Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
A/N: Thank you for reading/reviewing/favouriting/alerting.
Chapter II
When they arrived at the crime scene, which was situated at a boy's public school, nowhere, middle of, John nodded his head in greeting to Donovan and stopped to chat for a bit with Lestrade. Sherlock of course didn't bother with such petty things and proceeded directly to the murder scene. When John joined him a few minutes later, he was glad for his short interaction with the DI as he had time to brace himself for what he was about to see. Child victims were always especially hard to bear, but with the prospect of parenthood looming over him John found himself caring even more. Sherlock meanwhile was scanning the body of the young boy looking for every detail, every little bit of information, seemingly unfazed by the nature of the victim and the degree of brutality that it presented to most people.
John kneeled down next to the body, examining it for causes of death and other injuries: „Case of death, probably asphyxiation...there's some recent bruising on the left hand...also some older bruising on other parts of the body...," John's eyes met with Sherlock's for an instant and he could almost see the wheels start turning and racing in his best friend's mind. Without a word Sherlock turned on his feet and walked away as there was nothing more to learn for them from the crime scene after all, so John hurried after him. Once he caught up to him, he noticed that the detective was dialling a number on his phone, which was highly unusual for his eccentric friend who as he put it himself once usually preferred to text. John wondered what matter it could be that was so important that required him to indulge in a conversation where words were actually exchanged out loud and even more so he wondered who the person at the receiving end was.
"Molly," Sherlock addressed her, his voice void of emotion. "There's been another one. Let me know as soon as you find out whether there's any evidence of sexual assault."
As comprehension dawned on John, he didn't even ponder the fact that Sherlock actually ended a conversation with a 'thank you'.
„Jesus, Sherlock," he stuttered finally.
"Go home, John. I need to think, you're being extremely emotional, I hope I don't need to remind you how annoying that is." Sherlock addressed him, in his more usually rude tone.
John conceded to Sherlock and told the taxi driver to drop him at the hospital instead, he would currently be of no use to Sherlock and in a way he was secretly pleased with this turn of events as it would offer an opportunity to drown himself in work a bit and get the image of the dead body of the poor little boy out of his head.
As Mary walked into the flat of 221B Baker Street she was greeted with the usual sight of chaos that the space occupied by Sherlock usually presented, enhanced even more by the fact that he was currently solving a case. She sighed as she manoeuvred her way through the mess to find Sherlock. It was her turn for baby-sitting duties as John found himself stormed by patients when Sherlock's call came. She wondered how they would cope with all of this once the baby came into the world and required constant presence of a baby-sitter as well, but decided to rather concentrate on the matter at hand.
She found Sherlock in the living room looking at a series of photographs and info sheets regarding his case plastered all over the wall. He turned as he heard her approaching.
"Three pounds, " he commented.
"We've talked about this, Sherlock," she rolled her eyes.
As ever Sherlock ignored her.
"John's busy at the hospital," she started.
"No, he's not. He's clearly trying to avoid this case because it makes him feel uncomfortable and he has found a convenient excuse not to be here. What I don't understand is," he sat down on the couch putting his feet on the table and crossing his arms: „why would he send you?"
Mary was silent.
„He didn't send you," the detective half stated, half asked.
„Brilliant deduction," she answered dryly.
"So Mary, clever Mary, since you came here you might as well tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"There's something I'm missing. Something terribly obvious. Five boys between the age of 7 and 12 brutally assaulted and asphyxiated, different racial background, different social background, different schools, there's absolutely no connection. Or is there? Of course there is, there always is. So what am I missing, Mary?"
Mary ignored the condescending tone; this was the kind of game that he could maybe pull with John but not with her.
"Well, I'd say the answer to that is fairly obvious. Sleep is what you're missing judging by the state of you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Nonsense. I don't need sleep, sleep slows me down," he said as he got up and tried to step through the table as he sometimes did, not finding the right balance and ending up colliding with the floor in a rather noisy fashion.
"Yeah, the great detective doesn't need sleep, I can see that now, " she commented as she helped him up.
"Nothing serious, but this will probably leave a pretty nasty bruise for a few days, might want to lay off the violin for a few days," she commented as she pointed to his left wrist during her inspection for injuries.
Sherlock looked at his wrist briefly and something seemed to click as she recognised the far away look in his eyes, he was lost in his mind palace as he finally connected the dots.
"I've been so stupid. Oh, it was in front of my eyes all this time, " he finally commented. "I have to tell Lestrade...," he slurred the words as he tried to get up but couldn't even find the right balance to stand on two feet.
"How long has it been since you actually slept?"
She could barely make out his answer but it sounded like don't know, can't remember or something along those lines.
"You should lie down, just for a bit," she commanded him. "Then I will personally drive you to Lestrade, okay?"
It seemed as if Sherlock was about to protest but there was no power left in him as his eyes slowly closed.
As she could hear her friend's silent snoring, she ventured to the kitchen as in not to disturb him. She thought about maybe fixing herself a cuppa but reconsidered this possibility when she found some experiment or another in the cabinet where she knew Sherlock usually kept his tea. Curiosity got the better of her as she opened the fridge. She had heard the tales about heads in the fridge too many times without actually seeing something. Disappointingly the fridge seemed to be only filled with a scarce amount of things that could mostly pass for food, albeit a considerate chunk of it probably had seen its best days some days if not weeks ago. Oh, well, maybe there might be some eyes in the microwave. She could swear she heard some mumbling coming from the living room, she never figured Sherlock would be one to talk in his sleep. Although considering how much he seemed to enjoy talking in certain situations, it wasn't all that surprising. Only when she heard a muffled cry did it dawn on her that Sherlock Holmes was most likely experiencing a nightmare. The demons that he could manage to hold at bay while awake, caught up with him while asleep.