Hey, thanks for NOTHING, guys! Five whole people put this on Story Alert and not a one of you reviewed! Do you know it's awkward to have a story with multiple chapters and no reviews? Serve my vanity (ha, a deadly sin) and REVIEW, damn it! Tell me I'm amazing.
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Wrath, n. 1. strong, vengeful anger or indignation 2. retributory punishment for an offense or crime
Sherlock drew the bow across the strings of his violin as he stared pensively out the window. It was nearly high midnight, and the full moon hung heavy in the clear velvet sky, its silver glow stroking and softening the harsh planes of the consulting detective's face. Starlight braided itself into the thick dark curls of his hair and seemed to blaze out of his eyes. It looked the very picture of peace and tranquility.
The door to the flat opened and shut softly. It must have been John, home from his date. Sherlock made no move to greet him until he heard a slight snuffling and a deep, shuddering breath.
He whirled around and set down the violin, immediately noting John's red-rimmed eyes and trembling chin. "She left me," he said in a hollow voice. "I thought maybe I'd found someone who… I loved her and she said she'd already found someone better, that she'd met him weeks ago and they really hit it off…"
"What was this one's name, again?" Sherlock interrupted.
The question would have normally angered John, just proving once again that Sherlock couldn't be bothered with ordinary life, but he only sighed in exhaustion. "Lucy, Lucy Harper. I'm going to bed now. I'll see you in the morning." He trudged upstairs to his bedroom dejectedly.
When he saw the bedroom light click off, Sherlock snatched up his coat and scarf and headed out.
Out of habit John got up at about eight the next morning an made a cup of tea. He had just curled up in his armchair when Sherlock burst in, bloody and bruised and looking exceedingly proud of himself. "Sherlock! Where have you been? Have you been out all night? Are you all right?"
The taller man merely peeled his coat off. "Did you know it seems to be extraordinarily difficult for some women to tell when the man she fancies is, shall we say, playing for the other team? However, it's much simpler for one, if they so inclined, to lure this man in for a quick snog while his girlfriend looks on embarrassedly, to the amusement of an entire nightclub."
John choked and gaped at him. "Please don't tell me you did that."
"Funny place, nightclubs. Only under the influence of alcohol would this man take a swing at the man he was just snogging, claiming he was "taken in" and wasn't really gay, clearly a defense to try and keep his girlfriend." He rubbed a bruise on his cheekbone, wincing. "Interestingly, to a nightclub patron, seeing this man take a well-deserved blow to the jaw is the height of amusement. On an unrelated note, have we got any bandages? The skin over my knuckles seems to be split." He shook his hand and bit his swollen lower lip.
John buried his face in his hands. "What did you do and why?" he mumbled.
"My favorite bit is when the woman dropped her bag in the haste to get to her lover. As it turns out, her boss's wife does not appreciate the suggestive pictures of her husband with another woman. Why anyone would keep such photos on their phone is beyond my comprehension, but she had it coming, didn't she? Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, when the wife confronts her husband, this "other woman" loses her job, isn't the unfortunate? All in the course of a few hours. Fascinating place, nightclubs. So many foolish people."
John shook his head and exhaled loudly. "You can't just–" He broke off as his phone buzzed with a text. He clicked the "open message" button and sighed again. You son of a bitch, it read. Sending Sherlock blooming Holmes to do your dirty work! He lost me my job and my boyfriend and publicly humiliated me! I hope you're happy.
"If nothing else, Miss Lucy Harper has impeccable timing," Sherlock observed with amusement coloring his deep baritone voice.
"Sherlock, you can't do things like this!" John reprimanded sternly, but he soon cracked and dissolved into hopeless giggles. He held up his mobile so that Sherlock could read the text. "And just what do you call this?"
Sherlock glanced at the screen and beamed, his split lip opening up and blood running down his chin. Despite the grin, his eyes were hard and dangerous– they said do not mess with what is mine. "I call it," he said in the voice of a brilliant mad man, "divine retribution."
I feel like Sherlock would defend John if need be. I'd like to think so, anyway. In case y'all forgot, REVIEW!