The whole thing was a fucking nightmare. From the moment he had watched the blood pool out from Adam's head, and felt himself collapse beside him, whispering nothings.
After that, when he had realised there was no pulse he had called the police, and let what he truly felt out.
Nothing.
He felt nothing at all over the death of his boyfriend. Not guilt. Not sadness. Not really even grief.
Just a sense that the police were slowly focusing more attention on him. He watched them search about, feeling foreboding creep up in his chest.
Nobody had actually secured him yet. But he had the feeling they all thought he'd done it.
They let him stay at the scene, probably to keep and eye on him, but also because Harry hadn't answered her phone, and he couldn't just turn up on her doorstep saying his boyfriend had just been murdered.
And that he was the number one suspect.
It didn't feel like he thought it would. There was nothing inside him. He didn't care. Was that bad? Should he be feeling?
He hadn't loved Adam for a long time. Not since it started. Heaven knew why he stayed. And in the end it hadn't been a good idea.
A murderer...
Not something he thought he would ever be suspected of being. Even in Afghanistan, he had only fired to save another.
So he stood, clothed in what was basically a bin bag, leaning heavily on his crutch, watching the few officers that had been permitted on the scene wander around, occasionally being asked questions. He'd already had a long talk with a detective... Lestrade and his sidekick.
It was impossible to tell if they thought he'd done it.
And it was from where he stood, by a forensic scientist called Anderson, who had been told to 'look after' him, that he saw he tall, pale man step out from a cab, and immediately be joined by DI Lestrade.
He surveyed him curiously, watching the long coat clad man stalk forward, face more emotionless than any of the officers, and flask of something under one arm.
"Who's that?" he asked Anderson.
The forensic scientist glanced in the direction he was looking and growled in an ill-tempered manner.
"That's freak." he said, his voice harsh with no joke in it.
"Who?" asked John, feeling the nickname was not one given through fondness.
"Freak. Or less officially known as Sherlock Holmes," he said, then gave a snort of appreciation. "What's that he's got?"
"A flask." John said, watching Sherlock Holmes walked confidently along the concrete path of his flat, ignoring the sniggers and derisive comments as he passed.
He couldn't help but feel sorry for the man.
"What does he do?"
"Solve crimes. For fun. He doesn't get paid. He just does it as a hobby." Anderson snorted again, and wondered off, leaving John to contemplate the man.
He eventually decided to brave going back into the house, and hesitantly limped over, only to find Holmes in his hallway, crawling along the ground, flask under one arm.
He smiled uncertainly at Lestrade, who returned it, and then continued to watch Holmes. He was constantly fiddling with the flask, and after gathering up his courage he spoke.
"Do you want me to take that?" he asked, glad there was no nervousness in his voice.
Sherlock glanced over at him, expression melting from ice to something very different.
"Sherlock, this is John Watson." said Lestrade, his voice holding the implications which came along with the name.
John gazed back at Sherlock, realising with a jolt how bloody gorgeous his eyes were. And those angular cheekbones certainly had something too.
Sherlock was the first to stir, silently holding the flask out, the tinniest twitch of his lips thanking John.
Lestrade seemed mildly surprised as John took the flask of something hot, and watched Sherlock continue with his shuffling.
There was more silence, and then Sherlock stood up, his gaze straying back to John before snapping away.
"Can I see the body?" he asked.
Lestrade nodded, and the two of them headed into the living room. Sherlock however, paused in the doorway, looking back at him.
"Come." he said imperiously, waiting in the doorway.
"Ah, is that-"
"Hurry up." he snapped, though his eyes kept that thoughtful, slightly afraid look.
John cautiously hobbled after him into the room, glancing at Lestrade for permission. The officer merely sighed and shrugged.
Adam's body was sprawled across the floor in exactly the same position he had left it in. He eyed it, swallowing as he let his eyes stray over the blood.
Sherlock was crouched beside the corpse, looking, but not touching.
"Does it sicken you?" he asked without turning.
John hesitated.
"No." he answered truthfully.
Adam's body was no different to the many he had seen in Afghanistan, and in the surgery. The fact he had been his boyfriend made no difference.
"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock continued, still staring at the body.
"Afga- how did you know?"
Sherlock snorted softy, but said nothing.
John watched him, even more curiosity in his gaze. Who was this man apparently with mind reading abilities and a strange name?
"You found him here, like this?" Sherlock asked.
"Yeah..." John swallowed back the bile.
He hadn't seen violence on quite this level since Afghan. But he was still troubled by the lack of emotion in his heart.
"He was dead?"
"Definitely."
Sherlock cocked his head slightly, and looked back, his gaze making John's stomach somersault.
"Doctor?"
John considered asking how he knew, but didn't bother. Maybe another time, if...
"Yes."
Sherlock nodded, and gingerly lifted up one of the man's hands.
"Have you noticed any unusual people around?" he asked.
"No... Adam did have a new drinking friend, but that's not unusual." John answered, that sending a shiver down his back.
Sherlock was now sniffing the lax face of his ex-partner, a slight frown fixed there.
John knew what he had realised. But Sherlock said nothing, rocking back onto his heels and surveying the dead man.
"I can't tell anything at the moment, Lestrade. I want the phone numbers of all family and friends though."
"Sherlock..." Lestrade sighed.
"Do you want my help or not?"
"Fine. Ask Donovan, she's got them."
Sherlock nodded, and strode out of the room. John hurriedly turned his face away from the corpse, Sherlock's slim figure no longer blocking it from sight.
"Shall we go?" Lestrade inquired.
John silently nodded, and they excited into the hall.
"So he...?"
"Helps out, on the tricky cases."
John frowned.
"This is a tricky case?"
Lestrade looked him squarely in the eyes as he answered.
"If he can prove you didn't do it, it's a tricky one." he said calmly.
John nodded dumbly.
"He does it for free?"
"Think of it like a hobby. But full time. How he gets by I don't know." Lestrade shrugged and sighed. "I've never seen him like that before though."
John blinked, the nervousness in his stomach constricting. A nervousness he had not felt since he met Adam, before it started. It had ruined their relationship. Killed all the love on his side at least.
"Like what?"
"Well, he was unusually nice."
John tried not to flush, just smiling slightly.
"Look, give Harry another call. I'll be round later." Lestrade said.
John nodded, dialled Harry's number and after a quick fire conversation, was safe in the knowledge she was coming to pick him up.
"Okay, I'm leaving." he said, limping painfully out of his flat.
His flat which was now a crime scene.
He met Sherlock halfway down his path, standing there impassively. John came to a halt as he drew level, squinting up into that oddly attractive face.
"Flask, if you please." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.
John nodded, and passed it over. Their fingers brushed together for a few long moments, and their eyes met again, before John quickly looked away.
"It isn't mine." Sherlock said, as if that needed clarifying.
"Why have you got it?"
Sherlock's lips drew into a sneer.
"Apparently I need nourishing." he said disdainfully.
John shrugged, and gave a nod.
"Well, bye." he said, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes again.
Sherlock nodded, and was bounding down to the road before John could even blink, the file of names and address clamped under an arm alongside the flask.
He watched the tall, slim frame of the detective slide into a cab, and as it was whisked from view.
"I'd stay away from him." said Donovan's voice behind him.
He turned slowly round, wincing as his leg throbbed.
"Why?" he asked, instead of saying who's to say we'll ever meet again.
"He's dangerous. He does this to stop getting bored. And once day, he'll keep himself busy by putting the bodies there in the first place." she responded, no self doubt in her voice.
"I'm a suspected murderer too." John pointed out, though it made him feel queasy.
"Lestrade doesn't think you have murder in you. But Sherlock Holmes does."
John eyed her, before making the painful journey down to the road to wait for Harry. He didn't know if he would see Sherlock again, but he certainly hoped so.
There! I hope you enjoyed :p I probably won't be able to get the next chapter up until after the weekend, but you have Sherlock's musings to look forward too. Reviews are my writing juice!