Chapter 2: A sea of troubles.
'Mrs. Hudson'! Sherlock bellowed, stamping his foot on the floor like an angry toddler, 'ready your car'!
John stood dumbstruck for a moment, stunned by how fast Sherlock had altered his mood.
He'd gone from distressed to… freaking insane.
'Sherlock…' murmured John, to tired and frightened to snap, 'Sherlock stop it'.
Sherlock continued pulling things into the overnight bag, his face pale and his hands continuing to shake.
'Sherlock. Stop. It'.
'Shakespeare, he always read me Shakespeare…'
'Sherlock'!
'But why Romeo and Juliet? Why that line'?
'Holmes'!
Sherlock froze, the sound of his last name bringing him back to reality.
'Yes'? He huffed, wringing his hands. 'Sherlock, you just said someone killed your father', John snarled.
'Yes… I do believe I said that'.
'Are you okay'?
'Yes. Fine. Never better'.
'Sherlock, your dad's dead'.
'Mm'.
'You don't really care'?
'Not in the slightest', he breathed, 'this is just another case. Just another case'.
John pinched the ridge of his nose.
'Sherlock, your father just died'.
Sherlock smiled despondently, tugging the blue t-shirt from under the bag. 'We're all dying John', he grumbled.
'Yes but your father's died now'.
Sherlock suddenly closed his suitcase with a loud crack, his head hung low and his back faced John.
'My father was a sick, despicable man…' he murmured, 'you may not understand as you had parents and a sibling who love you. All I learnt from my father was that one has to be cold and detached to truly get along in life'-
'Sherlock…'
'While you were learning how to count my father was teaching Mycroft and I how to fist fight'-
'Sherlock I'm sorry'-
'No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm being so demented right now and I'm sorry I'm not stricken with grief crying in a little ball in the corner'.
The sarcasm laced words stung but John was able to understand. If he were a psychiatrist he'd say Sherlock was lashing out in order to bottle up distraught emotions deep inside him, but then, he'd seen plenty of psychiatrists and they knew jack-squat.
Now if you lived with Sherlock… there's another matter.
'Where are we going'? Demanded John, looking at the two messily packed bags on the table.
'Dartmoor', Sherlock muttered, 'my father lives there'.
'You grew up in Dartmoor as a child'?
'No. I didn't say that'.
'But your father lives there…'
Couldn't stand the sight of me, Sherlock thought bitterly.
John grabbed his jacket and set off to his room to change. 'Hmm', he hummed thoughtfully, 'maybe we'll see Henry…'
Sherlock smiled. That's where he and John differed; he hadn't seen any of his old clients a 2nd time. Well, he saw one once, but they didn't talk, namely because the man was lying dead in a ditch.
Now, back to the… case.
He looked around for his suit then swore softly.
He'd put it in the wash, along with his Chanel jacket and scarf.
'I could always wear the sheet again', he chuckled to himself, but it was an empty, jarring sound.
He turned back to the table where the t-shirt lay, daring him to pick it up it seemed.
Sherlock reached forward and delicately plucked the thing from the table like he might a pair of tweezers and a scalpel in the lab. He eyed it with a strange feeling of dread.
'Now', he questioned acrimoniously, 'what end do I get in'?