A/N: Okay, there are a couple of things I like to say to you guys. First of all, I'm so sorry for the delay. It feels like an excuse, but there was so much going on that needed my attention that I couldn't find the time or the energy to write a chapter for this fic. I'm still absolutely, 100% committed to this fic, but it just felt hard to write such a serious fic with so much going on. That's why I focussed on Teach me ABC for a while; it's a little more light and breezy than this one (for the time being). But I still love this fic, and I'm not going to abandon it!
Second, I'm not entirely happy about this chapter. But I really wanted to write something for you guys. You have been patient and waited long enough.
Last but not least. THANK YOU so much for all the kudos and comments, again. You really are the best, and it really makes my day. So I make you a deal: I will try to update as soon as possible, and you write me a comment. Sounds good, yeah? And I promise I won't let you wait two months again (pinky promise!)

I hope you all are save and that you won't let the lockdown get the better of you. 3

Chapter 15: You Say

I keep fighting voices in my mind that say I'm not enough
Every single lie that tells me I will never measure up
Am I more than just the sum of every high and every low?
Remind me once again just who I am, because I need to know

You Say – Lauren Diagle

New Scotland Yard hadn't changed a bit. The tall, white building still had the same stately appearance as before, and the sign was still standing proudly at the entrance. The reception and the hallway hadn't changed much as well. Well, the only noticeable thing was that they had repainted the stairs somewhere over the last year but other than that, everything still looked the same.
There was another thing that hadn't changed. The moment Sherlock exited the taxi, the game was on. He rushed out of the cab, let John pay for the ride and entered the building with his Belstaff coat flapping behind him. He followed Lestrade through the building, his head held up high and eyes full of focus. John had to hurry to keep up with the detective. It felt like old times, like before. The only thing visibly different was the cast around Sherlock's, but John knew better.
Sherlock's pace was a bit slower and more deliberate, his face tense, and his teeth clenched. He was in pain but didn't want to show it. He tried to hold up his previous façade of the cold, untouchable detective, while he actually wasn't ready for this. And maybe that was the thing John worried the most. Sherlock would to everything not to show what he had been through, and it would break him in the end. And John just had to stand there and watch him do it.

From the moment they entered Lestrade's department, John tried to push his unsettling feeling aside and decided to focus on the case. But it took only a couple of seconds before the officers noticed who walked in. John felt how everyone turned their heads and how every eye was on him and Sherlock. The conversations fell quiet and made way for some soft whispering. John narrowed his eyes and looked around. He had forgotten the lack of decency of most of the Yarders. The man was going to help the Yard to find their criminal, probably catch him single-handedly, and they were just staring at Sherlock like some kind of surreal thing.

"I can't believe it. It's the freak."

It was barely a whisper, but John heard it loud and clear. It made his skin crawl with anger. He clenched his fists and set his jaw, ready to defend Sherlock in any way needed. He waited for Sherlock to fire a snarl, but he didn't say anything.

For a brief moment, John wondered if he hadn't heard anything if he didn't notice the glares. But when he glanced over at Sherlock, he saw him close his eyes briefly and swallow before entering Lestrade's office, and John's heart sank. Not only had he heard, but it also hurt him.

It took John every bit of willpower to ignore everyone instead of speaking up, but he knew it wasn't what Sherlock wanted him to do. So instead he squared his shoulders and followed Sherlock and Lestrade inside.

Lestrade closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. Before John would take place opposite him, and Sherlock would stand so he could pace around like he always did. This time, Sherlock walked over to the chair and sat down, trying to hide the painful grimace that threatened to show on his face. John immediately walked closer and stood behind him, protectively.

"All right," Lestrade started. "The victim's name is Tom Brandon, 41 years old. He lives in an apartment in the city centre, no wife, no kids. His family lives in Manchester. He's a police officer for 17 years, came to our department two years ago when he moved from Manchester to London. We believe he was taken last night since he didn't show up to work this morning."

"How many threats have there been?" John asked.

"Four, so far. It looks like the suspect is choosing his victims beforehand."

"When was the first threat received?"

"Around two and a half weeks ago. At first, officer Brandon didn't mention it. But when the second threat came, it became clear it was a bit more serious than he anticipated."

"And how did they receive the threats?"

"They got a call. We tried to get phone records and track down the phone, but the phone that was used was a prepaid and only used once."

Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. "There has to be a connection between the threats."

"That what we thought, but so far we didn't find any."

Sherlock snorted. "And you're sure you checked everything?"

"Yes, we did."

"You checked their email, texts, their social media accounts, their contacts?"

Lestrade sighed. "Yes, of course."

"You interviewed them, friends, relatives, colleagues?" Sherlock asked. He didn't wait for an answer but stood up and started pacing across the room, clearly not paying attention to the conversation anymore.

"Yes, Sherlock, we did. Nothing came up."

"Did you have contact with other departments? Other police stations? Maybe they received threats as well?" John tried.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, other departments didn't get any." He paused for a moment and sighed. "And we don't want to check with other police stations, trying to avoid a lot of commotion. But as far as I can tell, there were no other stations who received threats."

"So it's random?"

"Looks like it."

"It's not random!" Sherlock snapped suddenly. "It's never random!"

John raised his eyebrows and looked at the detective for a moment. "But it could be?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and gave John a look which John recognized right away. Sherlock thought he was acting like an idiot. "Is officer Brandon the last of those four who joined your team?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then I need every case file from all of the victims from the last two years at Baker Street, stat."

"What, from all four of them?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

"Obviously."

"Sherlock, that's insane." John interrupted. "There's no way we can check all of those files just to see if there's a small connection."

"And I need you to bring their electronic devices. I'm sure you missed something. You always miss something."

"Sherlock," John warned, but it was no use. He knew Sherlock was probably right to question the thoroughness of the investigation Lestrade and his team had done, but he also knew it would mean Sherlock wouldn't stop digging for a connection until he had found it.

Sherlock ignored John for the second time. "And I want to visit the victim's apartment. John, let's go. I refuse to wait until the fine officers of the Yard are free to accompany us. I will see you there, Lestrade." He didn't wait for the other two men to move and walked to the door.

Lestrade spoke before he could leave. "What, you want to visit the apartment now?"

Sherlock turned around and narrowed his eyes. "Really, Lestrade. You are even slower on the uptake than before. Please, don't bother me with that sluggish brain of yours. Come on, John!"

John gave Greg an apologetic look and followed Sherlock.

He knew the cab ride to Brandon's apartment would be a short one, but it gave Sherlock a moment to let his guard down a bit, to catch his breath. Although he didn't want to admit it, he was in pain. His ribs hurt like hell, the muscles in his back were tense, and the remains of his collapsed lung made it hard to catch a proper breath.
It had been tough to be back at the Yard. He tried not to get affected by the stares and the whispers, to be the person he was before he went to Eastern Europe. And in Lestrade's office, he tried to be on top of his game and suck in every bit of information Lestrade had to offer. But in result, his head was spinning from all the things he had heard. He knew it would probably be better to go to the apartment tomorrow, but he needed to push through. He needed to know he could do this, that he still was the same. He couldn't back out already. All he needed was a moment to recollect himself.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock sighed. Of course, he couldn't fool John. He had stopped trying to fool John the moment John had set foot in his hospital room two weeks ago. "I don't know," he answered in honesty.

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered shortly and continued to stare out of the window in hope to avoid a conversation. The last thing he needed was a lecture from John. He knew John didn't agree to this in the first place. Maybe he was right.

To Sherlock's surprise, John didn't say anything. Instead, he fumbled around in his pockets. "Here," he said and held out a strip of painkillers. "Sorry, I don't have any water with me."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John and felt a rush of warmth through him. The look John gave him was a look of determination, not of pity or disapproval and Sherlock could kiss him right there and then. To make sure he wouldn't, he took the strip from John. "Thanks," said and popped two pills out of it.

John just gave him an answering smile and turned back to the window to stare out of it, and Sherlock did the same, his mind buzzing.

It took five more minutes before the cab arrived at the apartment of Tom Brandon. With a little difficulty, Sherlock stepped out and walked up to the main entrance of the building and waited for John to enter as well. Together, they walked to the elevator and took it up to the third floor.

They entered the small two-room apartment, and both men started to look around. It was clear Brandon lived alone. There was a small kitchen with a dining table and two seats, a living room with a couch with a tv and a bedroom with a single bed in it. It was clear Brandon had been not too long ago. The bed was unmade, and there were dirty dishes in the sink.
From the first look, there wasn't much to see. Sherlock started to look for clues, for any trace he could use.

"Take a look at this," John said after a couple of minutes and held out a piece of paper, which appeared to be a photo. Sherlock took, looked at it… and froze. There was a man in the picture, on his knees, his arms tight behind his back, bruises clearly visible. His back was turned towards the camera, and his head hung low. He was held gunpoint.

John waited for Sherlock to comment, but there was no response. "Sherlock?" He tried, but he didn't get an answer. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed, but that also didn't seem to snap him out of whatever was going on inside his head. He cursed inside himself. He should've known that this photo would trigger something, that it would be hard to see. He should've kept it from him and handed it over to Lestrade.

It would be a matter of seconds before Lestrade and his team would enter the apartment. John knew he couldn't let the whole team see Sherlock like this. Lestrade was one thing, but the rest of the team wouldn't understand what was going on and would trigger the wrong things. He made a decision. "I'll be back in a sec," he said and walked away from Sherlock to the front door. He stepped outside and closed the door, just in time to keep Lestrade from entering the room.

"He needs a moment, Greg."

Lestrade didn't miss the urgency in John's voice. "Of course," he answered with a nod.

Behind them, the footsteps of sergeant Donovan tapped on the staircase. "You can't be serious," she started while climbing the last couple of stairs. "The freak just shows up after a year, and you're already giving him privileges?"

"Sally," Lestrade warned her.

"No, sir. He doesn't get to barge into the Yard after a year of absence and take over the case like it's nothing. We don't need him."

"We do need him to get some answers. And If that means needs a couple of minutes to get those, I'm more than happy to oblige."

"This is unexceptional. How do you even know he's not going to walk out again and let you deal with the crap he leaves behind?"

"Shut up," John hissed through clenched teeth. He desperately tried to keep his anger under control. "Do you have any idea why he was gone? What happened?"

Donovan glared at John daringly and narrowed her eyes. "I don't have to. I know his moves, I know what he's up to. And I will not fall for that again. Once a freak, always a freak."

"Donovan," Lestrade intervened, his voice firm. "That's enough. I'm still your superior, and I still call the shots here. And if I hear you question my decisions once again, I'll kick you off the case, understood?" He turned to John. "You should go back inside. I can give you 3 minutes."

Although John desperately wanted to punch Donovan in the face, he knew Lestrade was right. He gave Lestrade a small nod as a thank you and turned to head back.

Sherlock hadn't moved. He still stood in the middle of the room with the photo in his hands. When John got closer, he noticed Sherlock's hands were shaking. "Sherlock?" he began softly. But Sherlock didn't answer. He just looked down at the photo, completely lost in his own thoughts.

John decided now wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. He walked up to him, placed a gentle hand on his and took the photo out of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looked up at him, a hint of panic clearly visible in his pale blue eyes. "Come on," John whispered.

He guided Sherlock to the window and opened it. Sherlock immediately leaned into the fresh air, took a deep sigh and tried to slow down his thoughts. For a moment, they just stood there, letting the cold air fill their lungs and clean their heads.

"John," Sherlock said after a moment. His voice was a bit hoarse, and it clearly took him a lot of effort to form his next sentence. He frowned and looked down at their hands. John's hand was so close, so easy to reach. But he didn't dare to seek the comfort he needed without asking. He swallowed and tried to get rid of the raspy feeling that had settled in his throat. "I need you to tell me you think I can do this because I'm starting to think I can't."

John didn't respond right away. "I don't think you can do this," John said softly, and for a second Sherlock thought he had lost John's faith. But the doctor took a deep breath and continued. "I know you can. But if you want to stop, if you don't want to do this, then that's okay. I'll support you anyway." He reached out his hand and placed it over Sherlock's.

The gesture on its own was so small, but it made all the difference in the world to Sherlock. He let out a breath and felt his body relax a little. The fact that John would be there with him no matter what was all he needed. He didn't hesitate anymore, grabbed John's hand and squeezed it softly.

The sound of the click of the door handle made them both jump, quickly letting go of each other's' hands and turned to the door.

"Tell me you got some theories, Sherlock," Lestrade asked right away.

It took John a moment to recollect himself, but Sherlock had already put on his game face and sprung into action. "Three, so far," he answered and started to walk across the room. "The kidnapper is a man, or are multiple men, that much is obvious by the size of his clothing. A woman could not be able to overtake him. There isn't any sign of struggle or resistance, so I believe he wasn't taken from here."

"We also found-," John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Fibers of some kind," Sherlock said quickly. He eyed John for a moment, hoping John would get the message to not mention the photo. "Probably from an item of clothes the kidnapper wore when he got inside."

"I thought you said he wasn't taken from here?" Lestrade asked.

"He wasn't," Sherlock answered impatiently. "But someone has been here after the kidnapping," Brandon clearly wasn't a smoker, but there is fresh tobacco ash near the window in the bedroom. Marlboro, by the smell of it."

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock just glared at Lestrade. After a second, he looked over at John. "Let's go home, John. We've got some files to check."

From the moment they got home, Sherlock threw himself entirely on finding a connection between the four victims of the threats. John tried to help as much as he could, but Sherlock made it clear he was more of a burden than a help and snapped at him every time John thought he had found something. When he suggested Sherlock should take a break and eat something, he got the 'my-body-is-just-transport' and 'food-slows-down-my-brain' speech he knew all too well, together with some comments on how he shouldn't hover and how he should just get out of the way.

By eleven o'clock, John had had enough of it. "Sherlock, you need to stop. You need to take care of yourself. You need to eat, and you need to sleep."

"No."

"You know your body can't handle the stress right now. Come on, take a break."

"No."

John used his last resort. "Sherlock. Now," he said in his Captain-voice.

This made Sherlock look up from his files. He narrowed his eyes and calculated his options. After a second, he seemed to come to a conclusion there weren't many. Looking around, he grabbed the nearest takeaway box and shoved a spoon full of noodles into his mouth. "Happy?" he hissed after swallowing his bite.

John shook his head in defeat. "Please come to bed somewhere this night, okay?" he asked, but Sherlock just glared at him in answer. John sighed, took his phone and went down the hallway to the bedroom.

Halfway up, John felt his phone buzzing in his hand. With a sinking feeling, he opened the text and read it.

"We need to talk. Now."