Chapter 2

Sherlock was up before John, despite the very few hours of sleep he got. The consulting detective had moved from the sill down to the living room where he laid back down on the floor, staring at the wounded, spray-painted wall. He tapped his touching hands against his lips, deep in thought and sighed. Just then, he flinched as the horrors of the night before came rushing back. He bit his lip, a little nervous habit he picked up from John. John always had little quirks like that.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that struck his heart once again. "Not now," he whispered as he knew his flatmate would be up very soon. He couldn't let him be seen in such a broken state.

Sherlock hadn't moved from his resting point when John shuffled down the hall. Sherlock could tell by his footfalls that he was fully dressed, giving the rubbing of his awkward gait that he sometimes had in jeans.

Mad thoughts raced through his mind. He heard John come down the hall and worked to erase all emotion on his face.

"Morning Sherlock," John whispered tiredly. The blonde trudged into the living room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he replied in that monotonous tone. John was too tired to question it.

"I'm going to put on some tea. Want some?" For the first time in a while, Sherlock spoke without thinking.

"No." This caught John off guard. Sherlock never eats or drinks anything during a case or when he was thinking about something very important because digestion distracts him.

John ran a hand through his hair and furrowed his brow. "What's wrong Sherlock?" Sherlock made sure to keep his face neutral. Idiot, he thought.

"I'm fine John. Not in the mood." He breathed a sigh of relief as his flatmate shrugged and left. Sherlock then found his thoughts drifting, despite himself. Then again, he wasn't on a case so there was no reason for him to not think aimlessly. Still, he didn't find it quite comfortable.

Things had been quiet. The two weren't running from an ax-murderer or mulling over a case into the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock was simply bored, and it gave his mind time to wander. He hated it. Now his nights were filled with the torturous internal screams that only Sherlock himself could hear. He needed to do something.

The consulting detective then remembered a case a few weeks ago he had turned down because of a rare episode of PTSD. Something about a missing child. A boring case at best, but it was something to get his mind off his suicide.

"John!" he yelled and leapt to his feet to grab his scarf from the sofa. "Get your coat. We're going child-hunting!" He tied his scarf when John appeared in the doorway with a cup of tea in his hand. John opened his mouth in protest, brow furrowing. "Sherlock, you said you didn't-,"

"Oh just shut up and grab your coat." John stood there, looking annoyed and confused. With his back to John, Sherlock smirked. He loved seeing that look of complete confusion and annoyance on his flatmate's face. Hey, it's what he did.

Sherlock walked briskly through the door of his flat into the snow. Much more cold than last night. He looked behind him to see John shaking his head, putting his coat on and setting the tea down to run after him.

"Sherlock," he protested in that tone he knew so well. "Sherlock," John said more sternly after he ran to catch up to him. Sherlock paid no attention to the hand on his shoulder. He walked with determination through the snowfall.

"I just woke up and made tea, and now you're dragging me out to a case you declined weeks ago." He supposed that was some kind of scolding, but shrugged it off. Seeing he wasn't going to get any sort of response out of the impulsive man, John muttered, "I expect nothing less from you Sherlock. But seriously, why now?"

"Because," he answered, tone flat, "I've got to do this."

"But you said you weren't interested. You said it yourself, exact words-the kid will find herself- then walked off. Why the change of heart?" Sherlock was in a more impatient, but excited mood than usual. He took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and shoved it into John's hand. That's when he realized how cold they were.

"Just stop asking questions and read me the address." Sherlock looked up at John at saw his teeth chattering against the cold. The poor boy's freezing. He pitied his friend and as John began reading, Sherlock took his free hand.

Now, he's held John's hand before. Once when they were handcuffed together and once when John struggled to keep up with him. This time couldn't be any more different. Yes, he loved John. Yes, he had a crush on him, but right now Sherlock wasn't focused on flirting with him. Not that he did anyways. And thankfully, John was too cold to notice. He just slipped his hand into Sherlock's gratefully. But Sherlock did notice that he had laced his fingers with John's, not like they'd done twice before. Sherlock shook off the butterflies flitting about in his stomach and came up with the conclusion that it was a more effective way to warm John's hand.

"647 E, right here on Baker Street," he told the detective.

"Right, that's just across here." He whirled around and yanked John along with him. For some reason, he was very excited about this. The cold wind made his eyes water and John sighed impatiently. "Hurry up, John!" he called. Sherlock tightened his grip on his best friend's hand.

"I'm too short for you!" he explained through exhausted, annoyed gasps. Slow down. Sherlock slowed for a few steps and John caught up, hands still in his grasp. The next time he spoke he sounded more confused than annoyed. "What's the hurry for, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

A smile twitched at his lips. So John knew him better than he thought. Sherlock was too excited to think about a rational reason to tell him. His thoughts were still racing darkly, but he ran with John, faster than his thoughts could keep up.

"I'm fine, John," was what he finally said.

Finally they skidded to a stop in front of 647 E. It took a lot for Sherlock to not leap forward and ring the doorbell, but something caught his eye. He backed up a step and swept his quick, observant gaze over the door. His mind started to fire alive with details. The breeze picked up and spilled down his spine but he didn't notice.

Frost was on the doorknob. No one had touched it for a while. Chipped paint on the door to reveal a finer kind of wood than most houses on the street. He ran up and pressed his ear to the door and could hear the heater running inside. Then footsteps from inside. Male, mid-forties with a cat, he concluded, after hearing the downy fur brush against the vent.

"Nope," Sherlock said briskly and stepped back. "Not the right house." He then noticed that he had let go of John's hand in the rush of things and he was shivering again. Now that he had calmed down, he was much more self-conscious about holding his hand and didn't try again. But the poor kid was frozen.

Thankfully John asked, slightly more irritated, "What do you mean, the wrong house? The address is written right here. The parent gave us her address." Sherlock gazed at him, smiling inwardly at his friend's thinking but didn't let it show. John continued with a troubled, frustrated look. "We went to the victim's house and the mother wrote down the house number if we were interested later. This can't be the wrong house!" Sherlock subtly raised his eyebrows as a smile twitched at his mouth. But he just shook his head.

"They gave us the wrong address on purpose," Sherlock muttered, brain going into hyper drive. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and walked briskly off. John huffed and ran beside him.

"But how?" Sherlock stopped and turned, looking him straight in the eye. John let out a long sigh as he started to list off all the obvious reasons this wasn't the right house in his rapid fire, slightly show-offy way John knew him for.

"The mother we went to said her daughter had gone missing a week before. Ten years old. Said that her dad was gone for four months on a trip and that he was a light-weight, slender man. That definitely wasn't him. I've looked up their mortgage-,"

"Sherlock!"

"and the house that we met in isn't the same one that the actual McCreers' own. So," he continued, swinging around and walking back towards the house. "That means this is the wrong house."

"The actual McCreers?"John was cut off by Sherlock's raised hand.

"It's so simple," he sighed, even rolling his eyes. Sherlock was in a giddy mood. He heard John swallow.

"What do you even mean?" Dear God, you're full of questions this morning.

"That is irrelevant, John." he shot back. "Now let me get to the flat to think." John breathed a sigh of relief. But he was also puzzled, Sherlock could sense it. And secretly, so was the detective himself. What was up with him? He was so happy, so gleeful on this frozen London morning. He had went out to find a case to solve but got stopped dead in his tracks before he could even begin. John was shivering madly. Sherlock glanced down at him but kept his stare unreadable. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest. How could you let him get so cold? You selfish bastard.

The man drew in a silent breath and continued on towards the flat, making sure to not make any eye contact with his mate. He felt himself quickening his pace to match his racing heartbeat.

So much bloody energy. What is going on?

Sherlock coughed hard as they trod on through the snow. Sherlock slowly let all his thoughts fall aside so he could deal with the problem at hand.

When they got back to flat, John rushed in and grabbed his semi-warm tea. Sherlock hung back to close the door but gazed at his flatmate with sudden…

Fond admiration.

Just the simple act of being chilled to the bone and darting in to get warm… somehow that was appealing to the detective. As soon as he felt that flitting sensation in his stomach he cleared his throat and blinked.

What did I just experience? He was flabbergasted for a moment at himself.

Sherlock immediately went to lie down on top of the couch, touching his hands to his lips. John had sauntered off to let the slightly autistic man think, but Sherlock found that he couldn't stop his thoughts from racing.

Odd, he thought. He shook his head and tapped his fingers to his lips. But every time he was finally getting on to something, he found his thoughts wandering back to… to John.

Oh bloody hell, Holmes, keep it together. You are on a case for God's sakes.

After several hours of unsuccessful thinking, Sherlock gave up with a growl and stormed off into the snow. When John heard the flat door slam he jumped from his seat on his bed and peered out the frosted window. He chuckled to see Sherlock walking swiftly through the snow once more, head down. John suspected he was thinking. He really had no intentions of stressing over this case; he was almost finished with Great Expectations.

The doctor turned his attention back to his book when he heard shouting from down below. He looked up and furrowed his brow and concentrated, waiting for more. Again, it shouted like angry yelling, and some sort of abuse.

John drew in a sharp gasp and stared out the window again.

He saw Sherlock standing bewildered as a girl was shoved hard onto the street by a man twice her size. She went crashing onto icy, rocky ground. Sherlock's eyes flickered as he saw blood flow. She winced and staggered to feet, standing up tall against the man that stared her down. She growled and wiped blood off her hands. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the ground as his mind calculated what was going on.

The girl, who couldn't be older than fifteen or so, had skidded far and wide across the icy ground. Blood had been shed from previous brawls, he observed from the stains on her shirt and jeans. But it was the jeans he was concerned about. A great deal of blood flowed from where her right leg had torn across the road, but much too severe from just a brush burn. What had caused all the extra blood?

Sherlock's eyes danced across the scene that lay before him, taking in every bloody (no pun intended) detail.

"Leave me alone," she hissed, shaking bangs out of her eyes and staring him straight in the eye.

He sneered. "Never. You deserve this." The older man lunged forward to shove her again, but she was prepared. The girl clenched her teeth and ducked, grabbed his wrist and twisted. Fire lit alive in her eyes determined black eyes.

"I said leave me alone!" And with that, she let go and took off down the street. Sherlock could see tears streaming down her battered face. The man began to race after her.

"Sherlock!" He heard John's desperate cry from right outside the flat.

"Oh, right," he muttered. The detective took a calm step forward, blocked the abuser's path suddenly and socked him right in the mouth, which sent him sprawling. And with that, he spun on his heel and walked to where John had stopped the girl, who was crying and bleeding. He could tell by his concerned expression and body language that John wasn't going to let this go easily.

"Dear God, a bloody child," Sherlock breathed, annoyed. Please don't get us into this mess John.