Alrighty folks, I'll skip the formalities and just get right to the thanking you all for your support. I am glad you are liking it so far, and I hope I continue to not disappoint.
I don't own it. Just the story idea is mine. And technically, the plot bunnies own my brain, so it's really theirs. I really don't own diddly. Oh well...here comes more!
Wrath
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Wrath: n. /raTH/ 1. Extreme anger.
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When Sherlock awoke, he felt a surge through his body. An urgent need to scream, or better yet, hit something. He jumped from the sofa, and instantly charged toward his bedroom. He took off his plain shirt, and tossed it violently away, once he got it over his head of curly hair. The transition back into his suit was just as frustrating. The buttons hadn't cooperated, and the zipper of his trousers had just narrowly missed clipping him in a very crucial area. Finally, when he was done dressing, he stormed out to the living room once more, just in time to meet John coming down the stairs.
"Oh, you seem to be better. Good. I was beginning to worry." John said with a hint of a smile. The grin immediately fell, as his flatmate glared at him.
"You let me lie around all day? There's work to be done, John. Important work, and the day is half gone now." Sherlock snapped. John went wide-eyed as he looked around the room, hoping for an answer. Before he could reply, the detective was already out the door and down the stairs of the flat. John was still in his position at the staircase to his room, utterly shocked in his place.
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A storm blew past the main desks of Scotland Yard, directly to the office door of Greg Lestrade. The Detective Inspector looked up from the paperwork on his desk, to see the clear scowl on Sherlock's face.
"Oh, hello. Are you all better?" Greg asked cheekily.
"There was nothing wrong with me to begin with. Now, shut up, I need a case." Sherlock barked out. Lestrade physically flinched at the harsh tone. He then sat up a bit, trying to regain his territory.
"Look Sherlock, I don't have to give you any cases..." He began.
"No, but you do, because we both know I catch more clues than your lot manage to miss or forget." He snapped back again. Sherlock placed his palms flat on Lestrade's desk, and leaned over to glare at him.
"Sherlock, I don't have anything for you. I'm sorry." Lestrade sighed out, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. The consulting detective groaned out in anger, before leaving with a curt 'fine'. As he approached the exit, he came face to face with Anderson and Donovan. Sally had been the one to receive the shoulder shoved by her. The force wheeled her around.
"Oi, watch where you're going, freak." She called out. This caused the scorned genius to wheel around and briskly approach the two.
"And I suggest you cut off the affair with Scotland Yard's finest moron. The wife is catching on. I wouldn't be surprised if she catches you in the copy room tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a body to examine." With that, he left the two gaping lovers to watch after his quick gait.
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"Molly! Body! Now!" Sherlock shouted as he stormed into the morgue. The pathologist jumped at the booming voice, and looked up to see her favorite man wielding a thin riding crop in his hand.
"Oh, h-hi Sherlock. Do you need any specific type of body?" She asked in a bit of a quiet tone.
"No, just a dead one." He answered with a short beat. Molly chuckled nervously, before going to the closets that lined the wall. A few minutes later, she had one ready for him.
"Get out." Sherlock practically yelled, snapping his fingers. Molly looked at him with shocked doe eyes, slightly afraid. She then scurried off to her office. The loud cracking sound of leather to flesh echoed off the crisp white walls of the morgue. Sherlock felt some of the rage pour out of his body with each swing of his arm. Almost forty-five minutes later, a meek pathologist peeked her head in.
"I...I made coffee." She offered sweetly. No sooner did she get into the door, when the rude detective blew past her.
"I don't want coffee! Stop being so pointlessly helpful!" He brushed her off, causing the hot beverage to spill all over her front. Molly whimpered in pain, both from the burning liquid, and the burning words.
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When Sherlock returned home, he was greeted with a stern doctor.
"I just got off the phone with Lestrade. Says you barreled in demanding a case." John crossed his arms, waiting for an answer.
"Yes, and he still turned me down." Sherlock sneered. He looked back up to see the glare still in place on his friend's face.
"I also talked to Molly." He said in a short tone. The detective rolled his eyes, before John pointed at him with a similar anger to his own.
"No! Sherlock, no. She said you were more than rude today. And you made her spill hot coffee all over herself!"
"She was in the way. It's hardly -" Sherlock began brushing off the accusation, before he found the soldier, not the doctor, in his face.
"No. She has burns all over her, according to Mary. You go back tomorrow and apologize." John was shouting now at almost the top of his lungs. Sherlock frowned, before stepping around the short man and storming to his bedroom.
'He can't expect me to apologize for an accident. It's hardly my fault. Why can't these idiots understand I have more important things to do?' Sherlock thought to himself. With that thought came a dizzying headache. Sherlock let out a long, frustrated sigh, before lying down on his bed. He quickly fell asleep, and did not wake until the following morning.
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Ooh, you's a jerk Sherlock! Lol, ironically enough, this chapter was a lot of fun to write though, because I wrote it while having my own bad day, so it came easily...but Sherlock's still a big jerk in it. Anyway, what do you all think? Let me know, yes?