Sherlock returned around 2 in the morning, and John knew this because he was still bandaging his arm. He'd gone a little deeper than he'd thought, but the bleeding was slowing down. He shoved down his sleeve as the door flung open. The lanky consulting detective yelped something about the case before crashing down the stairs.

John didn't even have the strength to get up and close the door.

He could hear metal and bones clanking downstairs, and cringed as glass shattered against the floor. What was the man up to now?

Hissing when he jarred his wounds the army doctor limped down the stairs. The living room was a mess to put it lightly. Sherlock was digging through a pile of books and what-not. The skull was dangling on the edge of the mantle dangerously, but rolled back onto its mandible.

Sherlock did not say anything about his presence, or the fact John's face was pale from his session with the razor blade. He just simply threw a book over, instructed his flat mate to find out what chemical made up Wolfram then went back to digging.

John set the book down.

"Sherlock, what are you doing to our flat?" John asked, and cursed as his voice shook. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his tremor and his eyes ran over the doctor's frame.

"Are you stupid, John? Even a mind as small as yours should be able to figure it out! Even Anderson, the bumbling fool, saw it!" Sherlock sighed, making wild expressions with his hands. The blue eyes of the man burned with energy.

John felt as if Sherlock had taken the blade to his heart.

"I'm sorry my stupidity disgusts you. I'll just go back upstairs. Don't ruin Mrs. Hudson's flat." John told him in an almost whisper, clutching as his arm as the blood began to soak through the bandages.

Sherlock was going to be the death of him.

It was hours before Sherlock's quest for the case's answer was quieted by their landlady's demand, and the flat was once again silent. John decided he did not like silence.

There were tears in his eyes, and it was an odd feeling. He didn't cry. Bollocks, he hadn't cried since he was a child! Despite all that, the tears continued to form. The soldier pulled a pillow to his side, smothering his face, cries and tears in the worn out fabric. John would not let Sherlock hear him break, that was unacceptable.


Lestrade set down the report, Sherlock's coat tails snapping behind him as he entered the office. The consultant, beaming, shoved a piece of paper in the police officer's face.

"What's this?" Lestrade asked dumbstruck, staring at the complex sequence of numbers. He made his head spin just looking at it.

"The code the killer used, obviously, Lestrade." Sherlock scoffed, puffing out his chest like a proud cat. "It was quiet easy to-,"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, Sherlock." Lestrade growled, rubbing his forehead as an ache came on. The man was on the end of his rope.

Sherlock frowned, studying the Yard employee's face. His eyes scanned anything in the office for clues, but Lestrade caught him.

"Can you leave, Sherlock? I have work to do."

"Hardly. I've done it all for you." Sherlock smirked, but Lestrade gritted his teeth. Sherlock was driving him crazy!

"I said leave, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock stood silent for a moment, thinking up a thousand reasons why Lestrade was acting the way he was.

"I have no idea why John puts up with you."

Sherlock snapped around, eyes narrowed at the man.

"What did you say?"

Lestrade glared right back, and opened his mouth with venom to spare.

"You heard what I said. No, get. Out."

Sherlock did not say anything else.