THIS IS THE REAL CHAPTER SIX! I AM SO SORRY FOR THE MIXUP! READ THIS THEN CHAPTER SEVEN!
I do not own Sherlock
No one would guess what had happened to Sherlock Holmes only a week and a half before. He was stooped over a dead body, his eyes narrowed like he needed glasses. He steepled his hands in front on his lips and turned his head slightly to the right.
"John. Do you see these marks?" He pointed then put his hands on his knees to turn almost all the way over to look again.
"Yes. Cat scratch." John said.
"No, look." He pointed again. " This here is a paper cut. See? A certain stock that he uses only for important business. It stays at his job. There are repeated marks of the same quality on his hands and arms as if he picks the paper up the same way everyday. This one here is recent. He was in his office and moved here. Since the offices are cleaned thoroughly every night the smell of bleach wouldn't put anyone off."
"All that from a scratch?" John smiled, amused.
"So if you look at his appointment book there should be a Mr. James. He was the last man to see the victim alive other than our murderer. Ask him if he saw anyone, and I mean anyone, cleaning personnel, workers, random people, secretaries, going into that room. And..." Sherlock suddenly sucked in his breath, his eyes going wide. He shook his head then blinked a few times. John laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Sherlock?" John whispered. " Do you need your pain killers?"
Sherlock suddenly straightened up. " No. Good. Anyway, if you get anything text me." He turned, his coat fanning out behind him as he walked quickly away. John made eye contact with Lestrade who shrugged. "John, I won't wait for you."
"Coming." John ran and caught up in a few moments," Are you alright?"
Sherlock shook his head lightly, a motion that anyone else would have missed. John's brow furrowed.
"Not now. I'm fine." Sherlock mumbled. He pulled his collar close as rain started to drizzle around them.
"Why don't we get a cab?" John asked, raising his hand to hail one.
"I'd rather walk." Sherlock said, so the two men walked on in the slowly thickening rain.
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Sherlock slumped on the couch and hissed. John sat in front of him and stared at him until he made eye contact.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"You're going to bust the stitches if you keep it up." He said
"Well, that would be better than this limited mobility." Sherlock snapped.
"No it wouldn't. You would be more limited when you have to keep them for a month longer." John jumped when his phone went off in his back pocket. As if he didn't have stitches at all, Sherlock nimbly leap up and across the coffee table and swept around so that he was leaning on the back of John's chair to read the text.
John. Bad patient.
Need you at the clinic.
Sarah
"Are you going, then?" Sherlock mumbled.
"Yes, I am. You will be alright while I'm gone?" John asked, heaving himself from the chair.
"Yes. Aren't I always?" Sherlock asked as he watched John get up and walk past him to the door.
"No. Look, just rest for God's sake, Sherlock, sleep a bit. Maybe for a good three or four hours?" He stopped at the door and turned around."And please don't hurt yourself."
"Fine!" Sherlock snapped, walking across the table again and falling onto the couch. With a sigh, John nodded and closed the door behind him.
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A week seemed to pass without incident as Sherlock solved three more cases, a new record for the detective. He seemed to always be going, as if he was afraid to stop, but John Watson knew better than that. Sherlock didn't show fear like normal men. If he was afraid he would confront his fears, although the last few days Sherlock started acting funny.
As Sherlock walked around his eyes shifted as if he saw evil everywhere. That was his gift and his curse. He DID see evil everywhere. Everyone he passed had something to hide and he could see what.
Adulterer. Thief. Drunk. Hates everything. Pimp. Tried to kill a family member. Bully. Sexual predator. Angry. Paranoid. Abuser.
As the faces flashed past him he could read everything about them. He tried to act normal but he had this feeling. He didn't want to see the faces anymore. He looked at John and smiled, trying to act normal.
Worry. Fear. Angst.
He shook his head and turned into an alley and froze in his tracks. He felt lightheaded and dizzy. He leaned on the wall and heaved a deep sigh.
"Sherlock?" John said from behind him.
"John..." He whispered. He couldn't catch his breath as his surroundings swirled around him, as if mocking him.
"What's wrong? Speak to me." John said frantically, leaning over, trying to see Sherlock's face.
"Have to... get out of here... I can't move." He huffed, becoming lightheaded. John took Sherlock's loose arm and draped it over his shoulder. Even though he was smaller, he was strong and was able to take most of the younger man's weight. He had helped Sherlock walk before but never like this.
"Come on. Just make it to the cab. Come on, Sher." Sherlock, under normal circumstances, would have laughed at the nickname but he was too busy hyperventilating. He calmed down a little during the cab ride but still had to be helped up the stairs. He got him into his room and onto the bed and knelt in front of him as he doubled over.
Pain. Guilt. Anger. Frustration.
All the things Sherlock felt because he couldn't come to terms with the one thing, this one thing holding him back.
"Sherlock?" John whispered," What was that?"
"Would you stop saying my name all the time!" Sherlock suddenly shouted. John put a hand on Sherlock's knee and Sherlock pulled it away in shock.
"Sorry. Sorry." John mumbled. Sherlock shook his head then grabbed chunks of his hair.
"John. That was... that was the alley they... set me loose and I ran. I was just outside there and they took me back. I saw you and was about to scream when... Agh!" He gripped at chunks of his hair and would have gone back for more but John grabbed his wrists.
"It's ok." John said, holding the younger man gently. Sherlock looked like he was going to spill everything but he suddenly wretched free from him and laid down facing the wall. John lay on the floor, his head on the pillow he had been sleeping on. He sighed and listened until Sherlock was lightly snoring and fell into an uneasy sleep himself.