A/N: Thanks you for reading/favouriting/alerting/reviewing/whatever this story.
Disclaimer: Sherlock still continues NOT to belong to the things I own.
Chapter IV
John found Sherlock sitting cross legged on the floor of 221B Baker Street. His best friend didn't give any indication of noticing John's arrival as he was deeply engrossed in the activity in front of him. What he was doing was as bizarre as it could get with Sherlock Holmes. The genius detective didn't have his head burrowed in files connected to the latest string of murders or even in a book. No, the grown man was building rows of dominoes, one little tidy row after another. Practically the whole floor was littered with the small wooden pieces and John was relieved to find out that he managed to stop himself before he stepped on one of the pieces and ruined all of Sherlock's work. He'd be damned to know what the point of this particular activity was, but he was convinced that Sherlock wouldn't forgive him had he caused it all to fail to ruins before the deed was even finished.
"Umm...Sherlock?" John enquired.
"Not now, John. I'm thinking," Sherlock replied without sparing John even as much as a glance.
"Well, okay then," John nodded: "I guess I'll just go see how Mrs. Hudson is doing. I'll be downstairs if you need me."
No reply came from the other party in the conversation. Sherlock was way too preoccupied with measuring the distance between the individual pieces of dominoes.
"Some things never change," John whispered before descending the stairs from 221B.
"Sit down, dear," Mrs. Hudson welcomed John with open arms as always: "How's dear Mary doing?"
"She's well. Albeit a bit weared out and has to rest a lot. She's not taking that part all that well. She'd rather be running around than sit still, you know her."
"I can certainly imagine that it takes a lot of willpower on her part to stay at home rather than be active for once. Do you already know whether it's a boy or a girl?"
John shook his head. "We'd rather it be a surprise."
"Well, I'm sure Sherlock has figured it out by now, so you better hope he doesn't blurt it out or something."
Before John had a chance to reply, there was a loud ruckus from upstairs. By the sound of it the dominoes started falling down one after another as they should have, it was just that a certain someone seemed to have tumbled down to the floor among them as well.
"Again him with all the noises," Mrs. Hudson muttered, but despite the annoyance she failed to keep out the fondness out of her voice.
John stood up: "I better go check up on him. Genius detective dies after he fell on his head after a collision with dominoes would make for a terrible tabloid story, wouldn't it, Mrs. Hudson?"
As John returned to the flat, Sherlock was struggling to stand up from the pile of dominoes. John made a quick scan for possible injuries, but it seemed that his best friend managed to escape this incident unscathed for the most part.
He helped him get back on his feet. "You alright, mate?" John wondered.
"Isn't it strange how some lives fall apart like pieces of dominoes in the matter of just a few moments?" Sherlock mused with a somewhat distant look in his eyes.
"What?" asked John as confused as ever with the uncanny detective and his thought process.
"Nevermind," Sherlock discarded the topic quickly and put on his trademark coat. "We need to go, John."
"Go where?"
"St Lucas' public school for boys," Sherlock replied.
"Something new about the murders?" John asked. He had not talked to Sherlock about it since he abandoned him after seeing the last victim's murder scene, but from the little what he could gather from Mary and Lestrade, with whom he shared a pint just the night before, the investigation had hit a dead end. Even the famous detective seemed to be at his wits' end when it came to catching the killer this time. And by the state of him, John could tell that this situation was eating at Sherlock from the inside. So he decided to join him for the day's journey without any further comment.
At St Lucas' school Sherlock only made a short stop to talk to one of the students, inquiring about the whereabouts of one particular teacher before he headed straight to the gym. Apparently the person he wanted to talk to was one of the teachers of the late Anthony Bradley, the PE instructor Mr. Richards. Well at least John assumed that Sherlock wanted to talk to him. However he was proven wrong quickly. Sherlock had chosen a much more physical manner of handling the poor man.
He grabbed him by the collar and threw him against the wall, while still keeping his hold on the man, the smaller man's feet dangling a few inches above the floor.
"You will quit your job the first thing tomorrow and you will never show your ugly face in this or any other school again. Understood?"
John was taken aback. He had never seen Sherlock react in such a violent way before.
"Sherlock..." he started, but was soon interrupted by Sherlock's cold voice: "Stay out of this, John."
"What...what are you talking about?" Mr. Richards stuttered.
Sherlock pressed him against the wall even harder: "Oh, don't play stupid with me, Mr. Richard; you know exactly what I'm talking about. How many boys were there in this school? Or other schools? Ones you couldn't keep your filthy hands off."
The teacher paled visibly and gulped: "Just the one, I swear."
"How dumb must a person be, Mr. Richard in order to believe that they could lie to Sherlock Holmes?"
"Seven," Richards squeaked out finally. "Now will you let me go, please?"
"Certainly," Sherlock answered as he released his hold and the man's body fell down to the floor with a loud thud.
Sherlock turned on his heels and started walking away, John more confused than ever followed.
"Please...please...no police...I can't go to prison," Richards whined behind them.
Sherlock turned to him for one last time: "Oh no police, you can be assured of that Mr. Richards. I'd rather see you roam free in constant worry that you will be disposed off when you expect it the least, facing the kind of excruciating pain that makes whatever the prisoners make a piece of scum such as you go through seem as nothing in comparison. Keep in mind that Mycroft Holmes, the name might ring a bell, is watching your every step, should you feel the urge to behave inappropriately in the future."
"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Holmes," the man cried out.
Sherlock spit out at him and commented: "You disgust me."
After they emerged out of the building, John could no longer keep it inside: "So, what was all that about?"
"Nothing," Sherlock replied, seemingly determined not to let John on the nature behind of the events that transpired in the last few minutes.
"So was he the killer?" John continued pressing on.
"Your mind is so simple, John. It must be so easy being you," Sherlock answered, John only rolled his eyes at the insult: "Of course he's not our killer. Our suspects is a genius, Richards has sawdust instead of a brain in his head."
"Could you at least tell me why you decided to drag me here with you? It's not like you needed me and now you won't even tell me what's going on, " John could not suppress the irritation in his voice.
"I needed you to drive me here," was all the answer he got from Sherlock, but he dared to interpret it as 'I needed you to be here with me' inside his mind for some reason or another.
"Hello?" Mary called out as she entered the flat of 221B Baker Street. She knew perfectly well that Sherlock would never yell out loud where in the flat she could find him of course, but courtesy suggested that you should at least let someone be aware of your presence before entering their home.
She found Sherlock lying on the couch, at least half a dozen nicotine patches plastered over his forearms.
"Not economising on the nicotine, then," she commented dryly.
Sherlock didn't even bother to change his lying condition as he answered, somewhat annoyed: "I don't need a baby sitter, even if John and Mrs. Hudson insist otherwise."
"You might not need one, but I do," Mary smiled.
"What?" Sherlock sat up at studied Mary as she sat down next to him, visibly exhausted. "You haven't been feeling well, lately."
"No shit, Sherlock," she sighed.
"You and John are worried that the baby might be premature, although your doctor assures you that there's nothing to worry about...yet."
"Well, she wouldn't be the first doctor to be wrong, would she?"
"Can't you go to your family?"
"I don't have a family, remember?"
"Well, John's family then."
"Somehow I even feel safer with you of all people than with a drunk."
"Mrs. Hudson then?"
"Wouldn't want to bother the poor old lady. Besides, it's all a lot more fun with you. I have been kinda bored lately, I'm sure you can appreciate how infuriating that is."
Before Sherlock could make a comeback, a loud beep came from his coat, which was resting on the coat hanger.
"Well, if you want to stay, better make yourself useful and go grab the phone and read the message for me. Please."
"You do realise that I'm a heavily pregnant woman and by the rules of social conduct it should be you performing menial tasks for me. Not the other way around," Mary sighed.
Sherlock gave her a small smile: "That might work on John, but not on me, Mrs. Watson. The Phone. Now."
"Alright then." She made her way to the coat slowly and fished the phone out.
"It's from Greg."
"Whom?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Oh, him, what does he want?"
"You're off the case. It's all what it says."
"What?" Sherlock called out infuriated.
"Might have to do something with that violent incident at St. Lucas' school," Mary inferred.
"More likely, it has to do with my brother meddling in my affairs once again. Lestrade isn't his lap dog for nothing," Sherlock sighed in exasperation.
"Still, I wonder, violence isn't like you," Mary mused: "not unless you're attacked first."
"I did kill a man in cold blood," Sherlock reminded her.
"That was different."
"Different how?"
"Magnussen attacked you first. And you did not kill him based on a violent urge; you made a calculated decision, everything in order to protect me, and John by extension. Fulfilling the vow you made to protect all three of us at our wedding."
Sherlock did not reply.
"But there was something about Magnussen that disgusted you, his tendency to prey on people who are different. So I suppose that there was something similar about this guy too. I just wonder what exactly it is that brings Sherlock Holmes to using his fists instead of his brain."
But Sherlock was no longer listening, he was half way out of the flat.
"Wait, where are you going?"
"Scotland Yard, of course."