Thanks so much everyone for the wonderful encouragement! Hope you like this chapter~!
Chapter two- Hands.
He clasped his hands together so hard the tips of his fingers turned white. His dark, chestnut hair hung over the edge of the sofa he was currently resting on, his light blue eyes were pressed shut, dark lashes almost invisible. His dark blue night shirt and pants were covered by a red robe untied. His normally flawless skin was bruised and cut. His face alone had 35 stitches; a nice neat line going from his forehead down the left side of his cheek, the rest of his face had a scattering of bruises and scrapes. His left arm was badly beaten, the blast had tossed him backwards like a rag doll and he landed on his left side, that's where most of the damage had been. Sherlock's hands were still pressed together when he opened his eyes, they darted around the room for the hundredth time searching for anything to ease his mental state.
For the last two weeks the only things that went through his mind were Moriarty and the fact he was able to get away. Sherlock was sure that when he pulled that trigger the blast would right kill them all. There wasn't really any other way to go about it, John had nodded in agreement to pull the trigger, that had eased Sherlocks mind enough that he went ahead and pulled. Despite John being slightly closer he walked away in better condition that Sherlock himself, he only had some bruising and not a stitch or broken bone was found. Moriarty, he wasn't sure if he had walked away or was carried by one of his lackeys, but he had made it out, even sending the police department a letter simply saying:
Better luck next time.
M
Over and over his mind kept playing it, the pool the gun, could there have been something in the water or perhaps something Moriarty had worn? Was there something he missed? Any clues to what Moriarty might be up to next? It didn't help that D.I. Lestrade took him off all case work for one month due to everything that happened; he had told him this traumatic event, despite what both Sherlock and John told him, might take time for Sherlock to heal. Sherlock had snorted while in Hospital bed that there was a diminutive amount of things that left it's mark on him, Little did Lestrade know that letting him sit was worse than if he had died from the blast.
Sherlock could feel his brain melting away even as he slept, he spent most of his day using Johns computer to research anything and everything he could. He even broke into the police computers just to see what was going on. They still had no leads on Moriarty. Sherlock had even found out that the Detective Inspector had someone coming in from the states to help investigations. Ridiculous. The last thing they would need would be some outsider of lesser intelligence invading. It was bad enough he had to deal with every other living human in London, bringing in someone from the states just made it worse. Not to mention Lestrade told him he had to make a statement of that night and that someone would be there to do so. All Sherlock could hope was that it wouldn't be Anderson or Donovan that did the statement, Lord knows when he hears them speak not only can he feel himself lower in I.Q he feels as if it might stay permanently. Not to mention the smell of Andersons deodorant made his nostrils melt.
Sherlock sat up quickly ignoring the pain that shot over his body. He was going to rot if he didn't do something. John was out at the moment getting groceries and shouldn't be back for another hour or so, so when he heard a cab pull up he decided he needed to poke at it. He already knew that someone would be moving in, Mrs. Hudson had told him two days ago that a girl would be renting the lower flat, when he asked her for more information she simply offered to make him more tea. Rubbish. Sherlock had even tried to open one of the boxes that came in for the new tenant but Mrs. Hudson was too quick and took it right from his hands.
Despite the pain Sherlock went to the window and looked out. He saw a blond woman, late twenties early thirties get out of the car. She had long light blond hair pulled up to the top of her head, it didn't look like she had colored it, from what he could make out her eyes were a green of some kind, she was thin, her jeans and sweater hung off her body, but she was by no means weak or overly thin. She had three blue suitcases; she must work out because she lifted them with ease out of the back, her posture was good and she seemed confident of herself, looking the driver in the eyes and giving him a firm shake of the hand before he left. Her red lips held a light smile; she seemed tired but aware of her surroundings. She was what some people might consider beautiful, even skin tone and girlish figure despite her thin frame. Sherlock could see her eyes pass up and down the street and sidewalks; she seemed to do it without thinking of it, as if she did it everyday for her job.
"Maybe she is in security…" Sherlock mumbled aloud, he brushed his hair back from his face and leaned away from the window. She had stepped out of sight so he walked to his door that was never shut, to hear any part of the conversation he could. He heard her knock on the door and a moment later Mrs. Hudson opened it. He heard her offer to help take the blonds bags to which the blond said nothing, Sherlock assumed she must have nodded in agreement because in a flash she was inside and to the back of the hallway. He heard the jumble of keys before the opening of the door. From this far away Sherlock was unable to hear a word of the conversation. With a growl Sherlock backed away from the door. His blood was boiling; he could hardly stand being in his skin or this house or anyplace. His mind was rotting. He heard Mrs. Hudson shut the door below and go into her own flat, Sherlock bet money she was making the new tenant tea. An hour had past, Sherlock received a text from John telling him he would be home soon, he stopped to say goodnight to Sarah. After he replied that he didn't really care where John was just not to forget the biscuits, he tossed his phone across the floor while contemplating doing an experiment on John that would require a pint of blood and some hair samples. With that Sherlock marched across the room as best he could, picked up his violin and proceeded to play for the next four hours.
There should be maybe, one update a week unless I feel up to it! Thanks again for the wonderful words!