It was a long walk to West Bridge Park from Baker Street, but Sherlock Holmes needed the fresh air. He instinctively turned the collar of his jacket against the sharp gale that was blowing. He needed the time to think and mull the last 24 hours over.
He knew he would not be able to live without John. That was a fact. As much as he hated admitting him himself, he wasn't actually the sociopath everyone presumed he was. He was high-functioning, that was not an issue, but it wasn't that he was incapable of caring for the wellbeing of other people, rather he found the issues of common life altogether boring, too mundane to concern himself in. As a result, people just presumed he didn't care for them. He never concerned himself in the banalities of domesticity and he certainly never found his own love life interesting so the infidelities of his acquaintances never concerned him, especially since he could already predict their spouses' lovers' profession from their aftershave.
But when it came to John, Sherlock was more than concerned. Sherlock could not place why he cared so much that John was seeing Lestrade. Maybe it was because he knew Greg (or was it Gary?) and that if anything were to happen between his best friends and his 'commanding officer', both of his social spheres would contort and implode in on themselves. And that was something he would not risk.
A mass of police officers had gathered outside the entrance of the Park, secured with a thin strip of yellow plastic tape, questioning the curious onlookers and pacing back and forth on their mobile phones. The residents of the apartments opposite the park peered through their open curtains; some blatantly stood at their windows and pointed out the scene below to the other people in the room while other residents tried to be less conspicuous. A small shrivelled finger hooked the frilled edge of lacy curtain. Small beady eyes concealed behind think framed spectacles peered from the bottom corner. Sherlock passed the small window and the finger and glasses disappeared from sight.
A small middle-aged woman heaved a sparkling white mist from his chapped lips, rubbing their gloved hands together for warmth. When she spotted the dark lanky detective striding towards the gate she smiled weakly, the slight curl of her lip inching closer to her small button nose. She lifted the tape instinctually and Sherlock ducked under, accommodating for the height difference the woman's short arms were capable of. He turned to the woman and thanked her, feeling a twang of some kind of emotion spring in his chest. Tears prickled in his eyes at the small act of kindness but he blinked them away in an instant.
The heavy wrought-iron gates groaned and shrieked on their hinges as Sherlock pushed the latch downward and out, leaving the gate ajar in his wake. A thin veil of dry leaves, curled and bronzed with age and death covered the pathway below him and crunched as he advanced closer to the crime scene. Tall trees scarce with leaves stretched and reached on both sides of the man-made path, creating a canopy of dry, weeping limbs above his head. Another mass of officers had gathered around an area close to the edge of the narrow meandering river which streamed through the park.
Donovan had her faced buried in a small black notebook, her mass of curly black hair bobbing in the wind, her brows knitted in the middle in concentration, when she heard the sound of Sherlock's footsteps closing in. She stood upright and the deep lines of her forehead loosened and her frown change from one of concentration to one of irritation.
"You took your time." she said, a bitter bite in her words.
"I was… busy." Sherlock sighed, indifferent to her unpleasantness, remembering the last hour he had spent cradling his flatmates woollen jumper to his face in silence.
"Whatever-" she snapped, unnecessary callousness dripping from the word and the two detectives walked towards the body. "- the victim was a young woman, Caucasian, 5ft 7in. No I.D. was found on the body but we know the victim as one Vicky Vance. She is a model, turned fashion designer knows simply as 'V'. 'V' had just returned from The States, launching her new clothing range. 'Boutique quality, high-street price.' That's was she was claiming. She was good. Knew what she was doing. She would have had a great career…"
Donovan continued for a few more minutes and they hadn't even reached the body yet but Sherlock blanked it out. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, a habit he had learned from his flatmate who had been seen performing the action several times during the day at the different things Sherlock would do or say. Sherlock smiled weakly at John's memory but frowned suddenly. He looked up and scanned the crime scene, racing a bit ahead when he spotted a circle of officers around what was presumably the body.
He scanned the group, his eyes studying the tense forms of the chilled officers, but there was no sign of John. He turned to Donovan who had just caught up to Sherlock, a grimace on her face.
"Where's John?" he asked her inquisitively.
She scanned the crowd vaguely and shrugged. "Don't know-"
Sherlock huffed and balled his hands into fists.
"-he was here just a second ago talking to Lestrade. They must have gone for coffee or something."
At this Sherlock's face relaxed into a pleasant smile and Donovan scrutinised the change in his features.
"We're at the scene of a murder. Don't look so happy, Freak." Donavan scowled before pushing past the taller man.
Sherlock turned, still smiling and pushed through the officers. The body of the young woman came into view and Sherlock was surprised to see the body cocooned in a think un-sheeted duvet. A small blonde head peered out from a small gap in the covers.
"Did one of you do this?" Sherlock asked, turning to the crowd.
"Do you think we're than thick?" Anderson piped in, taking photographs of the victim to Sherlock's side.
With a glimmer of futility still lingering in his mind from his fight with John last night and the note sliver he had found this morning, he couldn't bring himself honestly answer Anderson's remark. His heart felt heavy with remorse and he longer to see his friends face one more. He looked around again but the doctor was nowhere to be seen. He sighed loudly and his eyes grew heavy with dejection. With his head full of John he did not caring who could hear him. He has never meant to hurt John as he had. He though he was doing him a favour by skipping past the initial flirtations, straight to the establishment of an emotional connection between the two men, but apparently John and Greg were fond of the sentimentalities of conventional dating. Of course he wanted John to be happy. He wanted nothing more than for his flatmate to find someone who made him feel wanted and someone to care for him, because goodness knows that he deserved all the happiness in the world. He was only trying to help, but he couldn't even do that right. He couldn't make John happy and with that realisation, Sherlock's heart sank in his chest and his eyes lined with tears.
With an air of triumph at Sherlock's silence, Anderson reached around the body and lifted the covers, revealing that the body was donned in a tightly-fitted, unnecessarily revealing cocktail dress, paired with expensive looking nude high-heels.
Sherlock stood in silence looking over the body. Wave after wave of analysis and emotion crashed in on him and he almost stumbled with the sensation. He gasped at the sudden intake as clue after clue pieced themselves together in his mind. Neat lipstick. Single earring. False eyelashes. Dyed hair fitted with extensions. Clean dress. Nightclub. Bar. Plane. Bag? Mobile phone? Taxi receipt, Wallet but no I.D. gaunt. White face. Open mouth. Purple lips. Black dead eyes. He gasped with the influx of information and whimpered as the wealth of it caused a stabbing pain behind his closed eyelids. A single tear rolled down his frozen cheek and crashed the palms of his hands into is eye sockets.
He pulled back from the scene and opened his eyes. The scene before him was spinning and he ducked his head into his chest, reaching for something to brace himself against. His hand grasped onto someone's sleeve and he blink another few tears from his eyes and they rolled down his face.
Somewhere far in the distance beneath the deafening buzz of his ears, Sherlock could hear the sound of a man's voice.
"Sherlock. Hello? HELLO? Can you hear me? I don't know what's wrong with him. He was fine when I left last night. Speak to me Sherlock."
Sherlock listened to the one sided conversation the man was having with someone in the distance.
Sherlock opened his eyes with a strong hand gripped his shoulder gently. It was John.
Sherlock's mouth curled in a smile but his tears kept falling. The scene was still spinning and his eyes twisted in circles trying to keep up with the movement.
"He must be having some form of seizure-" John spoke in a worried tone. "- Greg, quickly call an ambulance."
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his flatmate. John's eyes were wide with concern and his lips were moving with more words but the buzzing was getting louder and louder.
The world started to fade into white and with one last effort Sherlock spoke, "I... I'm s-sorry."
And with that Sherlock collapsed on the cold hard ground.
