CHAPTER 11.
The flat where girl was found is tiny, walls painted dark red and full of pictures and tattoo designs pasted haphazardly all over. When Sherlock arrives at place, the forensic's work is done, and only Lestrade – and Julie, who found the body – are there. Studio's owner sits on the couch, hands on her lap, her eyes full of tears. DI positioned himself silently beside her. He looks tired.
Body lies on the floor. Young woman's long, brown hair all over her face, and blood staining her white shirt. She is pale, paler than any body detective has seen before, her skin looking like bleached.
This time it's different, there are no pictures on victims body, and therefore no cuts, her skin undisturbed, immaculate.
When Sherlock enters the room, Lestrade looks at him almost apologetically, offering to hold Hamish.
"I know you're busy taking care of baby, but we're rather desperate here." DI admits. "This whole case takes too long, I'm hopeless."
Genius detective dissmises him with a wave of his hand.
"John is on his way." He says, eyes already fixed on the body.
He comes closer, taking the whole scene in.
But he can't focus. He sees all these little details no one else can see, but somehow finds himself unable to draw any logical conclusions.
He crouches near the body and carefully takes the girl's tiny, white hand in his own, amost two times bigger. She has subtle, delicate tattoo on her wrist, pastel pink rose made with swirls and curls of ink lines. But it's not what draws his attention. Her nails are ruined, tips of her fingers red with blood and skin there torn.
"She fought back." He says, turning his head to look at Lestrade. "And she failed. The attacker was stronger, he hit her and shot when she was falling back. It's a precise shot. Military or hobbistic, but almost infallible. She..."
Then it starts. Vague, steady, deep voice in his head, John's voice, he realizes, murmuring, making him unable to think, to concentrate.
Do you mean, like me? Voice asks innocently. You're so infatuated by me you can't think, see? There's no way out. You have to do something. Say something. You're going crazy, aren't you?
Sherlock knows, he is sure, John would never, ever talk to him like that, but it doesn't help. He keeps hearing this voice.
He shakes his head violently, then realizes both Lestrade and Julie are looking at him suspiciously.
"Are you all right?" DI asks. He put Hamish on the couch where boy sits silently, looking at them with his clever, huge eyes.
"Yes." It sounds hoarse, he clears his throat and tries again. "Fine. Just give me a minute. I need to..."
He shows the door mutely, and then leaves. He really, deeply hopes Lestrade will think he went out just to smoke a cigarette.
He hates himself for such a displayal of weakness.
Sherlock leaves the building and stands by the door, leaning over the wall and searching his pockets for a lightener, when the black, lean, Mycroft's car drives silently and stops in front of him.
He hasn't even got the time to wonder – or get annoyed – what is his brother doing here, when car's door open and, to his surprise, John gets off from the passenger side.
Detective finds himself in peculiar state, somewhere between blushing and deep wanting to stay calm, so he fixes his eyes on the pavement, not sure what to do. All this emotions overwhelm him and he feels like a child in the dark, nonplussed and lost.
Mycroft leaves the car and, his inseparable umbrella still in hand, heads to the building's main door. He steps by, smiles at his brother – who is even more confused now, seeing him with this ludicrous smile plastered to face much more used to carry discontent – and winks, yes, winks at John.
Sherlock deliberates for a second if he possibly could be dreaming.
"So, er, why aren't you inside?" John smiles at him, his smile bright and carrying something brilliant detective is not sure how to name.
"I found myself in necessity of some fresh air." He lies, eyes still concentrated on the ground, avoiding John's sight. "Hamish is with Lestrade, I hope you don't mind..."
He stops, unable to finish the sentence.
Something makes him look up and he meets John's eyes, concerned and full of what seem like a worry, worry about him and something in as well his heart as his mind just snaps and he somehow knows, this very minute, that he can't take it anymore, not this way, not now, not ever.
Not with air filled with hope and longing; and he realizes he won't stand it, can't stand watching as John, his John leaves with yet another woman, unaware of all feelings Sherlock has for him. It's like a sudden epiphany, flash of white light behind his eyes almost palpable, and he doesn't even realize he reaches out for John's hand, not before their fingers lace and they're standing, just standing there holding hands and smiling like maniacs.
And then John says "I was such an idiot, should've done this long ago" and suddenly they're kissing and it's brilliant, it's perfect, it's like there were just two of them against the whole world – and maybe there is.
John has his hand burried in Sherlock's curls and Sherlock has his head bowed slightly, and there's still the height difference but who cares, it feels like they were made for each other, it jusr took them too much time to find each other.
When they need to stop for air John looks in his eyes and smiles so widely, and then they burst into fit of giggles.
And it's fine, actually it's better than fine, cause everything is finally on place.