Chapter Fourteen: Roar

They offer him pills. They offer him help and reasons as to why he's sad. His Dad only wants the best for him. Only the best doctors, the best people to help him get better. Children laughed at him and teased him. Despite everything, everyone….he didn't want to get better. He didn't to heal. He didn't like the doctors and nice people that his parents brought to him. He didn't take the pills r medicine he was told to. He didn't want tot get better. Getting better meant forgetting. It meant leaving behind his only friend, the one who had meant the most to him. His only friend, the one who had meant the most to him out of anyone. The one who had sacrificed himself for him. He didn't want to leave him. Not again. The only time that he was left alone, let to think and relish in his memories was in his dreams. Whether they good or bad, there he could think. He could be with his friend, holding his hand and laughing with him. No pain, no tears, no blood. But when he woke up….he was alone again. Alone with the doctors trying to change him, shape him into something that the world wanted, but not what the boy himself wanted.

"What is is?!"

The phone call had left them all strained, tired. Alex had done his very bestest to cheer them all up, providing what little he knew, and trying to tell them about all the fairytales he could think of. John and Mrs. Hudson took on the role of caring and providing for him, letting him sleep in either Hamish's room, or Mrs. Hudson's spare. The doctor watched over the small warily, his heart feeling torn and shredded every time he watched him play with his son's toys or dress in the missing boy's clothes. Sherlock, in a very Sherlockian-way, refused to acknowledge the child, or anyone unless they were of use to him. He would lie on the couch and stare upwards, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

His body was thinner, his frail bones more prominent than they already were. Bags looked like bruises on his porcelain skin, and no amount of shouting, pleading and snapping would make the man do anything to sustain himself. Not until his son was found, he had said on many occasions.

They had gone had gone at midnight, searching every dark building they could find. More and more people died. Two walls of the flat had been covered in maps and string that Sherlock spent hours pouring over and studying. They had spent endless nights searching the streets with Lestrade and his team. Sherlock had wasted no time in figuring out Jim's little riddle. "He's killing them in groups of two, three times." He had ranted, cigarette pressed between his lips. "And the five…he must be doing it five times. Five fairytales for 6 people…" He ran his hand through his curls, sighing and expelling a thick blast of smoke. "Jack and Jill. Red Riding Hood. Cinderella."

"What does flint have to do with it?" John sighed, setting his down. They had found a piece of it at the previous crime scene. Sherlock had insisted it was a clue. "I don't recall any fairytale with flint in it," John explained lightly, not wanting to anger the detective, since the man was already at the edge of his rope. The doctor wanted everything but to snap it. Better to play it safe and skirt around the edges than to have the bridge collapse beneath your feet, taking you down with it. He watched his husband run his fingers through his hair irritably. "I don't know," he snapped. "Its not as though he would simply just change his methods."

Alex glanced up at them, curious. "Fint?" He asked, his small voice quiet. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, using two hands and then toddled over to John's side, arms raised so he would be held. "Yes, flint, Alex." John said softly, helping him into his lap and smoothing his palm over the small back, rubbing gentle circles into it. "Ohhh," the small boy cooed. "'roara." He grinned happily. The gentle doctor gave an absent nod, not truly paying attention to the small bundle in his arms. "Yes, roar. You're quite scary, Alex. Like your Daddy." He gave the typical small-child-response, the one that usually satisfied them. This time, it only seemed to frustrate the small boy.

"No," He insisted, hands pressing against John's chest. "'roara." He crossed his arms, repeating his words more firmly, as though trying to grind it into John's head. "'roara, Doctah Jawn." He said loudly. "Pwincess."

Sherlock turned quickly and stared at the small boy as though for the first time, eyes wide and flickering with eagerness and shock. "Oh," he breathed. "Ohh." He grinned, turning to face his maps and strings again. "Alex. Your Daddy told you fairytales, didn't he? Plenty of them."

"Mhmmm."

"And what happened to Red Riding Hood? Cinderella? Jack and Jill?"

"Jackey gotta head-hurts, Wed was widing and gobbled and gobbled by the wolfie, but the man cut his tummeh open n' Cin'er'ella wore gass sippers but her sissies got hurts on deir feet an' eyes."

Sherlock's face had broken into a grin. "John, look. Look! Don't you see? When we think fairytales we think the happily-ever-after-off-into-the-sunset taken ones. But, no. No. They're the true fairytales, the gruesome and dark ones created by Grimm. The originals, and the very best. Oh, he is clever, isn't he? Oh, yes. Yes, this is getting fun. It me a bit but now-"

"Sherlock."

The man stopped, turning to stare at his husband. John was standing, his hands clenched and balled at his sides. He feels weak, the detective thought hazily. He only clenches his hands when he feels and vulnerable, needing to protect himself. Johns face was cast into an impenetrable mask, his jaw tightened in a way Sherlock new a fight was going to occur. "What?" He said lamely.

"You figured it out. Great. Wonderful, good on you."

"John-"

"No, you listen. Our son is lost with some bastard and you-you," his finger launched out, pointing towards the ebony haired man, "are acting as though it's bloody Christmas."

"John, if you would listen-"

"Oh, no. No. Shut up, Sherlock. My son is out there, in pain. Hurt. You've done nothing. Nothing. And, you're excited over this." He shook his head, making a small sound that signified his anger.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nooo." He mused, tone teasing. "Now you're simply overreacting. I'm not excited. I'm over joyed that we've got an idea. I've done more than you have, John. You've drunk tea and sat there."

Thrusting the small Alex on the ground, John stood and grabbed his coat, pulling it on and ignoring the shouts as Sherlock called after him, letting the door slam behind him as he left.

They find them the next morning. As always, they arrive as the girl collapses to the ground, the boy already dead beside her, his body stretched out as though trying to reach the small girl.

John didn't need to check the bodies to know that the diagnoses. "Poison," he murmured softly, staring down in pity at the girl, her hair fanned out behind her and eyes shut as though she were only sleeping. Not lying there dead, to the dread of those around her. "Her name was Rose Spindal." Lestrade said quietly from behind them, his arms crossed and head shaking sadly, regret and pity etched into his face.

"Why do you bother with the names, Gavin? There's no point knowing who they were now."

"Its Greg."

"Irrelevant."

John stood with a struggle, placing most of his weight on the cane in his hand. "Because they're people, Sherlock. Not bodies. It may be Hamish here one of these days. But we won't bother with his name, will we?" He shook his head, glaring. "Nah. Cause there's no point knowing who he was."

Sherlock pursed his lips, returning John's glare. He picked up the thorn and flint beneath the girl's finger nails, studying it before placing it into a small bag. John and Lestrade go quiet as he leaves, watching his longs strides quicken, and his coat swirl around him as though it were some dark cloud. John nodded a goodbye to the DI and slowly followed behind Sherlock at a slow pace, sliding into the vehicle where Alex awaited them.

Their victims were running out; they didn't have much time left anymore. The clock was counting down in a steady beat, a low drum. It wouldn't be long until it stopped ticking completely.

Sherlock couldn't tell them about his plan. What he was going to do, and how he was going to save their son. Or all the messages he had been receiving.

[ Better hurry up, Sherly. The fall is coming. Are you ready? JM]

[ Time is running out, Sherlock. They're dyyiingg. Time is running out. The finale is coming, and Hamish is the star. I did say I'd burn your heart. And you're going to /watch/. 3 JM ]

Least of all the reply that he had sent in response to all them. That would send fear into all their hearts. Maybe even break John's.

[ St. Barts. Rooftop. SH ]

Nothing helps. It wont work, his father argues. He's not an experiment to conduct. A project that's in need of fixing. He is a person, our child. As he spoke, the boy wanted to cover his ears. He didn't want the noise. He didn't like the fighting, the hate his parents had for one another. But gradually, it faded away, as did everything. It all left, the rain came and left, the clouds slid through the skies. Everything left like the trickle of water moving on with the current of time. The stress of school passed with years, days beginning to blur together and fade into nothing. But there would always be the ticking, the countdown of the clock, and the slow ache in his chest. The small pang guilt every time he passed that graveyard. The reminder of the failure he had made. How he failed his friend, and how he could never, ever forget that fall.

A/N: Woooow its been a while. Yeah. So, thank you thank you for your support. I'm finally going to finish this up. But my computer is junk and I couldn't update. So I hope you like this chapter.