"Wait—so you're saying there's a dead woman in there—" John gestured to the door Sherlock had come from. "And we just broke in?"
"Well, yes. Isn't it fabulous? Oh. Right… I'll call Lestrade, eventually, once I've had a chance to look around before the whole crime scene gets completely trod on by that herd of wildebeests they affectionately call a forensics team."
"Did you touch anything? They might find your fingerprints and think—" John paused when he saw the funny look Sherlock was giving him.
"They know who I am. And I'm already on this case; my reputation will shield me from suspicion. Besides," He smiled keenly. "She's been dead for a full two days."
"So…" John cleared his throat, trying to shift his attention back to the case. "One girl is found dead in an abandoned flat. Then, three days later, her friend's dead too. Same killer?"
"That's the thing… it's totally different. The last victim was completely bloodless, but this one… And yet, it's most definitely the same killer. Moriarty."
"But why? Why is he killing them like this?"
Sherlock regarded him for a moment of theatrical pause. "…Again, sending a message. He knew I'd connect the two… it's his alternative to an email. A lot more eye-catching, really."
"Sherlock, she's dead!"
"Yes, I know. I literally just told you that, five minutes ago."
"That's a dead woman, not a bit of post! God, sometimes you don't even—"
Sherlock frowned at him, tilting his head. "What do you want to me do, cry?"
John's mind suddenly flashed back to that night in the flat, where Sherlock had sobbed into his shoulder, high out of his mind.
"I don't have time to mourn for anyone, John, least of all someone I didn't even know. Let me do my job, and then you can, I don't know, blog about it and overdose on chocolates."
"Shut up. I'm not in the mood for this. Just show me the body, and let's get out of here."
...
The moment John entered the room the stench hit him like a punch in the face from a professional bodybuilder. Wearing brass knuckles. And maybe also gripping a dead skunk.
The second thing he became aware of was the blood.
Everywhere.
It filled the bathtub where the dead woman was resting, and had spilled out down the sides and onto the white tile floor.
An excess of scarlet.
"It would appear that she slit her own wrists, likely with that knife there, and bled out. But that's obviously not possible. She was right handed, but the cuts seem to be from a significantly left angle, so—John?"
John couldn't breath.
It wasn't just the smell.
He doubled over, trying hard not to throw up.
"John, are you alright?" Sherlock was leaning over him, apparently trying to decide whether to touch him or not. "What is it? Can you talk to me?"
He wretched a bit, but managed a nod. "Fine…"
The next moment he was being led out of the room by the arm, following Sherlock back into the living room. The clearer air was a relief, but not as much as getting away from all that blood.
John was a doctor… he didn't mind blood… but… that was…
Different.
"Talk to me." Sherlock prompted again. "Come on, the faster we get this over with the faster I can finish investigating, and then we can go home."
"CAN YOU STOP?!"
Sherlock stepped back, blinking, and stared at him with a vaguely puzzled expression.
Even John himself hadn't expected that. "I… I'm… I mean… Sherlock, can you stop acting like this is just some case? Like it doesn't mean anything? This is the most dangerous criminal in London, telling you over and over again that he knows all about your little problem! What if he… does something?"
The detective's gaze fell to the floor, and then over to the window, and then back to his shoes. Looking him in the eyes was too uncomfortable, it seemed. "I'm… sure that with my help the Yard will be able to put a stop to this before there's any more collateral damage."
"That's not what I'm talking about! I mean, yeah, that would be great—but that's not what I meant!"
"It's… not?"
"No, you great idiot! I'm talking about you, Sherlock! This is all about you, isn't it? What if he decides to stop playing around and… and…" John swallowed, trying not to think about the knife and the blood and the bathtub.
"Oh." Sherlock nodded, though he still looked lost. "Oh…"
"Stop being so bloody distant about this! I'm worried about you, you git! This must be affecting you, on some level, right?!"
"I can't… I have to… I don't have time—"
"You don't have time to what? Mourn for anyone? Least of all yourself?"
"Don't be absurd, I'm not dead—"
"No, but you might be. If you carry on like this. And I don't just mean… you know." John drew in a deep breath, trying to figure out just how far he meant to go with this. "I just… don't want to see you, on the floor, like that. Like that woman in there. I don't want to see you end up dead. Okay?"
Sherlock was silent for several minutes, looking down at the carpet. "I… don't think I will. I… might have, almost, a few years ago, but… something happened, and I haven't thought about it since."
The hairs at the back of John's neck prickled.
Had he heard that right?
"All that to say…" Sherlock straightened up stoically and turned back toward the door. "Stop worrying, and don't nag me. I'll figure this out."
'Something happened…'?
What was that supposed to mean?