"Sherlock." John pointed out, still staring at the body, "Where is he?"
There was a pause behind him, before the two men joined his sides to also stare down at Mrs Holmes. John tried to hear out any sounds which could resemble Sherlock: the screeching of his violin or the clatter of chemical equipments. Anything. However, there was nothing. Nothing at all.
A hand grabbed John's shoulder lightly to guide him out of the room, "If you would like to follow us John." said Mycroft, who was guiding him slowly down the corridor and up the stairs, "But before we take you to Sherlock, you have to understand that this has had a more emotional impact on him than us. We would like for you to talk to him, and somehow maybe you can persuade him."
They stopped halfway up the stairs and Mycroft let go of John's shoulder. Confused, John turned around to see Mycroft nodding towards upstairs, signalling for John to go on without him. And so he did. With each step, John took his time and made sure the stairs wouldn't creak too much. As he looked down, Mycroft retreated back towards the living room; followed by his father.
The problem was he had no idea which room Sherlock was in, as they were all shut. So he tried the first one, which was a bedroom, but not Sherlock's. It looked as if nobody even slept in there, so he decided Sherlock wasn't in there.
The next room he knew was Sherlock's bedroom; however, it was far harder to get in than the other. But when he did, he had to pinch himself twice just to make sure it was his room. The first time he saw the room-months ago- it was like a tornado had passed through. Now, it was still like that, only the few things that Sherlock kept neat was nowhere to be found except shattered on the ground.
The experiments which were usually on his table looked as if they had been pushed by someone and smashed onto the floor, leaving unknown chemicals to leak through and onto the floor. The bed-which was usually untidy- had been turned onto its side, and looked like it knocked over the bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn close, which left a cold, uncomfortable feeling to whoever entered.
John closed the door quickly and ran to the next and assumed it was the bathroom. Grabbing the handle, he tried to turn it but couldn't as the door was locked. John decided straight away Sherlock was in here.
"Sherlock?" John called through the door, "It's me, John. Are you in there?"
There was a silence first before he heard somebody knock over a couple of items onto the tiled floor. Then-as he was getting more agitated- Sherlock called out, "They're fucking useless John! They can't do a bloody thing!"
"Sherlock, calm down. What are you talking about?"
"Scotland Yard, John. You'd think they'd be able to tell the difference between a natural death and a murder, but it looks as if they can't!"
"Wait, murder? What are you talking about?" John tried to open the door again, but pushed harder this time in hope the door would just fall down, "Look, just let me in!"
"My mother, John! Surely you saw her! When I came back yesterday, Mycroft told me about what happened before I saw her. When I entered, there was Scotland Yard, clearing up the crime scene. I told them that this wasn't a natural death, but do you think they believed me? Of course they didn't."
"Why do you think it was murder Sherlock? You're just angry, that's all; I get it-"
"You don't get it John. That's the problem. Nobody gets it. The blood splatter. The cause of death. The scratch marks on the floor. Now that doesn't look like a natural death, it looks as if somebody broke into the house and did this to her, and where was I-" Sherlock took a pause, "I was with you."
"Sherlock?" said John, slightly hurt, "Are you blaming me for this? You think this is my fault?!"
"Of course I don't John, I just-" John could hear his uncontrolled breathing from where he stood, "If I'd have known this would have happened, I could have stayed at home and-"
John wondered why Sherlock stopped talking, and instead heard the sound of drawers opening and closing, as if Sherlock was looking for something, "Sherlock?!" John asked, starting to panic, "What are you doing in there?!"
"It hurts John." Sherlock said, who finished looking in the drawers, "My head. I'm processing too much. Why couldn't they see it was a murder? How could I?"
"Sherlock-"
"Why is life difficult? Why couldn't I see the signs? I could have stopped it but I couldn't. I was thinking too much of the wrong thing. I should have known but I didn't. Me! Of all people. I can't control it, John. Make it stop, what can I do?"
John could hear the pain in his voice and wanted nothing more than to help Sherlock through this. Slowly, he let go of the handle and lowered himself down onto the floor on his knees and rested his head on the door, "Sherlock. You don't have to be on your own. You've got a lot of people who care for you. I'm one of those people. But please Sherlock, if you need help then please-for me- open this door."
He pressed his head harder into the wooden door; and placed his right hand on the wood in hope to push the door more. The sound of shuffling on the ground grew closer towards the door and before John could move his head, the door opened slowly. On the other side was Sherlock-who was also sat on the floor- who wouldn't look John in the eye. However-thought Sherlock's eyes- John could tell that Sherlock had been up all night, but also had been crying.
Quickly, John shuffled closer towards Sherlock and pulled him closer to a tight embrace and-using his foot- shut the door behind them. Hours must have gone by- John wasn't so sure- as John held him close, not releasing for anything. Sherlock held onto John's robe tightly and buried his head into the crook of John's shoulder and allowed himself to break down- not caring about how awkwardly they were sat- as John rubbed circles on his back.
John looked behind Sherlock to see what he was looking for in the first place, and on the side of the bathtub, he got his answer. A couple of razor blades were chucked onto the ground, but were still in their packets. Because of this, John started to panic; his gut turning into knots as he let go of Sherlock and instead placed his hands on the other's shoulders.
"You weren't." he said, looking from Sherlock back to the packet. "Please tell me you weren't, not after what happened."
"I- It hurts. I don't know why I got them out, I couldn't think straight. I need help, John." said Sherlock, tearing up again and tightening his fists on John's clothes, "My brain. There's something wrong. It's burning and I just, I don't-"
"Sherlock." said John, "You're thinking too much. Just look at me-" Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, "No, Sherlock don't do this. Just look at me, please!" his plea made Sherlock open his eyes to look up at John. The sight of Sherlock looking so innocent made John wince in his seat, but he ignored it, "You are a brave person Sherlock. The bravest person I've ever known and the most intelligent. I love you too much...how do you think I feel seeing you like this? Being so close to almost hurting yourself?" he asked. Sherlock just shook his head, "It breaks my heart too."
John used one of his hands to reach over for the razors to chuck them as far away as possible, "You're right Sherlock; I don't know how it feels. But please, just let me help you through this, because I can. Just start by telling me how you feel." Sherlock shot a confused glance at him, "I know it sounds stupid, but if you just let it all out now then maybe I can understand and be able to help you. I won't interrupt. Just use this time to tell me everything."
They both took this time to change their seating positions; they now sat side by side against the bathtub, which John's arm cradling Sherlock as his other hand joined with Sherlock's own, "It's their fault, you know. Mycroft and father. It's their job that killed her. When I was younger I asked what do they do in their jobs; they told me it was a secret. As I got older I realised that it was actually a secret that could potentially harm the family-" he paused, "I guess it finally happened."
"You can't blame them forever Sherlock, they're still your family."
"I know that, but their job does require us to have security follow us 24/7. Why were they not there for my mother when she needed help the most? The more I think about it the more I think of it as a crime."
"Maybe you should tell your dad what you think. He should listen to you, especially if it was murder. He wouldn't take risks." said John, looking down at Sherlock's curls which was rested on his shoulder, "You told him, didn't you?"
"He didn't believe me. Nobody did. I tried to tell Mycroft but he was too busy trying to get security sorted, but it's a bit too late for that." Sherlock laughed bitterly, which made John tighten his arm more on Sherlock, "There's just the problem of what I'm to do now. We won't be moving, I know because it would have an effect of father's work. I just- I don't know what to do anymore."
Neither did John. The fact that Sherlock was clinging onto him and wanting comfort made John feel weak, as he thought he wasn't doing enough. Using humour to lighten things up was his forte, as it worked many times in many situations, but now he had no more to say, and that made him feel useless.
John worried for their future. Eventually he would return home and if that happens, those men leave also; leaving his father with the rest of them. Either his father would shout nothing but insults at them all -or do worse- or storm out of the house and keep out for a week or two before he returned; if John was honest, he preferred the second option.
Maybe Sherlock was right about not moving, but surely- John thought- they couldn't stay here after all of this. For starters it was too dangerous and even John can't picture Sherlock's living room anymore without picturing his mother dead; maybe the same thing was happening to Sherlock.
"John?" Sherlock asked, raising his head from John's shoulder; breaking the silence, "I don't want to be a detective anymore."
This made John stare at him with wide eyes, as being a detective was what Sherlock wanted to be, "What? Why not?!"
"If it means working with idiots like the ones in my house today, then I'd rather be a...I don't know- a book collector than work with them. Mrs Hudson could help me with that."
"But- you were looking forward to becoming a detective? You'd be solving crimes like you wanted, jumping off rooftops and catching the bad guys; what's wrong with that?" he asked; Sherlock merely sighed at John and rested his head again, "Well, you could still be a detective...in a way."
Sherlock raised his head immediately and stared at John with interest, "Explain."
"Well, you could still solve crimes and such, but you don't have to work with detectives. Or you don't have to work with them all the time. Like they could-"
"-come to me if they can't solve the crime?" Sherlock asked, as he thought about all the possibilities, "When they're out of their depths, they could ask me?"
"Yeah! Like a consultant! That is the right word, isn't it?"
"Yes exactly!" Sherlock jumped to his feet and paced in the small bathroom looking gleeful, which was definitely odd considering what he was like a minute ago, "I wouldn't have to work with them, I could just go to the crime scene; do everything there and then the case is solved!"
"Well you know what they say, all jobs need a title." said John, as his idea was to keep Sherlock happy for as long as he can. Looking at Sherlock-at that moment- made John curious as to why he was acting this way: was he trying to go off topic? Or maybe he's trying to delete the whole thing like last time, but how could he do that?
Sherlock stopped and retreated back down next to John; placing his hands under his chin as he thought about it; then he lifted his head and looked at John with a look of brilliance, "A consulting detective!"
"You'd be the only one in the world!" said John, sharing this short moment of happiness with Sherlock as much as he can, before they would face the outside word again.
"You know, I think we just invented a job." said Sherlock with satisfaction as he rested the back of his head on the edge of the bathtub. Taking the opportunity, John moved closer to Sherlock so he could rest his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Whether or not the happiness would last, John wouldn't waste this moment as he absorbed every minute or hour they sat there together; in each other's company. He wouldn't use this time to think about the past or the future; instead, he thought about this exact moment when Sherlock looked truly happy after being in a state of despair; and how he looked at John with hope and not plea.
Neither of them must have had enough sleep, as John could feel himself and Sherlock slipping into unconsciousness. Sherlock whispered: "Will you stay? Please?"
John could hear his voice break at 'please' and felt even more sorry for him, so he grabbed Sherlock's hand; brought it up to his lips and gently kissed each knuckle before replying, "Of course."
The last thing Sherlock whispered before letting sleep overpower him was: "Consulting Detective." as if he was going over the idea in his head.
The last thing John said to Sherlock before he closed his eyes and knocked his head back was: "The only one in the world."
Thank you for reading :) Update will be next week :)