Two Days Earlier - Battersea

It always amazed me how Sherlock could eat after a crime scene.

Never before a crime scene – god forbid his digestive system slow him down. But afterward? The man could put back a full English quicker than I could drink my tea.

"You get enough to eat there?" I asked skeptically, as he pushed the empty plate to one side. I took another sip of my mercifully warm drink. The morning had been a cold one, and my fingers tingled pleasantly as they wrapped around the mug.

"What did you notice about the crime scene, John?" he asked, ignoring my question. His fingers tapped once against the tabletop.

"How do you mean?"

"What was different? There was a key difference between this crime scene and the first one," he stated. His eyes gleamed. He knew the answer – he was testing me to see if I could figure it out as well.

I took a breath through my nose and thought for a moment. "Well, there's the obvious difference of the type of animal they used. But I'm assuming that's not what you're looking for."

"You assume correctly."

Smug git. "Well… let me think. Was it a difference with the body?"

"You're guessing, John."

"Yeah, well, you're not being very specific with your question."

His fingers formed a steeple in front of his chin. "Walk me through it, John. What's the first thing we saw at both locations?"

"The body."

"Wrong."

"The barrel?"

"Yes. More specifically, what was in the barrel at the first scene?"

"Erm… the body."

"Wrong. Well, technically correct, but what else?"

It dawned on me. "The bricks!"

"Yes, John!" Sherlock's face curled up into what could almost be described as a triumphant smile. "The first barrel contained bricks; the second one didn't. The first barrel wasn't meant to be found." He stared intently at the table for a moment.

"Perhaps they ran out of time?"

"Plenty of time to dump a body at four in the morning."

"So you think they deliberately left the bricks out of the second barrel?"

"I think it's possible, yes."

"Hang on," I said, trying to understand. "If you're trying to hide multiple bodies in the Thames, why would you only sink one barrel?"

Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Oh," he said. "Oh! That's clever!" He jumped up, his chair scraping against the tiled floor of the café. In one sleek movement, he swept his jacket from the back of the chair and ran outside.

"Sher- wait!" I scrambled to catch up with him, hastily depositing a few pounds on the table to pay for our breakfast. "Sherlock!" I burst through the front doors, and caught a flash of movement to my left. I dashed down the street after my ridiculous friend.

I caught up with him a block and a half later. He stopped abruptly and knelt beside a wall, motioning for me to do the same.

"What?" I asked, winded. I put my hands on my knees, catching my breath. "What is it?"

"Be quiet, John!" he reprimanded me in a whisper. Looking past the low wall in front of us, I realized why – Sherlock had brought us back to the crime scene. Battersea stretched away behind us. The suits that had banished us before were patrolling the perimeter, not ten meters away from where we stood.

I ducked below the top of the wall. "Why are we back here?" I asked quietly.

"The barrels, John! Don't you see?" he hissed back at me.

I shook my head.

"No? Obviously not," he sighed. The man's brain was obviously miles ahead of mine. Irritating news for both of us, it seemed. "The second body, John. You asked back in the restaurant why the second body wouldn't have been sunk like the first one. However, you were working under the assumption that Avalon Enterprises didn't want either body to be found."

"Well, didn't they?"

"If Avalon had wanted the bodies to disappear, they would have left the bricks out of both barrels. They weren't light enough to completely float, and in the dark hours before morning, they wouldn't have been noticed. They would have been swept entirely out to sea, and in all probability, would never have been seen again."

"But they were noticed. The first one, anyway."

"Exactly! The first barrel was found by an angler near Purfleet – a popular spot for amateur sea fishermen. In such a high-traffic area, it was bound to be noticed sooner or later."

"But what about the second barrel? It didn't have bricks. It could have floated out to sea."

"That's the trick, John – the second barrel was released too soon after the first one. Avalon knew perfectly well that the first barrel was being investigated, and that their name was on it. And yet, they chose to release a second barrel next to their own factory just one day after the first barrel was found." Sherlock snuck another quick look over the top of the wall. "We were able to recover it before it even left Battersea."

"So what you're saying is…" I began slowly.

"The first barrel was a decoy. It was merely there to grab our attention."

"Then what's the second barrel?"

Sherlock's face turned upward into a garish grin.

"The second barrel is bait."

Present

He does wake up, of course.

He's screaming.

I'm startled awake by the sound of it. "Sherlock!" I yell, immediately jumping out of my chair to kneel by his bedside. His upper torso is bent slightly inward, as if he's trying to sit up. I place both my hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him back down into the pillows.

"Shh, Sherlock… Sherlock, it's all right," I murmur. I can't tell if he's heard me.

He's stopped screaming. He's started crying.

The machine monitoring the detective's heart rate is going haywire. A nurse should be in at any moment. He won't want them to see him like this, I realize. Sherlock loathes showing weakness.

My chest feels hot and tight. I absolutely hate seeing my best friend in so much pain. Sherlock weeps, long wracking sobs punctuated by short sharp gasps for air. Feebly, he brings his left hand up to cover his face.

He doesn't want me to see him like this. Christ.

"Shh," I try to soothe him, brushing my knuckles against his collarbone.

"Joh-" he tries, hiccoughing.

"I'm here. All right?"

"Please… don't l- look at me…"

It's the same thing he said to me back at the warehouse. Don't look at me, John. I squeeze his shoulder gently. "Hush now. Breathe with me." He complies, attempting to suck in a long breath despite his sobbing. After perhaps a minute, he's calmed down substantially, though his breath is still hitching.

"There. Better?" I ask, giving his shoulder another light squeeze. He nods.

There's a knock at the door. Rupert Malone appears at Sherlock's bedside. I stand to let him speak with his patient.

"Everything all right, Mr. Holmes?" he asks kindly. Sherlock nods, furiously wiping at his face with his hand. The heart monitor is returning to normal. "Would you like another round of painkillers?" he asks – a bit cautiously, probably remembering my earlier episode.

Sherlock hesitates and nods again, before turning his face away from me. His breath still catches every couple of seconds. He's still very obviously crying. Rupert thankfully doesn't acknowledge the fact.

"Thank you," I say to the nurse, quietly and sincerely. He gives me a small smile, and adjusts the flow of Sherlock's IV. The younger man visibly relaxes. Rupert gives me a nod and turns to leave.

"If he needs anything, just let me know," he says, and walks out. I note that he's learned to address me and not Sherlock. Probably a good thing – Sherlock isn't in the habit of asking people for help.

I turn back to my friend. He's still facing away from me, though his crying has finally quieted some. The medicine is doing its work.

"Feeling a bit better?" I ask quietly.

He hesitates, then nods. "I… apologize… for that display," he replies carefully.

"Don't apologize," I shake my head. "You were in pain."

He laughs bitterly. "Still am."

I sigh softly, and kneel beside his bed once more. My hand finds its way to his hair. I brush it back from his forehead. It's softer than I expected.

"Try to get some more sleep, eh?" I say. "I'll make sure you don't wake up in that much pain again."

He sniffs once, then nods, facing me once more. "Thank you, John."

I give him the best smile I can manage. "'Course, mate."

Tentatively and slowly, he moves his arm upward to catch my free hand in his. His fingers lace with mine. The touch is warm, and not unpleasant. For the first time since we arrived here, I notice that his touch makes me feel… different, somehow. Lighter. I look at his face. His mercurial eyes are scrutinizing me in the half light.

"Is this all right?" he asks in a whisper.

I try not to analyze that question too deeply.

"Of course it is," I respond, trying to keep my tone light.

He's silent for a moment. Then – "Would you stay like this? Until I fall asleep." His eyes drift downwards. He seems uncomfortable asking. Embarrassed, even.

The truth is, I don't want to let go of his hand either.

I exhale. "Sure. Yeah." My body settles itself into a more comfortable position.

Sherlock's fingers twitch, almost imperceptibly. "Thank you, John," he whispers.

"Rest now, Sherlock," I say, brushing my thumb against his. "It will get easier soon." I look down with a grimace at his legs. "I promise."