Smart Arse
Sherlock stood up, a massive grin on his face and grabbed his coat and scarf. I had missed those items alone so, so much. He looked at me impatiently. I sighed, I've just been drugged and bashed in the head but I've still got to do everything his way. Typical. I went into my room quickly and grabbed a clean pair of jeans and stripy blue and black top, then I shoved on my jacket quickly as I could hear the not-so-subtle detective making loads of sighs downstairs for me to hurry up. Git. I looked in my mirror to make sure I looked at least decent, though the dark purple swelling above my right eye was seriously letting me down, more reason to feel inadequate. I moved out of the room with a swift motion, head twinging with a little pain.
We clambered down the stairs and straight out of the door. We were greeted by quiet, which was lovely. The last time me and Sherlock had left the house together, there had been either a mob of police or a mob of paparazzi. That said, I didn't expect the streets to be particularly busy, it was past midnight afterall. He hailed a cab to Scotland Yard and then waited in the back. I could see Sherlock inspecting the driver, we didn't want another crazed, ill killer driving around the streets of London. As I watched him concentrate and cast a worried glance towards me, it brought various thoughts to my own head. Despite the changes I had made in his absence, it seemed that I resumed back to the old me, the weaker but happier me that chased criminals without a second thought. But he was exactly the same, he never changed to suit anyone, he was Sherlock, arrogant but beautiful Sherlock and I felt ashamed. Shame that crept its way through me slyly, until I couldn't take it anymore and this shame was brought on by him. It had taken his death for me to realise exactly how I felt, to realise all the more how important he was. But I had hardly paid tribute to him, I had mourned and grieved harshly, changed who I was- the person who I know (or I hoped) he loved. But no more, I've always thought love was a mystery to him, but I was starting to see differently. I will continue being strong, but not for my own selfish distraction, for him. Because he was the person who needed protecting and I would do that, always. I didn't care that I had been hurt, because the only damage that could be done to me is if I lost him for good. Though my head did bloody well hurt.
"John. I appreciate that you're deep in thought, but removing yourself from this cab would be particularly convenient." I looked up abruptly, realising my surroundings. Sherlock was outside the door, beckoning me to leave. I smiled at the wingmirror which a pair of eyes were staring back at me in and left the vehicle. I mumbled sorry to Sherlock and off we went, hurriedly into the shabby looking Police building.
"You've only just got back, and you're already buzzing about the place again. Didn't you learn your lesson freak?" Sally Donovan spat from the doorframe of Lestrade's office. I could see Sherlock trying his best to resist from replying with something to wipe the repugnant woman's smug look off of her sour-face. She turned her attention to me then and shook her head disapprovingly, casting looks from me to Sherlock. "There're so many hobbies, but you still choose him." Oh because I'd rather collect stamps than solve mysterious crimes, right. I couldn't help myself, and I didn't realise that both Lestrade and Sherlock were watching me as I did so but it came out like word vomit. "There're so many men but you still choose him." I indicated towards Anderson, who had a face like a slapped arse. Sherlock grinned and I couldn't help but laugh at her suprised reaction. Lestrade laughed quietly to himself, catching an evil glare from Donovan. He waved his hand for them to leave and they did so, casting jealous looks back. I closed the office door and perched in one of several seats infront of Lestrade's desk. Sherlock had already done the same.
"How you feeling John?" Lestrade asked curiously, looking at my head.
"Headachey, but I'll mend," I could see Sherlock smile out of the corner of my eye. "Any idea who did it?"
He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "But, a new witness has surfaced: Jacqueline McCloud, 32 ex-army doctor," I raised an inquistive eyebrow and Sherlock seemed to perk up in his seat, listening intently. "She returned from Afghanistan around the same time as you John, got shot in the leg. She was walking, well limping, through an old victorian block in the city, she'd had an argument with her flatmate and needed air. She heard the scuffling of feet, then woke up at her flat a few days later. Traces of Meth in her hair and saliva, and bruising from a blow to the head. No signs of how the drugs were introduced to her system."
"Target Crimes." Sherlock interjected, we both raised our eyebrows. "The attacks were both on injured ex-army doctors who are under some kind of domestic stress. The injuries suffered by both effect their walking abilities, enabling attack to be easily carried out. Both in similar, abandoned locations where neither person has any genuine need to be and so no-one thinks to go looking there. You're looking for someone who's of lower rank in the army, forced out for some reason, who's still conflicted about causing direct harm to a previous member, they still have some kind of love of heirarchy and respect for it in the military, otherwise they'd use a more damaging drug. They also have an accomplice, who has access to military records to see who has retired and for what reason, also has a vendetta against the military for some reason and seeks to attack previous veterans indirectly- letting the other person do it for them: so they're at risk of losing their position, clearly they're still part of the army. The Meth is to make the victims feel better, give them a sense of invincibility- shows that they have a humane compassionate side, to accommodate for their assaults. The attacker seeks acknowledgement, while the accomplice seeks to get attention from a higher power, to highlight some problem. Now, don't hold back John." Sherlocks eyes were positively glowing with happiness.
Lestrade was in awe at such rapid information. He immediately started writing quick notes and proceeded out of the office to speak to his officers.
"I'm sorry?"
"Compliments. The compliments you give me out loud, don't be afraid to express them." He looked expectant.
"Well, I guess that was a pretty good detection.."
"It was brilliant, I always applaud my incredible eye for detail and ability to infer beyond the capability of your average, placid-minded individual." Such a humble man.
"In other words, you're a smart-arse." I mocked and he cocked an eyebrow. We laughed and exchanged a look, which became interlocked. As he stared into my eyes, I could feel him creeping into my mind, making me flush a little pink. I forced and awkward cough and for just a moment, (though I thought my eyes were decieving me) I saw his cheeks do the exact same.