(SH22 #3)
For the first time in centuries, Holmes stood on the opposite side of the police barrier, staring anxiously past an apologetic constable at the flat where Beth was working. He wouldn't even have been at the scene, had he not heard the strain in her voice when she called, telling him she'd be working late; Watson's quiet transmission of the address cemented the decision.
Finally she emerged, pale and wide-eyed, her expression on seeing him a mixture of exasperation and profound relief. Ignoring any bystanders, he put his arm around her rigid shoulders and led her to the cruiser's back seat, letting the autopilot take them home. Her defences always took time to come down, and he would remain at her side until they did, providing whatever comfort he could to dispel the shadows.
The tragedy this time was that there was no mystery to solve, no elusive killer to track down. Forensics proved that murderer and victim were one and the same person, a straightforward suicide case, although the reasons behind such a desperate act were never simple in themselves.
And yet... there was a strange reassurance in knowing that this kind of case still had the power to affect them both, that their years of fighting crime hadn't completely hardened them, despite their having already witnessed so much bloodshed.