AN: I suck. I am sorry that it took so long to put this up. Reasons include being ill, computer breaking, being banned from computer, writer's block and feeling too tired after working 40 hours a week in a nursery (my job). But I am sorry it took so long and could probably have posted something sooner if I'd really tried. Warning: this chapter hasn't been betad yet. I am sending it off to my beta and will repost but wanted to get this up rather than making you wait any longer. Hope it was worth the wait.
DISCLAIMER: See chapter 1
Chapter 4
John's thoughts were confused. All he could see were random images - blood, death, screaming, red-stained sand. People are dying around him, men he has worked with and has come to think of as friends, and he can do nothing. 'John. John, wake up.' The sound of bullets is deafening.
Suddenly the world around him disappears and all he is aware of is the pain. 'Wake up John.' John looks down and sees blood. He has been shot. The bullet had entered his abdomen and he sees so much blood. 'Wait,' some part of John thought, 'This isn't right; I was shot in the shoulder not the abdomen,' but the rest of him takes no notice.
John was on the ground though he has no memory of falling. His blood added to the already stained sand. 'Wake up. John, wake up!'
He can see the sky. It is so blue and the sun is blinding but John doesn't close his eyes; he wants to see the world as he dies. He is dying he knows it. John can feel his body betraying him as it shuts down. 'John you've got to wake up!' He felt his heart beat erratic and weak against his chest.
Until this moment John hadn't want to die. Now he feels at peace. Even the pain feels far away. He is so tired. 'Damn it, John! Wake up now!' Why? All he wants is to sleep.
'Please John; I'm begging you; wake up!' John recognised that voice. It was the unusual desperation in a voice - normally devoid of emotion and the word 'please' from a man who never asks - that made John open his eyes.
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He had been shaking and calling John for almost five minutes with no response before John had finally opened his eyes. Sherlock had been terrified that John wouldn't wake at all. The worst moment had come near the end when John had stopped thrashing about wildly and his body had relaxed. Sherlock hadn't known if John was slipping into a coma or if he was dying. He had been more scared than he could ever remember being in his life.
Sherlock looked at John and tried to objectively deduce his condition but it was impossible. He couldn't think straight. John's lips were tinged blue, he was so pale he looked like a corpse and his eyes were filled with pain. Sherlock couldn't bear this!
The pain that had almost disappeared in the dream returned with a vengeance. John was confused and didn't know were he was. His eyes were unfocused. John pressed his hand to the bullet wound from his dream.
'The bullet… It won't stop bleeding… I was shot in my shoulder not my abdomen… It hurts…' John realised where he was and what was happening. He shut his mouth quickly but looking over at Sherlock he knew that the damage had already been done.
Sherlock felt physically sick. John had just, accidentally, told he a little of what he was suffering and Sherlock knew it was unbearable. John looked so pale and weak. He was never weak. John was always strong but now…
Sherlock tried to control his emotions but it was impossible. He wanted to break something (and preferably for that thing to be Moriarty). He wanted to scream and shout. He may not be able to control his emotions but he could control his reactions. He turned to the taxi driver.
'Take us to 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge,' he said, voice full of command.
'I think I should take your partner to hospital,' the driver said hesitantly. He was slightly scared of Sherlock as his grey-blue eyes blazed with an anger that longed for a way to express itself.
'If you take us to 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge, he won't need the hospital,' Sherlock's voice was low and deadly. He didn't bother to correct the driver's assumption. Moriarty had said that John needed to stay awake and the best way Sherlock could ensure that was to keep John with him. He did not dare take John to hospital because Moriarty had forbidden it.
'But…'
'Just do it!' Sherlock commanded his voice seething with anger. The driver glanced at John who was trying, unsuccessfully, to control his breathing. John looked up at him.
'I'll… be fine,' John choked out between breaths. 'I left my medication… at home. They won't… have it at the hospital. Please… take us home to… 52 Hans Place, Knightsbridge… So I can have… my injection.' The driver nodded and set off. Sherlock hated that John had to be the one to come up with away to get them to their destination. John was ill and he still had to do all the work because Sherlock couldn't control his emotions.
Sherlock hated this. He hated it, hated it, HATED IT. He hated being unable to control his emotions. He hated this feeling of uselessness, at being unable to help John. He was Sherlock Holmes for God's sake! He always knew what to do.
Was this how normal people felt all the time; overwhelmed, scared, angry, confused, unable to think straight? If so then he would never call it dull again. How could they bear it?
Sherlock didn't want this world. He wanted the world where everything made sense. He closed his eyes and imagined it. He and John would be on their way to solving the fifth case. Sherlock would be excited. This case was surely going to be the most difficult yet but he knew he could handle it, whatever it was. John would tell him off for not caring enough and Sherlock would listen more than he pretended to (that still wasn't much but still…). John would manage to make Sherlock feel guilty despite the fact that he would hide it; Sherlock hated disappointing John. They would solve the case together but John would let Sherlock take all the glory. They would order a takeaway and John would write a romanticized version of events in his blog…
Sherlock could see everything; their life spreading out in front of him. With his eyes squeezed shut he pretended for a moment that that world was real and this one wasn't. The dream world shattered like a delicate bubble as they went over a speed bump and a groan of pain escaped John's lips.
John silently cursed himself for groaning as Sherlock's eyes flew open. Sherlock looked at him for a brief second before looking away again. John cursed himself again; he had just got his breathing under control and Sherlock had looked like he was starting to relax when John had ruined it.
The look on Sherlock's face was starting to scare John now. He looked so angry. His grey-blue eyes, that were normally so emotionless, were filled with the threat of danger and extreme violence for anyone who may dare to get in his way. John actually feared for other people's safety. A lot of the anger seemed to be directed internally as if Sherlock hated himself for what was happening but John thought he must be mistaken in this deduction.
Behind the anger, in Sherlock's eyes, there was a terrible look of fear. John had never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable and he hated being the reason for putting that look in Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock glanced at his watch as they finally approached the house. He swore silently when he saw it was 6:52am. As the house came into view Sherlock saw a police car parked outside. A strangled, animal like, cry of rage and anger escaped his lips. He did not know if the anger was directed at Mycroft for delaying him, the taxi driver for taking him to his brother, Lestrade for beating him there or Moriarty for causing all this or himself. He suspected it was a mixture of all of them but didn't waste time examining the emotion.
Sherlock actually paid the taxi driver for once. He then went around to John's side of the car to try and help him out. John pushed away Sherlock's offered hand and got out by himself.
'I'm perfectly capable of walking unaided, Sherlock,' John said irritably. A moment later he regretted his words as he watched hurt flash quickly across Sherlock's face. 'I should get ill more often if it means you actually pay the taxi fare for once,' he said, trying to lighten the mode. A small smile graced Sherlock's mouth for a second before disappearing again. Like a ray of sunshine breaking though the clouds, his face lit up before falling into shadow.
Sherlock's moment of peace at John's words was short lived but after John had spoken he felt slightly better. With a few simple words John had managed to drain the anger from him. This was a talent that only John possessed.
Sherlock turned his attention to the house. It was large and impressive. The location was near Sheraton Park Tower, where Christopher Thompson had worked, but that was not the only reason the man had picked this location. The house had been chosen to impress. It shouted 'Look at me! I have it made!' Christopher had obviously been a man who wanted to show rich he was. This meant that either he had come for humble beginnings or he had simple been a show off who enjoyed lording it over other people. It was probably the former but he wouldn't be sure until he entered the house.
Ignoring the empty police car parked outside, Sherlock walked up to the door and knocked. The door was opened almost instantly by Sally Donavan. Her face morphed, in less than a second, from calm and professional to angry and annoyed when she saw Sherlock on the door step with John next to him. She moved so that her body was blocking the door frame.
'You're not coming in,' she snapped looking directly at Sherlock and ignoring John. 'Mrs Thompson has just been informed of her husband's death. She, his daughter and her daughter's husband have enough to deal with without you upsetting them further.' Sherlock wanted nothing more than to push past her and not waste any more time but that probably wasn't the wisest thing to do.
'The sooner I talk to her, the sooner I can solve this murder and potentially save other lives being lost. Besides I have no intention of deliberately upsetting anyone. Now get out of my way.' Sally was almost scared by the slightly mad look in Sherlock's eyes. Gone was emotionless aloof Sherlock and in his place was an angry and possibly violent man. Despite this she stood her ground.
'No,' she answered defiantly.
'Do you seriously care more about your petty dislike of me than saving lives?'
'As if you care about that, Freak. You're not coming in.' Sherlock could have punched her and he may have done so if Lestrade hadn't come into the corridor behind Sally at that moment to see what was going on. Lestrade quickly took in the scene before him and decided to intervene.
'Sherlock, John,' he said striding forwards and gently moving Sally to the side. 'I wondered when you'd get hear. Come in.' Sally sighed in frustration and gave her DI a murderous look which he ignored. Sherlock spared her a smirk, that looked forced, as he and John entered the house.
'No upsetting them, Sherlock,' Lestrade warned as he led them down the corridor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He decided not to dignify that with a response. Instead he looked around himself for information. Christopher Thompson had been a driven man. Several of photos on the walls showed him with a variety of celebrities but he looked uncomfortable. This meant he had come from a humble background. Possibly his father had been a farm labourer but that was just a guess. He had tried hard and succeeded in getting out of that world but he had never felt truly at ease in the world of the rich and famous. This had made him always put on an act around them and try to prove he belonged in that world too.
They entered the living room and Sherlock saw a small moderately attractive woman in her early 40's with mousey brown hair and striking green eyes filled with tears, sitting in a comfortable-looking armchair. On the sofa was a girl in her mid 20's who could only be the woman's daughter with dyed blonde hair, green eyes and so thin that she obviously suffered from an eating disorder. Her shoulder was held possessively by the man who must be her husband. He had a rugged beauty about his face. His hair was dark brown and untidy, his face had stubble on it and his eyes were a piercing blue.
"Mrs Thompson?" Sherlock asked, addressing the woman in the chair. She nodded.
"Please, call me Rachel," she said sniffing.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Sherlock said solemnly. He was playing the role of a detached but caring professional as he felt this role would lead quicker to results than his normal brash manner. John simply stood watching. It always seemed strange to him when Sherlock took on a role. If Sherlock hadn't been the world's only consulting detective, John assumed he would have been an actor with his good looks and skill that he probably would have found a role within an institution like the BBC by now (he'd probably only go for roles that he found 'interesting' though).
"Who are you?" asked the daughter's husband in an aggressive tone.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'll be liaising with the police to try and solve this murder as soon as possible," he said, then added as an after though, "Hopefully I will find the culprit so Rachel and your wife can grieve knowing that the man responsible is being punished for his actions."
"How do you know she's my wife?" he asked accusingly.
"Please," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes and slipping out of character, "It's elementary. You have matching wedding rings and there's a photo of your wedding day on the mantelpiece. Besides, Sgt. Donavan mentioned that Mr Thompson's son-in-law was here."
"My name's Sarah," said the daughter, looking directly at Sherlock for the first time, "And you're right; Mark and I are married. I hope you can solve who killed my father as quickly as you worked that out."
Sherlock nodded.
"Would you mind if my colleague John and I took a quick look around the house?" Sherlock asked Rachel, "It will give me an idea of what sort of man your late husband was, and who would want to hurt him."
"Yes, of course," she answered, a little startled. Sherlock turned on his heel and headed out of the room, followed by a wheezing John, leaving Lestrade in the room to try and comfort a family in grief.
AN: I'm not personally happy with this chapter. I feel it's a bit of a letdown after the last one but it's important to the plot. Any constructive criticism welcomed. Thanks for being patient with me.
