Chapter 3- The Second Warning

A/n: thank you to mvignal, emmasexual, ghost, Tom Paris, and SH, for all reviewing my last two chapters, I forgot to thank you last time! I hope you are all enjoying it so far!

Here is the next chapter. I hope its ok! Xxx

In the rather unnerving silence of the flat, I sat in my armchair with a newspaper in hand, and my eyes fixed permanently on Sherlock.

He was lying on the sofa, but he was as silent and as unresponsive as a statue, his fingers steepled, eyes slightly glazed over, staring at the ceiling.

Just staring.

I cleared my throat, hoping to see a response to it.

No such luck.

Jesus I swear he wasn't even blinking.

Something, and I don't give a bloody damn what he said, was scaring him.

And it was definitely fear. I'd never seen him like this before. And I'd seen many of his moods. None of them like this.

After watching him silently for another 5 minutes, I decided to try to break the god awful silence that was filling the room, and slowly seeping under my skin.
"What's wrong?" I tried, not all together expecting an answer.
He glanced at me sideways, for the first time actually making eye contact. His eyes looked unfocused, as if he was thinking deeply about something. But, as I had predicted, no answer.
"Sherlock?" I stared at him.

Really, this was just creepy. I didn't like it. I think I actually preferred bored Sherlock, shooting the wall, and wrecking the place, or manic Sherlock, pacing the room all day and night, or nocturnal Sherlock, playing the bloody violin at 3 stupid o'clock in the morning.

But this… I just didn't like this strange, silent, empty replacement.

I was just about to say so, when I sensed a sudden shift in his mood.
Suddenly his eyes became more alert, his head snapped up, gaze fixed on the window.
"Something's wrong," he said sharply.
I blinked not really able to register his sudden and unexpected outburst, "sorry, what?"
"Lestrade is outside- listen,"
We both seemed to hold our breath, and I could faintly hear the distant sound of footsteps on the tarmac. They were quick and hurried. How he knew it was Lestrade I had no idea.
Then the bell rang.
"Single press, holding down for approximately 3 and a half seconds, maximum pressure on the first second," Sherlock whispered under his breath, so fast I could hardly hear it, "it's urgent,"

He fixed me with a stare that very clearly instructed me to go and get the door. Nothing new there- though that was quite relieving in a way.
I got up and headed down to open the door.
It was, indeed Lestrade, and his face was pale.
"What's happened?" I croaked, not sure if I wanted to know.
"We've got a new case," he began, " but it's not any normal case!" he said quickly, as I opened my mouth to say that no, Sherlock won't be able to take a case, "I just think you both need to see this,"
Christ that didn't sound good.

I lead him upstairs to Sherlock, who was sitting up, alertly, a very big difference to the statue I had lived with all this week.
"I assume this is about a new case, yes? Something that is linked to either John or I? It must be an obvious, or urgent link as you've come straight from the crime scene," Sherlock said immediately, reeling off everything on his mind. To be honest, although I usually rolled my eyes and told him to shut up when he did this, I found myself sighing with relief.
Lestrade seemed to be recovering from this torrent of information.
"Urrr yeah, yeah, it's linked to you guys," he said, quietly, "although I'm not sure what it means- look,"
He held out his phone, and Sherlock snatched it from him, before I could so much as register the movement. I watched his face as; I saw his eyes widen for a minute second, and I leant over, squinting at the screen, before he could turn it away.
"Oh god," I gasped- I just couldn't help my outburst.
It was a picture of the body. A young man with a bullet through his heart. And when I say through his heart, I mean straight through the centre of his heart.

And there was more. On his left forearm, someone had carved words, with a knife, they were branded in blood.

Burn you.

There was no doubt whatsoever that it was the work of Moran, the message was meant for us.

He was stepping up his game.

I was pretty sure that that wasn't going to be the last body we encountered before we figured out what to do.
"Who was he?" I whispered, seeing as Sherlock was again, unusually quiet.
Lestrade appeared to be having a silent battle with himself, whether to say or not to say. He chewed on his lip. I watched him with growing apprehension.

And still he didn't say anything.

Finally, my patience broke.
"For god's sake Greg!" I growled, "Just bloody tell us!"
He sighed, closing his eyes.
"His name was John," he said quietly, "John Evans,"
Goose-bumps ran down my back and I suddenly felt Sherlock tense beside me, his hand tightened its grip on the phone, knuckles white.

"This is no coincidence," Sherlock said monotonously. I chanced a glance in his direction, and was startled to see worry and anxiety etched plainly on his face. And then he caught me looking, and it was gone.
"Is it Moran?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock gave him the phone back.
"Yes, it's Moran," His face was impassive; his eyes had that haunted look again.

Lestrade and I waited for him to say more- shed light on the subject like he always did when someone's motifs were unclear.

But nothing came.

"What shall I do?" Lestrade prompted, slipping the phone back into his jacket pocket.

"just- find out what gun the bullet came from, and see if there are any fingerprints, and keep an eye out- this won't be the last body if his letters are anything to go by,"

Lestrade nodded, "you know I will need to include Donovan in this don't you?"

Sherlock glared at him, "fine, fine, just don't tell her anything other than the basics, nothing about me,"

"I know, I'm not stupid,"

"I do get that idea," came the ready reply, face stony.

Lestrade sighed, and nodded to me.

"I'll send you everything I find out, alright?"

"Thanks," I smiled, and he left, the door swinging behind him.

As soon as he left, I made a beeline for the kitchen, with the idea of getting some much needed tea, and biscuits, hopefully.

Sherlock was still in the lounge, frozen again, staring absently at the carpet.

"Do you want tea?" I asked him.

"No,"

I made him one anyway, I knew he would drink it, and when I turned, I could almost see the tension rolling off him.

"I said no," he said irritably, as he saw the two cups in my hands. I rolled my eyes, and thrust the drink into his hands.

"Yeah, you always say no, Sherlock, I've learnt to ignore it,"

A tiny smile.

"Thank you John,"

I sat down next to him.

"So he's using- people now," I said slowly, "what are we going to do now?"

Silence.

"Can you answer me?"

More silence.

I swallowed painfully.

"The man was called John," I said croakily, "That was intentional wasn't it?"

A small grunt- it was an improvement at least.

"Was it a warning?"

Silence.

I couldn't get anything out of him for the rest of the night. Though that seemed to be a regular routine now.

A/n: I hope its ok! A review or two would be lovely! Xxx