"Sherlock, I'm going out."
Sherlock mumbled something inaudible, probably because he was biting his bottom lip. Hard. He had been very jittery and when John put a hand in his shoulder, he jumped. But what concerned the doctor was the fact Sherlock seemed in constant pain. He was gripping his forearm tightly and wincing.
"Hey, are you okay?" John asked softly.
Sherlock shot him a suspicious look, one eyebrow raised.
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"It's just… you look…"
"I look what?"
"Breakable."
Sherlock scoffed.
"I'm fine. Have fun at your date."
"Ok. See you 'bout 11."
"Bye."
"Bye, Sherlock. Text if you need me."
John walked out of the flat and down the stairs thinking about what they were going to do. Out in the street, John flagged a taxi.
"One to Scotland Yard, please."
…
"Shush… he can't know were here." John barked. "Look I'll go in first and then when I give the signal, which is…?" he asked
"Twitching the curtain" replied Lestrade.
"Yeah. Then you can go in. Ready."
Lestrade, Donavon and Anderson nodded. John opened the door.
"Sherlock?" he called. "Are you there?"
There was no reply. John realised the plan wouldn't work if there was no Sherlock. The detective had been in when John left but the man was unpredictable. He could have gone out. John limped up the stairs. The flat was silent. John could hear Sherlock breathing. But it seemed laboured. Slower.
'Is he asleep?' John pondered. It would be harsh to wake him up; he rarely got enough sleep anyway. He might not even have any drugs. But it was a risk he had to take. Taking a deep breath, John opened the door. And the first thing he saw was a wolf on the sofa. John took one look in the creature's eyes. Its whole expression read one thing: 'Oh shit.'