"We're done," he says with one more scan over the woman's body. "Bring her to the morgue and put her in the draw next to the other woman."
Without another word he strides back towards the fence. I follow, as always. "Uhh, thanks," I quickly add before running after him.
Sherlock waits and holds the gate open for me which makes me blush. We're already making our way towards the main street when Anderson returns with the young officer and 8 coffees.
"Nice to see you've found your true calling, Anderson," Sherlock says bluntly without even slowing his step.
"Thank you," I say trying to sound empathetic while I take two of the coffees from his hands. He simply looks at me with bewildered eyes.
Sherlock already has a cab waiting for us. Surprised that he'd waited for me twice in the past 5 minutes, I hopped in and handed him a steaming coffee.
"I wanted black," he murmurs into the cup.
I look down into my dark coffee, "oh here, wrong one."
I wait for him to call me an idiot for mixing the coffees up but he does something so surprising that I almost spill my coffee down my front, he says, "Everybody makes mistakes, John. Thanks," and he smiles a genuine smile.
He leans forwards and tells the cab driver, "221 Baker Street."
"Home? I thought we were heading over to the morgue."
"No, we can go later. I need to pick up some things."
We don't speak to each other the entire ride home but my wind it full with thoughts that Sherlock would deem useless. Thoughts about his kindness towards me all of today. Thoughts of the dream I'd had that night. And of how the woman we'd found today was the same woman. And how there was a tickling feeling in my belly, that still stirs deep inside me, when he whispered in my ear. I clear my throat.
The cab pulls up at the curb outside our flat and I pass the driver some coins, in stark contrast with the rushed tossing of coins at the last cabbie. Sherlock, of course, is already fumbling with keys at the door and by the time I reach him the cab is rolling away. The door creaks open and Sherlock strides up into our flat.
When I enter the apartment, Sherlock is already in his room no doubt searching for whatever he needed. I settle down on the couch and nurse my coffee as I wait.
As I'm draining the last sip of my coffee a loud crashing noise comes from Sherlock's room followed closely by cursing. "Sherlock, you okay?" I dump my empty coffee cup in the kitchen and stand outside his door, "Sherlock?"
There's no answer so I push on the door which for once isn't locked.
I survey the room, expecting some kind of disaster with Sherlock on the floor, trapped under a bookshelf and injured but no, Sherlock his crouched on his bed, head in his hands with the floor covered in glass.
"Sherlock what happened? Did you get hit by the glass?"
He looks up, obviously hearing my distress at the situation. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen but not in a way that suggests they have something in them, but in a way that suggests that he is crying. His buries his head in his hands again without a sound.
My eyes dart around the room again. Books are strewn about his room; they cover the floor, they hang from the windowsill and they clutter his desk. I haven't been in this room since I dragged him in here after the Irene Adler drugged him and it was considerably tidier at that point. I flick the light switch and flood the room with light, each sliver of glass glinting up at me. I look to the source of the glass, what used to be a tall wooden lamp frame is now dinted and cracked to the point where chunks of it fall to from the mass revealing that the frame was made from simple stained plywood, not an expensive wood as I'd always thought. I scan the floor again and this time notice splinters in amongst the glass shards.
I carefully weave my way across the carpet to Sherlock's bed. I smooth the grey covers and invite myself to sit.
"Sherlock," I say softly, "You can talk to me."
"No," he says as stubbornly as a child.
Everyone knew he had the emotions of a five year old; in that he didn't understand how to react or act and he didn't fully understand love or grief. Most people can't handle him, can't stand him. And those people, and more, tell me that I am one of the few who can force him to connect with his human feelings. Molly and I, we're the only one's really.
I try again, this time patting his knee, "You can talk to me."
He mumbles something into his chest that I cannot hear.
I reach out and touch a soft curl in his hair. I watch as it bounces back to neatness and perfection. I watch as his back rises as he fills his lungs with air and lets in out as a long sigh. I stop thinking with his reaction to my touch and slide my hand through his hair until it reaches his ear. Without even considering the consequences I trace my fingers along his sharp jawline and lift his chin from his knees. He drops his hands and I'm left staring into red and swollen eyes.
"John," he says, or at least I think he says. I can't hear him; my mind is on his lips along with my eyes, my eyes that search every crack and crevasse in his lips. God, I want to touch them with my own, even just a touch. "John," his lips say again.
I bring myself back from longing with a violent jolt. I try to speak but all I can manage is to splutter his name.
"I had a dream last night… about you."
And that really brings me down from my high. My cloud of happiness turns to rain and I fall rapidly with it. "Oh?" I say trying to sound interested but probably sounding more like how I feel, dreadful. I try to stop myself but my lips have said it before I can do it, "what was it about?"
I take my hand back from his jaw to let him speak. "You were in it." His Adam's apple bulges as he swallows. "It was wrong," he starts to sob. Sherlock Holmes, the man with no emotion, sobbing.
"It was a nightmare," I say, comforting myself more than him. He nods ever so slightly and I stand from the bed in an attempt to escape.
"Stay with me John?"
It's quiet but I hear it and I ignore it, sinking to a level of heartlessness I never knew I had. "I'll get the broom." Another mistake, I know it as soon as I leave the room. I'm alone with my thoughts. What if we had the same dream and he thinks it's a nightmare and I thought it was the best dream in my life? I mean, I woke up feeling pretty good with the sensation of him kissing me; it went to hell after that but what if he dreamt that I kissed him and thought it was terrible? I try to banish the 'what ifs' from my mind and focus on my search for a broom.
By the time I get back Sherlock is twisting a scarf around his neck at the front door. "I'm going down to the morgue. You can join me when you want to," he mentions as I walk past him.
"You're not going to wait," I say, looking back to see that he has already left for the street.
Oh great, time to mull over my thoughts on my own for a while. I make to sweep his room. Not planning to join him at the morgue anytime soon, I take my time to clean. I dare not touch his books but it gets to the point where I have to. Something tells me I'll hear about this later.
I sweep the last of the last of the glass and wood into the dustpan and empty it into the bin in the kitchen. I suppose I'd better make my way to the morgue, He'll be asking me for a pen no doubt.
I spend 10 minutes out on the street before a cab finally stops for me, I obviously do not have Sherlock's skill. I tell him where to go and sit back into the seat. He takes the long way round, which doesn't improve my mood, and by the time he pulls up, Sherlock could have been there for half an hour at least.
I wander in the doors and make my way down the familiar halls, down the stairs and into the room where the bodies are usually displayed. I come face to face with Molly.
She's bouncy as usual and bustling around preparing bodies and organising papers. "Hey, John," she chirps, "Sherlock coming down soon?"
"I thought he was already here?"
"No, he called a few minutes ago telling we to make sure the women were ready for examination," she stops bouncing and her thin lips fall into a saddened crescent.
"Oh, that's okay then." I hope.
"Coffee?" Molly chirps again.
"No, I've already had my share for the moment, I'll go up and grab you one if you would like."
She's already taking a step towards the door, "Come with me."
We walk side by side and catch the elevator up to the cafeteria where I end up buying both Molly and I a coffee each. We sit at the end of the cafeteria, away from everybody else.
"Molly, has Sherlock been upset in the past few days?" I finally ask.
Her eyes make contact with mine, she knows something. "He- he told me not to tell you."
"I'm worried about him."
She bites her lip. "I'm not supposed to-" she hesitated and starts again, "He told me he was having dreams, nightmares. And if something scares Sherlock, it must be really serious."
"Do you know what they were about?"
She bites her lip again, harder this time so that when she releases it, there is a little white line and an indentation from her teeth. "I shouldn't say."
"I can't ask him. He won't tell me."
"What won't I tell you?" Sherlock's deep voice sounded from behind me.
"Never mind," I say quickly. 'Where have you been?"
"Library," he says bluntly, he turns to Molly now, "Have you got the bodies ready?"
"Yes," Molly squeaks. She stands abruptly and skips out of the Cafeteria with Sherlock by her side.
4