that you've been in military for some time. Tanned face, but not above the wrists, means that you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Also, you have limp so bad that you can't walk without a crutch, but when you stand still you don't ask for a chair, like you've forgotten about it. This shows that it's at least partly psychosomatic. Of course you have a therapist, you are so traumatised that you have limp caused because of the trauma. But your dark circle under your eyes shows sleeplessness, nightmares, and you're not taking care of yourself. So the therapist isn't really helping you. Now, your phone, it's a very expensive model. But you're not the kind of man who will spend money on luxuries like this, your clothes and your skin, everything shows that. Also, the scratches, it's been in a pocket full of coins and keys. You wouldn't treat a luxury like that. So it's a present. The name on the back: Harry Watson, so clearly a family member, but who is he? Not your father, this model was a possession of a young man. Possibly a cousin, but not likely because it's unlikely that you've got an extended family, so a brother. The xxx from Clara bit shows romantic attachment, but the cost, it must be expensive, so a wife, not girlfriend. He left her, that's the reason he's giving the phone away to you. If it was the other way around, he would've kept the phone, people do, sentiment. But no, he's giving it away, so he's left her. Now, the scratches around the power connection, that means that his hand is shaking when he's connecting it. So he's an alcoholic. Am I right?" He panted for breath, glancing at John, who was staring at him like he had just performed a magic trick. He prepared for the worst, as he had been called many unpleasant things for making some obvious deductions.
"How did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw and observed."
"That's… that's… bloody brilliant!" Sherlock blinked his eyes in surprise. He'd been called a freak, a psychopath — which wasn't even correct, for God's sake — but never brilliant.
"You — you think so?" He was still uncertain, still unsure.
"Yes, of course. That's really bloody fascinating!"
He glanced at John, certain that he was joking. But John's eyes were actually lit up with excitement and wonder. He had those puppy eyes, and Sherlock coughed and looked forward, heat creeping up his cheeks.
"Thank… you?" It almost sounded like a question, and he laughed. John laughed with him, and they laughed until Sherlock stopped abruptly. John glanced at him, surprised.
"What?"
"No, it's just…" he didn't know how to describe the feeling. "It's just…new."
John looked as if he wanted more explanation, but Sherlock had to stop there. It was new to him. To have someone laugh with him, not at him. It was new that someone called him brilliant, fascinating. He didn't know what to think. He thought… he thought he liked it. And he wanted John to know that he liked it.
"John," Sherlock began, peeping at him. John looked unnerved and uncomfortable. "I think you should know that I've never laughed together with someone before, and I've never been called brilliant. I've always been a freak, a psychopath — which is not correct by the way, I'm a high functioning sociopath — but never brilliant or fascinating. And it's quite new to me to be this open to anyone, too. I know that you may be uncomfortable and maybe afraid right now, because I can be quite unnerving and frightening sometimes, I know. But in time, I'll try to be open to you, because flatmates have to be open to each other."
John looked a bit surprised but also a bit gratified. "I — thank you. It's new to me, too. I hope we can be great friends."
Friends. A quite new concept for him. He cocked his head at the word, amazed. No-one had proposed to be his friend before, let alone great friend. Nor had he wanted to be anybody's friend. But now, he wasn't so sure. He thought that he rather liked John's company.
They went into the house, awkward. Mrs. Hudson greeted them both by a quick cheek-kiss. John went upstairs to his bedroom to tidy things up.
"Mrs. Hudson, a cup of tea would be lovely," sighed Sherlock as took off his heavy coat and scarf. He plopped down onto the couch, tired but strangely calm and pleasant. He felt… very light and fluffy. Fluffy? He almost laughed at himself for being so ridiculous.
"Now, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson shuffled about, reproaching but consenting to his request. Suddenly, he had a strong desire to tell her that he appreciated her.
"Mrs. Hudson," he started, breathless with excitement and adrenaline. Mrs. Hudson, to his annoyance, did not stop fussing about and pouring some hot water into the cup. "I want you to know that I appreciate that you haven't kicked me out of your flat yet and that you'll make tea for me."
Mrs. Hudson put the hot cup of tea on the coffee table and stared at him as if he'd grown a third arm. "Sherlock, you feeling okay? Are you high? Have you been on drugs? I knew that I should've gotten rid of those drugs in the garage."
"There are drugs at the garage?" This new piece of information surprised Sherlock so much that he forgot about his appreciation for Mrs. Hudson.
"Just some for my hips. Do not even think of it, Mr!" But she seemed rather pleased and gently patted him on the cheeks before she went downstairs. Sherlock cocked his head again. Lots of new things and emotions were happening to him today.
John sat on the edge of his new — actually it was quite old, but anyway — bed and thought about today. It had been such a wild day that he couldn't quite believe that it had been just one day. He'd moved into his new flat, where he met his new flatmate, Sherlock, for the second time, who turned out to be a scary, intimidating, and fascinating psychopath, and he'd seen two people killed in a car crash, possibly by a serial killer. And this new emotion he couldn't quite put a finger on… it was bothering him and making him feel stupid for his heart being so fluttered and fluffy. He was inexplicably drawn to Sherlock Holmes, though feeling the danger he was getting into. It was like a tempting mouse trap, where he could obviously see the trap but was strongly tempted to go into it. And the cheese was the fascinating Sherlock Holmes.
For God's sake, John. He laughed at himself for being so cheesy. Really, the cheese was the fascinating Sherlock Holmes?
But he couldn't deny that he felt a strong emotion when Sherlock said that the emotion of doing something together with someone, the emotion of having a companion, a friend, was new to him, because it was new to him, too. He didn't have a real friend he could call at the time of need, not really. He didn't have any one to call up when he was having a nightmare or having the worst day of his life. All of them, they were not friends. They were playmates, going in and out of his life, flickering in and out of the spotlight.
For some reason, he felt like he wouldn't have a nightmare this night.
Sherlock stared at the photos of cars, trying to find a connection. There must be a connection… a connection… connection…
"Sherlock?"
He barely noticed John coming into the living room. He continued muttering.
"The first was a Japanese-American Women, Unmarried, and the second was a middle-aged man, unmarried, lived alone, likes Japanese Anime, and this one," he struck his finger at the photo of a woman lying dead on the driver's seat. "She was married, but had problems with her husband… And the next one, he was a college student, had a girlfriend, only one parent… All of them, all of the cars were hit from the back. So something about the back side…"
He flipped through the photos and through his mind, trying to find a connection. A connection, a connection…
"Connection. The back, what's so special about the back side? The murderer must have seen the back side of the car and wanted to kill the driver… The back side, the back side… Make a connection. There must be a connection… oh." He opened his eyes, his brain whirring and clicking. Realisation hit him like a stone, and he felt familiar adrenaline running through his veins. John, who had been making breakfast, glanced at him.
"Sherlock?"
"Oh! Not the back side, the back window!" he got up and started walking around, a maniac smile spreading on his wild face. "The back window! Ah, yes!"
"Sherlock, would you just tell me what you've found out?" John walked out of the kitchen holding two cups of coffee. He sat one down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and sat down onto the couch.
Sherlock turned around to face him, his face incredulous. "Don't you get it? The back window! Not the back seat, not the back side, not the number plate, but the window!" But no realisation hit John's face, and he laughed, amused at the stupidity. Then he stopped, remembering that people found laughing at them offending. Just then, his phone rang, and he immediately received it.
"Yes," Sherlock glanced at John, who sipped at the morning coffee. "Another? I'll be right there."
He threw his phone onto the couch and raced around, putting on his things. "Guess it's time to check if I'm right. You coming?"
John still looked confused but got up. Sherlock raced ahead, calling a cab.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the scene. This time, it was a woman of about 34. Lestrade and his team had also just arrived. Without greeting, Sherlock quickly got to the car. Married but divorced, Has a child, Right-handed.
"There's a child!" he heard John exclaim and quickly glanced at the back seat. A boy of about 6 years old was bleeding severely from his head wound. John quickly ran up to the child and checked his pulse, and his white face became relieved somewhat. "He's still breathing, but barely. Call the ambulance!"
"What?" Lestrade took in the view of the car.
"Call the ambulance!" As John treated to the boy's wound, Sherlock stared, fascinated. He had forgotten that John was a doctor, and an army doctor at that. Quickly, he shook himself and moved around the car. Again, hit from the back. 5+ years in use. Domestic abuse had been happening, which is why she left her husband and took her child.
When he got to the back window, a slow smile spread in his lips, and he laughed outright. The surge of adrenaline and excitement pulsed through his veins. Yes, this is what he lived for. To be not bored, to prove that he was right. Lestrade, intrigued by his sudden outburst of happiness, moved to his side. "What?"
"The back window!" it barely came out more than a whisper as he laughed. "Don't you see? Every single victim had something covering the back window! The first were stuffed animals, the second were anime stickers, the third had a blind on the back window, the now this woman has a baby seat that blocks the back window! Ha!"
John came back from getting the boy safely onto the ambulance, and Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who was just standing dumbly beside him. "Tell me, how long has it been since the crash?"
"Uh — about 15 minutes," replied Lestrade, his brows creasing. "But—"
Without listening, Sherlock took off, racing along the road. A middle-aged person, strongly likely to be a woman, with its front crushed up and yellow paint on its number plate.
He ran for about 20 minutes when he came across a parked car with its front bashed in and the number plate sprayed with yellow paint resting on the side of the road. He slowly crept up to the driver's seat window. 10+ years in use. Baby seat on the back seat, but not recently used, in fact not for about 2 months.
A woman with dark circles under her eyes sat in the driver's seat, calmly sipping at a take-away cup of tea. Her sunken eyes roamed aimlessly on his face. Her grubby blond hair was all tangled, and she had makeup smudged all over her face. She looked like she had been living inside her car for a long time.
"Hello," said Sherlock, acting up mock kindness. He stretched his lips into a fake but convincing grin. "Um, sorry, but you were a bit over speeding…"
"No need to act," whispered the woman. Her wispy blond hair shone blindingly in the bright morning light, and she raised her pale blue eyes to meet his stare. A small smile played on her lips. "You and I both know why you're here."
Always the one to quickly drop off his acting, he let his fake grin fall. "Yes. We know, don't we? And why you did it?"
Just as he said those words, the police car arrived behind. John got off the car and came running to his side, but Sherlock stood, unmoved. "The back window, they were all blocked. You lost a child recently, haven't you? About two months ago? The baby seat, it's not used recently, at least not for about 2 months. All of the toys sprawled on the back seat proves it. Spent days in your car, yes? About a month, I guess from the state of your hair, your grubby skin, and the leftover food. The flies and bacteria had taken over it, but not entirely, so about a month. I'm guessing that your child was killed in an accident where he — yes, he, guessing from the baby supplies you have back there — strayed to the back of the car, and the driver, not seeing the child because of something blocking their rear window, hit the child. You just saw when the car hit, you saw that it wouldn't have happened if only the back window was not blocked. You grieved the death of your child, and then something inside you broke. You started to have unreasonable — yes, unreasonable, don't question me — rage for everyone, everyone with their back window blocked. You just started to spend your life in the car about a month ago, and you've been killing — or crashing into — anyone with their back window blocked up by something. Also, you have parted ways with your husband, are you not? Otherwise, he would've taken care of you. He would never have let this happen. Am I right?"
John stared at him in awe, but he only focused his eyes on the woman, who by now had moved on to flip through the photos of her son. "Yes," she whispered. She tenderly kissed the old photo. "The stupid, stupid driver had his back window all blocked up by paintings, useless paintings. My son stumbled across the back of the car, chasing after a stray ball, and he—"
She stopped there to choke down her emotions, but she soon laughed, a manic fire dancing in her eyes. "He died, didn't he? Just because of that driver's stupid paintings. I lost all hope, and that stupid husband of mine ran away, choked in his own grief. He never did care for me. I spent my life in this little car, looking at my son's old photos. Then one day, I saw a man driving with his back window blocked by a painting. If only it hadn't been that cursed painting, I might have just ignored it. But no, it had to be a painting. I just had an impulse, and I crashed into the car, hard, without thinking. I was prepared to die. But I survived, and the man died. Silly, tedious things. I moved on, when I suddenly got scared. I blocked up the number plate with a spray paint. I was sure that I would get caught that night, but I didn't. Then I saw another one with her rear window blocked by stickers, and my cursed impulse took hold of me again. Again and again, I crashed. Again and again, I survived, they died. I lived in constant fear, I was scared to death. But I kept doing it. I've probably gone insane."
"Sherlock," John tugged at his coat, a clear warning in his voice. John could recognise a psychopath when he saw one, he realised. But this woman's story intrigued him. He moved in closer. "And then?"
"And I got away," sighed the woman. "until now. But I'm not scared anymore."
Suddenly, she leapt forward, a deep growling sound gurgling at the back of her throat. Sherlock drew back quickly, though not alarmed. He'd seen enough insane things to be surprised. Lestrade and his group moved in quickly and secured the handcuff around the woman, who was by now drooling. If he hadn't backed away, she might have ripped off his throat.
As he walked away, John followed him. With a sideway glance, he smirked. "Seems like it's gone, then."
John stopped next to him, his face puzzled. "What?"
"Your limp." Sherlock turned around, a small grin playing on his lips. But this time, it was genuine. "See, I told you that it was psychosomatic. You've totally forgotten about it in the excitement, haven't you?"
John looked down at his feet. Then, slowly, he began to laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're right. Like always."
Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock, who was walking back to Baker Street with Dr. Watson. He half-smiled, though with a tinge of sadness. He wished Sherlock knew that he was there for him when he needed him, too.
"Seems like freak's found a friend, then," sighed Sally. He glanced at her with a slight frown. He never liked her calling Sherlock a 'freak,' but every time he told her to stop calling him that, she seemed to grow more determined to call him the name.
"Yes," he replied, staring at the two darkening figures. "An epic story, isn't it? The adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."
***Phew! Thank you for reading my story! Also, I'm currently desperately looking for Beta Readers for this fic, so if you're interested, please PM me and we can talk :)