A/N: Thank you to all who are reading this story, reviews would be most appreciated. A brief warning for this chapter that it does contain the description of a crime scene involving a child. Thanks again!
John spent the remainder of the evening in a state of numb despair. How had he missed this? He had known Sherlock for 4 years now and loved him for just as long. How didn't he know? He sat in his armchair, wringing his hands and wracking his brain for any hint that Sherlock had tried to tell him, tried to reach out to him. He paced the floor throughout the night, hoping that Sherlock would reappear from the bedroom. He tried several times to get him to come out, or at least answer him, but all he was ever met with was silence.
He sat there for most of the night, waiting for Sherlock, until the darkness of sleep overcame him.
John woke up when the sun began to filter through the room, specks of dust glittering in the light. He slowly stretched out his stiff neck and limbs, pops and cracks coming from the joints. He glanced at the floor and saw the long forgotten mug, still shattered on the floor. He cleaned the mess up, scrubbing the sticky hardwood until there wasn't a trace left. The door to the bedroom still hadn't opened, but the soft, sorrowful notes of a violin were emanating from the room. All John could do was wait.
Around noon, the dark oak door creaked open and Sherlock emerged, dressed as well as ever. John wanted to run to him and hold him in his arms but kept himself composed. He didn't want to frighten Sherlock away.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. He hoped his face didn't show how worried he really was.
"Lestrade said he's got a case for us," Sherlock drawled as he threw his coat over his arms. He stood there expectantly, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, are you coming? Don't just sit there with your mouth gaping like you've seen a ghost, John," Sherlock finally said, his mouth quirked into a smile.
John hadn't realized he was staring at Sherlock in such a way and quickly closed his mouth. "Sherlock," he said, "are you sure you want to go to another case? I mean, with what happened last night…"
"What happened last night is of no concern, John," Sherlock quickly cut off.
"Of no concern? Sherlock, you were so afraid of me, scared that I was going to hurt you," John said, as gently as he could. He took a step towards Sherlock cautiously, hands in his pockets.
"John, there is no need to treat me like one of the victims you always love to coddle, nothing happened," Sherlock snapped, his eyebrows furrowed in anger, but his eyes briefly flashing with fear.
John tried to tamp his anger down. Sherlock needed him, he reminded himself. Who else did he really have?
"I'm just worried about you, love," John quietly said, his dark blue eyes meeting Sherlock's.
"There's nothing to worry about," he said, and with that he was gone, his brisk footsteps echoing up the stairs. John sighed and grabbed his jacket, following Sherlock.
The case was out in the countryside, green rolling hills flying past them as they sat in the cab. Sherlock sat far away from John, his body tensed and his hands sitting on his lap balled into fists. John couldn't help but stare at him, and for the first time noticed the small details that held a world of secrets. The nose he always thought was perfect was slightly crooked. Sherlock's left arm was just a bit shorter than his right, as if it hadn't grown quite right. His right foot was turned in as if someone had twisted it. A scar peeked out from the bottom of Sherlock's hairline where a gash once was.
John couldn't believe how stupid he had been. He had been blinded by the brilliance, the insufferable cleverness of this man. In doing so, he had failed to see that Sherlock had suffered far more than he ever thought possible.
The cab pulled up to a nondescript house, a brown wooden fence surrounding the property. The gray stone house was small, with the front porch filled with police officers. Lestrade came up to the gate to greet them.
"This one's a tough one, guys, one victim, eight years old. We have the father and mother here, they're pretty shaken up. Say they found their son on the floor. He sleeps on the top bunk without a railing and figured he fell out. But, I don't like it, it just doesn't seem right, Sherlock, that's why I brought you out here," Lestrade said.
He led them through the house. It was neat and tidy, the tan carpets looking as though they were barely walked on. They walked down a narrow hallway and came to the little boy's room. John took a deep breath before they headed in. Seeing kids like this never got any easier.
But what he saw, nearly shook him to his core.
He was small for his age, dressed in navy blue pajamas decorated with dinosaurs. He lay on his side, his eyes closed. A shock of raven, messy curls matted with blood sat on top of his head. His right arm was twisted at an awkward angle. The ghost of a black eye darkened the child's porcelain skin.
He knew why Lestrade had called them in. It was obvious that this wasn't an accident.
He glanced up at Sherlock. The corner of his mouth was twitching, his nostrils flared as he desperately tried to conceal his rage.
"Arrest the parents. The father killed the boy, but the mother assisted in the abuse," Sherlock growled and swept out of the room, his long coat billowing behind him.
Lestrade nodded his head and sighed, "We figured as much. The poor kid doesn't look like he just fell out of bed." After a long pause he added absentmindedly, "He kind of looks like Sherlock, doesn't he."
Lestrade only saw the hair that was black as night and the pale skin. But John saw the bruises and the blood and knew that this little boy looked more like Sherlock than anyone could have imagined.
