Sherlock Holmes was not used to the feeling of failure. It was obvious why, as he had only been outwitted twice. The feeling grabbed him around the throat and began to choke him. He of all people began to hyperventilate so he sat down. He hadn't saved the woman's life he was hired to protect. She'd been shot in the head.
Stupid! It was obvious now who the killer was—they'd revealed themselves with an accidental clue at the crime scene, but the client was dead so it didn't matter. And to all signs, the killer had fled the country, and, aside from that tiny shred of physical evidence, they had no proof as to the killer's identity (though, of course, Sherlock knew who he was).
It wasn't so much that the client who had hired them was dead—he considered it a possibility in every case he'd taken on—it was the fact that now, they had no way of catching the man who'd murdered seven women in three weeks. He'd failed.
John looked at him, worried. The self-loathing in his eyes could have guided a ship to shore in the fog, and his face had gone pale.
"What is it?" he cautiously asked.
"Mrs. Traderson is dead." Sherlock's voice was hollow, flat, wooden.
"What? How?"
"Shot. I missed the most obvious of facts! How could I not have seen that the killer was the fiancé?" He threw his phone across the room.
John didn't know what to say. He settled on "Well, we know who he is, we can arrest him."
"No, we can't. He left the country by private jet."
"You could trace the jet," John suggested.
"Don't you think I've tried that? It vanished somewhere over the Mediterranean." He flopped on the couch in a huff, his back to the room. John decided it might be a good idea to make a cup of tea. He put it on the coffee table for Sherlock, and left the room to take his pain medication (his shoulder wound had been acting up recently). He stopped when he heard a loud crash. He ran back to the living room, and there was a teacup sized hole in the window. John shrugged, exasperated.
"Sherlock, everyone fails once in a while," he ventured.
"I don't." Was Sherlock crying?
"If you didn't, you wouldn't be human."
"Human. We use that word to excuse so much. 'I forgot your birthday, I'm only human.' 'Yes, I'll admit that I had one drink too many, I'm only human.' 'So sue me for wanting a shag, I'm only human.' Base vile animal weaknesses." Yes, he was definitely crying.
"Love is human. Happiness is human."
"Love clouds judgement. Happiness is temporary."
"So is failure. You'll get the next one. I know you will." Sherlock didn't respond to John, but John could see him taking shuddering breaths—not just crying, then. Sobbing outright. Out of respect, John decided to leave the flat and give Sherlock some time to himself.