I guess this is an AU now, after series 3 came out. (seriously, how awesome was that series? So awesome.)

I swear I am picking up the pace. Don't lose faith.

-badwolf

Chapter Two

New Case (Sort Of)

Sherlock rarely slept, and when he did, it was always light, so when John walked into 221B, with the sun following slowly just beyond the horizon and saw his flatmate's body curled into a tight ball on the couch, his first instinct was to freeze.

He needed to be quiet, he thought, tiptoe around to let his friend get as much sleep as he could – but then he remembered. John's entire night had been spent getting crapped on, and it was all because of stupid bloody Sherlock Holmes. Why should he bother to be quiet when he spent all night traipsing around London looking for the man who was napping on his couch? I will never follow my instincts again, John thought bitterly.

"Get up, Sherlock," John said, though admittedly he couldn't bring himself to say it very loud.

Sherlock didn't move. His back was to the room, and all John could see was his side going up and down as he breathed steady long breaths.

John furrowed his brow. The detective was being awfully none responsive, even if he was asleep. Maybe he was thinking, John thought, he tended to go dead to the world when he was in thought.

But their last case was hardly a head scratchier, even John knew it was the husband, this Morrow fellow. It was a lack of evidence that kept him from being arrested, and while that frustrated Sherlock, he was more likely to never shut up about it than brood quietly.

John approached him slowly, suddenly afraid, words like 'cocaine' and 'morphine', and 'not good' floating in the doctors head. He gently placed his finger on Sherlock's wrist, but feeling his pulse became unnecessary as the detective shot up at his touch. His eyes were wild and slightly red.

John narrowed his eyes. This was ridiculous, really, if Sherlock didn't think he would notice, he must really think low of him. "Where were you last night?"

Sherlock stiffened, and John folded his arms over his chest. "I was working on the case," Sherlock said, "as I told you when I left."

"Sherlock, you're wearing Mycroft's shirt." It was large and purple, with a big cartoon owl on the front, "You hate that shirt. I was out all night looking for you, I had a row with Sarah, and I come home to you curled on the couch. You're not the only one who can deduce, master detective. Something is not right."

Sherlock stood up, looking down on John with all the authority he could muster, and suddenly John felt very small. But he wouldn't let himself be manipulated, he had seen Sherlock in action too many times to not notice the signs of a forced subject change. "Are you on drugs?" He asked, before he lost his nerve.

There was the tiniest flicker of surprise, then Sherlock schooled his features. "No," he said.

"Then where were you last night?" John asked, simmering with anger. "If you'd been working on the case, you'd tell me about it. Your eyes are red, and you were sleeping. You don't sleep on a case." Sherlock looked anywhere but at John, and a ridiculous thought popped into the doctors head. "If you were anyone else," he said, telling himself he was only saying it aloud to convince himself how dumb it sounded, "I'd think you'd been crying."

Sherlock resisted the urge to wipe his eyes, and scoffed instead, "I see my methods have rubbed off on you." He said, and John nearly laughed at himself for his stupidity. Of course Sherlock hadn't been crying, Sherlock didn't feel anything deeply enough to cry. "Unfortunately," the consultant continued in frustration, "as always, you're completely wrong." He folded his arms tightly over his chest.

Sherlock felt very much like a child caught breaking a rule, with the teeming of new guilt in his chest, and wearing his brothers oversized shirt. He did not like the feeling at all.

John waited for him to continue, but when it seemed increasingly certain that Sherlock had said his piece, the doctor threw his hands up, groaning with frustration. "Sherlock this is ridiculous!" He reached out to touch the detective's shoulder, but Sherlock flinched away, and John's arm retreated stiffly back to his side, "I'm not mad at you" He said through gritted teeth, "But if you're back on drugs you need help, you can't just push everyone away. Why are you always so stubborn?"

"Go to sleep John, you're not in your right mind."

"No, I'm not! You know why?" John poked the detective in the chest, "I've been up all night worrying about you. Sarah broke up with me Sherlock, because of you, and you don't even care, do you?"

Sherlock looked away. He wanted desperately for this conversation to end. The doctor had already noticed his unusual mood, and like an apprentice only just beginning his training, in his hast to come to a conclusion he had jumped on the entirely wrong one.

Sherlock did not like being accused of using when he was guilty, much less when he was completely innocent, but he told himself it was for the best. Wasn't drug use, after all, better than murder?

He only hoped the doctor wouldn't look any closer. He could pass off any deviant mood as irritation for John's accusation. And Mycroft's shirt – why had he put on the ugly thing? Sherlock only remembered stepping out of the shower and wanting desperately not to look at his bear chest, where blood had been only moments before. He had grabbed he fist thing he could reach. His brothers 'gift', thrown on the floor of his room months ago in disgust.

"Sarah broke up with you?" Sherlock said, more in a desperate attempt at distraction than genuine interest. He was never fold of Sarah, and knew it was only a matter of time before it ended.

John rubbed his hand over his face, "Yes," he growled, "thanks to your disappearing act." He sighed, folded his arms tightly across his chest and looked anywhere but at his flatmate. "Look Sherlock," he said, putting effort into steadying his voice, "We're both obviously not ourselves right now. I'm dead tired and you... you're wearing a shirt with an owl on it. I'm going to go to sleep, you... you get back to normal," Sherlock could almost hear the subtext of sober up, "we'll talk about this later, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, and breathed a sigh of relief watching in silence as his friend walked away. He fell back onto the couch. He hated having to remind himself that nothing was going to happen, the police were not on his doorstep. He hated thinking that he had turned into the people he chased, that he had to work to act normal, and was having a hard time remembering what that was like.

He needed a distraction. He needed not to think. Immediately Sherlock thought of his old vise, and the inside of his arm ached. How easy it would be to slide a needle in, and let the drug take him away. But just because John thought he was using, didn't mean he was going to. That had not been an option for a long time. No, he needed something else, something just as absorbing – he needed a case.

At that moment, as if his mind were being read, a light bing filled the room, and the white LED of his blackberry shone from the table. He snatched it up, and a new text from Lestrade stared back at him.

New case (sort of). Interested? - Lestrade

Yes, Sherlock wrote, then decided that was far too eager, and typed Details, instead.

He could almost hear the DI sighing in exasperation, and the familiar irritation brought a slight smirk to his lips. Despite this a new text lit up his phone in only a few minutes.

Morrow found on Thames bank, multiple stabs. Not that hard. Wouldn't ask but Morrow was your case to start – Lestrade

Instantly, as if he had been plunged in ice, Sherlock froze.

Morrow. Robert Morrow. Otherwise known as Sherlock Holmes murder victim, was found washed ashore. Multiple stab wounds, Lestrade said. Sherlock shivered as he remembered the feeling of plunging the long knife into the killers chest. And now the very man was under the eyes of the far-from incompetent DI, the inspector Sherlock could even sometimes call friend.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, worked to calm his breathing. This could not be happening.

Sherlock was sure, he was positive he'd done a perfect job weighing the body in the Thames, so that if it ever surfaced, it would do so so far down stream London wouldn't even be notified. No, he realized with cold clarity, this could not be happening on accident.

Someone knew Morrow was killed. That was the only option, and they either wanted to bring his killer to justice, or they already knew who did it. And they were punishing him.

Either way, as much as he wanted nothing to do with the man, as much as he wanted to distance himself from this case, Sherlock knew it was imperative that he be as closely involved in Morrow's investigation as possible.

He couldn't have someone else poking into this murder, especially if someone was trying to expose him. Certain evidence might come to light, that, had he been there, could have been conveniently overlooked.

Sherlock knew it was wrong – unjust – and admittedly, he had never done anything like this before, but if obstructing an investigation and tampering with evidence was what it took for him to stay free, and untainted in the eyes of the people he cared about (of course he had people he cared about. People he couldn't stand to have think of him as a murderer) then he would gladly do it.

Could use a case, Sherlock typed to the DI, trying his best to sound mildly disinterested, been bored. Send address, on my way. - SH

This chapter - seriously, I'm sorry. I just needed to get something up, and I knew if I went on to the body and stuff, it would get wa-hay to long. So really it's just a scene transit.

But that shouldn't stop you from reading and reviewing, even if it is to be like "what the heck, I thought this was gonna be awesome and it wasn't."

I try my best. For you. Because I love you. It will get better, just keep faith. Goodnight. (or morning, or whenever)