"Sarah's dead!" John shouted, pointing at the bloodied body and shaking so hard he could barely hold his mobile to his ear.
"Stay where you are, John," Sherlock's voice demanded harshly, the violin stopping immediately. "Do not move to put on your trousers, do not move to open the door, do nothing. Do you understand me?"
The 'yes' reply was so quiet that even Sherlock nearly missed it.
"Stay on the line and tell me everything you see, every little detail," John nodded, whimpering quietly and leaning his head up to get a better look at the girl, trying to force his doctor instincts to take over. "Mrs. Hudson! Call up the Yard and tell them Lestrade needs to follow my orders, immediately!" Sherlock was taking over, controlling the situation. Not with excitement, not this time, but with horror and fear. "John, tell me what you see, now."
"B-blood," He was stuttering quite badly, silent sobs beginning to take over as the reality slammed over him. "A-all over the place..." When he looked down at himself, he realised his right side was covered in blood, and not a drop of it was his own. "Bloody hell!"
He couldn't speak straight after he saw the blood on his own body. The smell of it was making him even more nauseous than the sight of it. Not wanting to look at the body to closely, not wanting to think to hard on what was happening, he stammered into the mobile his pleads of help. He was a doctor, he should be used to this!
"You haven't touched a thing?" The voice snapped him out of his internal fog. "John, stop weeping and answer me." He was crying loud enough to be heard?
"No, nothing. Nothing, Sherlock!" Before he was able to stop himself and choke back another sob, a wretched noise burst from his chest and took over all reasoning that was left in him. No matter what was being said on the other end of the line- demands, questions, horrible attempts at consolation- John couldn't control himself anymore. He kept the phone up just so he could hear a distant voice reminding him not to do anything.
If he had his way, he'd run and grab Sarah, shake her, hold her, plead with her to still be alive. He'd shake himself, hit his head into the wall to try and wake himself from such a terrible nightmare.
There was a loud sound somewhere else in the flat, the sound of the door being kicked open and feet running all over the place. A steady flat line started up against his ear- Sherlock had disconnected- but the phone stayed exactly in place.
"John!" The footsteps got closer; within seconds there were a handful of people pouring into the bedroom. Sherlock didn't stop until he was crouched beside his friend, not touching him, just staring him down. Making deductions, evaluating the situation.
"Sherlock, don't touch him." John couldn't tell who was speaking. There were too many voices, too many people, and not enough explanations.
"Bloody hell, Anderson! Just check the God forsaken body and leave me be!" If John didn't know better, he would think that Sherlock was worried. Worried that he had killed his girlfriend.
The wreckage of his mind was beginning to dull down. His sobs were receding, only because now he wasn't alone. Able to stop thinking and trying to pick apart the situation he was in, it was easy to come down from the adrenaline shock. Still shaking, he finally managed to tear his eyes away from stupid Anderson prodding at Sarah's body with his stupid gloved fingers.
"Lestrade, get that damned shock blanket of yours and bring it here," Sherlock was still in control. He was still deducing, but now he was more focused on taking care of his only friend.
When the horrendous orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled from his seated position on the floor, John finally got his voice back.
"Sherlock, she's dead. My Sarah." His eyes flashed from the body of the girl he had been kissing just hours ago to the face of the man leading him out of the bedroom.
"I always through the freak was going to kill someone, but I guess it rubbed off, didn't it?"
"Can it, Donovan!" Lestrade scolded harshly after seeing every last drop of color drain from John's face.
He hadn't thought of it that way. All that was on his mind was the fact that she was dead. Oh, so stupid of him, of course he killed her! Who else would have done it? There was no way! He would have woken up, and if he hadn't done it, then why wasn't he killed too? He remembered the tea, the row, definitely the sex. Everything to falling asleep wrapped around her was firmly implanted in his mind, but after that, everything was blank, until he heard Sherlock's voice on the phone.
There was only one way this could have happened.
John was a murderer.
Donovan was right, in a way. It wasn't Sherlock that must have implanted the monster inside of him; it had to be the constant dead bodies and crime scenes that they saw.
"John. Listen to me. Recount every moment you spent with Sarah yesterday, from the moment you walked over the threshold to when we got here." Faintly realising that Sherlock was speaking to him, John tried to snap out of his horrid thoughts so he could do as asked. Lestrade and Donovan were watching and waiting while Anderson documented the body, his damn girlfriend. Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention, and it was obvious to everyone but John that he was decoding every inch of the flat.
"I got here just after dinner. I toed off my shoes and kissed her. She made her favorite cuppa for the both of us. The Yorkshire over on the counter there." He couldn't be sure he was pointing in the right spot; tears obscured the majority of his vision.
He told his story, even pieces about the romp with Sarah when Lestrade prodded for it. While recounting the row and the mug incident, John realised that he was naked, wearing nothing but the dreadful orange shock blanket. Half-heartedly pulling the blanket around himself, Lestrade was the next to speak.
"Sherlock? What do you have?" The DI was being more kind than usual, either because the witness/suspect was in earshot, or because of the strange relationship between everyone in the room. Probably a mix of both.
"Mug on the table, lipstick on a single spot on the rim. A matching mug thrown in the sink, cracked down one side from being tossed in frustration or anger. Two wine glasses with red wine-" He leaned in for a quick sniff of the glasses. "Full-bodied, Bordeaux, Cabernet Sauvignon. Imported from across the pond, at least seven years old. A selection that Mr. Watson doesn't drink without a paired lamb dish, of which there is obviously none."
Steadily pacing the floor and concentrating on a handful of items in the room, Sherlock narrowed his eyes over his friend. At least one of the two men could treat this as a real crime scene.
"Shoes by the door and jacket on the arm of the sofa show he's been here multiple times and knows how the flat owner likes things. Table chairs facing each other comfortably, possibly friends, more likely to be family or lovers. The patio door is unlocked- they felt safe being five floors up, even though there is access to a fire escape. Clothes strewn across the floor, here and there," He noted, pointing to the discarded garments. "Dropped in the heat of passion but not in the throws of a fiery lust. An exam of the young woman and you will discover that the intercourse was consensual."
In one ear and out the other- John heard what Sherlock was saying, but he didn't absorb a single piece of the genius's deductions.
"Right, uh, Anderson will get that done after he gets her out of here," Lestrade sat on the arm of the sofa, scratching his neck awkwardly. "John... John, I've got to take you to the station. Sherlock can get you trousers and a jumper from the flat, but you've got to come with us."
John didn't speak. He hardly had even but a thought in his mind. Ever since Donovan's words registered in his mind, he had been expecting this. Considering his was, no doubt, the one and only suspect, it would have been wrong for Lestrade not to book him. As he got up, John tried (and very nearly failed) to keep his legs from shaking as badly as the rest of him. The blanket was small; almost too small to keep him covered up once he was standing fully. Keeping his eyes to the floor and sighing so quietly that even Sherlock nearly missed the sound, the doctor shuffled behind the arresting officer, knowing they wouldn't put him in cuffs considering he had so little covering him up.
Lestrade attempted to make small talk while on the ride to Scotland Yard, hoping to distract John from all the thoughts racing through his mind. The blood all over the bed, all over him. The smug look on Donovan's face and the disappointed look on Sherlock's. Maybe it was shame? Disappointed and ashamed that one of his only friends would go and do such a heinous act.
It seemed to be hours before he was being pulled out and dragged to the nick. Or maybe it was just a matter of seconds. Either way, he couldn't tell anymore. His mind was fogged over and his body was going numb. 'You're in shock!' The doctor side of him pitched in, trying to burst the bubble of depressing haze.
He could feel himself going through the motions that he had seen a fair number of times now, after visiting the station with his flatmate. Too many people talking, fingerprints were taken. Too many questions, not enough answers. Too much pushing and prodding and photographs were taken.
Before he could catch up with his surroundings, he was being shoved into a small, dimly lit room with a familiar looking jumper pressed into his arms. There were trousers and socks, too. Using the bright shock blanket to clean himself off, John got dressed and tried to avoid the fact that the orange blanket turned a sickening shade of rust.
John recognised the room he was in, he had been in it only once before. In front of him was a mirror, a one-sided mirror. Months ago, he had been on the other side of it, watching the interrogation with Sherlock until the consulting detective burst into the room and ending it by claiming the criminal was blind in her left eye, and therefore she couldn't have committed the murder. He wondered if Sherlock was there now, watching him, decoding his every twitch and tremble.
"Hello, Dr. Watson. I'm Chief Inspector Marshall Raymond," The voice nearly startled John straight off his chair, but he managed to cling onto it for dear life while staring at the tall man that entered the room. "All I need from you right now is your statement. After that, you will have the choice of accepting legal representation. If you do not cooperate, I have already been given approval to keep you here for 96 hours."
John stared in awe. He was used to the way Lestrade or Donovan (or even any of the other inspectors) did things. This was harsh and blunt and the surprise of it all made his mind go utterly blank. All he had to do was tell the truth, well, what he remembered, at least. He certainly didn't recall murdering his girlfriend.
"Honest to God, sir, I've got no clue. I don't even second guess sparing a couple of quid to a homeless man, let alone hurt someone I love. It's just not who I am." John's words were barely out of his mouth before the door burst open behind the chief inspector.
"I need to speak with you immediately, chief." It was Sherlock, but the doctor couldn't tell if this was a good thing or not. His friend didn't spare a glance his way, and the door hid half of his face so he couldn't even attempt to pick out an emotion.
Within seconds, he was left alone in the cold room, no indication from the detective or the inspector as to the condition of his case. Definitely not looking good for him.
He shivered, unsure if it was because of the freezing metal of the table and chair, or if it was at the thought that he was a murderer. Another shudder brought on a horrid though: he already was a murderer. A handful of people certainly were taken by his hand during the war, intentionally or other, and even after the war... He had killed. For Sherlock. That very first case, with the cabbie, he had shot him in cold blood. Granted, to save his friend, but neither had come forward about it.
Fuck.
A few minutes later, (and too many frightening thoughts later), the chief inspector returned, followed closely by a nurse.
"We will need a blood sample, Doctor Watson, as well as an oral DNA sample," The man indicated the older woman beside him before dropping a pad of paper and a pen on the bare table. "After, you will fill out these pages with every detail you can remember from the moment you arrived at the victim's home yesterday evening. When you are finished, knock on the door and the awaiting officer will escort you to your holding cell. Do you understand?"
John opened and closed his mouth twice before nodding. Was he being charged, then? Before he could ask, before he could even think of the words, the chief inspector whipped from the room and the nurse approached him, a practiced smile on her face while she got to work.
No mention of Sherlock, no mention of the investigation. He should have known better than to expect full updates on what was going on, but he wasn't normally a suspect, let alone a bloody murder suspect, at that!
All he could do was as he was told, letting the nurse putter around him, taking the blood sample and the DNA sample, double-checking him for injuries.
There wasn't a speck on him, not a single attack wound or a scratch from the girl who had been murdered by his side. Who had done this?
A/N - Please review/favorite/etc. to let me know you're enjoying the story! xo
