Sorry for the long wait everybody! I just didn't have enough inspiration until now. Well, here's the next chapter, enjoy :D And also, thank you everybody for reading and liking it^_^ Your love has helped me through this chapter. Though, i don't feel like I hit Sherlock's personality good enough. Meh, it'll have to do.
"It's right over here." Lestrade ambled up towards Sherlock and John as they hopped out of the cab.
"Has anybody tampered with it yet? I can't find clues if it's been muddled with, especially by Anderson."
"Hey!" Anderson shouted from the upstairs window.
Lestrade ignored the bickering between the two as he pulled Sherlock to the side for more information. Without a word, John stepped out of the cab, slightly off because of his limp which had reoccurred after the dream. Most times, the dreams came and went without him remembering, and especially without awakening the war scars. But for some reason, the one he had that morning was the worst one yet, and there was no Harry to help him through it, no parent to hold him while it happened. He just had Sherlock who had no human emotions at all and couldn't even comprehend what John was going through.
"Come on John," Sherlock said, snapping John out of his reverie for the moment. Sticking his lips out in concentration, John huffed before trailing behind his flat mate.
The body was of a young child, about ten years old. There were no scars of adolescence on his face, and he had a fake tattoo of some rubbish child show on his left cheek. It was, for all the world, the saddest thing anyone had ever laid eyes on. No one dared step over the threshold to see the body if they could help it and John didn't blame them. He actually kind of didn't want to see it himself.
"That's a bloody shame, killing a child," Lestrade murmured, as if from far away.
"It had to be done. The killer had no choice seeing how little possibility he had if the child was alive. A child's memory is twenty- five percent greater than the average adults; therefore the kid would have made a link eventually." Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves before bending down by the body. His long, slender fingers moved across every inch of the child, leaving nothing untouched.
"The body hadn't been here long, maybe two hours. There's a slight pinkish mark on his wrist, obviously from a skirmish with his attacker, and then there's the problem with his real age."
"Real age?"
"Yes, Lestrade." Sherlock got up off the ground and fixed the DI with a sour look. "His real age, how could not have seen it. Your papers say ten, but obviously that's wrong. Our killer doesn't go for five year olds; most likely another criminal that loves children, but this one's much more fun. He purposely left the kid's body here as a signal, brilliant."
A weird noise bubbled up from John's throat at the sound of Sherlock's enthusiasm. How could a child's death excite him so?
Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock noticed it however, and began to talk in quiet whispers, as if John wasn't really there. And maybe he shouldn't have been for all the help he was giving. It was just really hard to even think straight when your chest felt tight and cramped. Sweat began to pool on his top lip, and his breathing came out in short, little gasps.
John began to glance around the room, suddenly feeling as if the world was closing in on him. Suddenly a hot pain clutched at his heart, and a white light passed through his vision. He didn't want to be in that room with the dead kid, knowing that somehow, some way he could have saved the boy, like he should have with his team in Afghanistan.
John's mind went blank with the thought. He couldn't remember why he was there, or why they were standing around a little kid's body in an empty storage house. John took a panicked step backward, his eyes flicking between the two strangers staring at him with worry, and the body they were inspecting.
And then all at once, as if someone had flipped a switch, John snapped. His heart thudded painfully in his ears as the fear became a full on panic attack equipped with a round of hyperventilation.
"John? Are you okay," the taller of the two asked, taking a step towards the scared doctor.
John started backing down the hallway, his eyes blurry and unfocused as he tried to make sense of everything.
"I – I don't k-"John stammered out, unsure of where he was going at the moment.
"I think you should sit down."
"Sit down? Sit down? I think you should be the one sitting down," the blonde man spat, sounding crazier than scared.
The ferocity of the answer scared Sherlock a little bit, causing the detective to stop his advances. John rarely ever showed his anger, and when he did it was usually a bad word or two and a punch into the wall. But never, did his flat mate sound like a wounded dog being cornered, and somehow that thought made Sherlock uneasy.
"What's going on," a voice said from behind, startling the panicked John into an even worse state. Without another word, he shut his eyes against the onslaught of tears and shoved passed Anderson, running like hell out of the building.
"God, good going Anderson," Sherlock snapped angrily. He rubbed his tired eyes, finally feeling the unnecessary sleep begin to take its toll. But he wouldn't let it take him under this time, because somewhere there was a hurt and scared doctor running around blind. And this time he wouldn't stand to the side like a stranger, this time he would help John through the pain.