Tired Days Chapter 4, a sherlock fanfic

AN: I believe that John is OOC here… But feel free to tell me what you think of the chapter =]

Took me a while to write, and I want to thank my two friends, who I shan't name, who helped me with this one and the next (which should pop up soon-ish...)

Posted by John H. Watson

Against All Odds…

It all began with that phone call from Lestrade, and to be honest, I'm still not sure about how things have ended up like they are. So, if you're reading this Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't know things would get out of hand like this! I'm skipping the confrontation after the phone call from Lestrade… And start off with my arrival at Scotland Yard.

I had been standing by Lestrade's office for a while – alone - examining some of the photos, which had been stuck to a whiteboard. I had guessed these were of the latest murder.

"Florence Harper, late teens," Startled, I turned round to face a sullen Lestrade. "She was found in the alley exactly," He glanced at his watch, "exactly two hours ago. Cause of death? From what we saw, it looks likely to be strangulation… but we need the forensics team to investigate further. And before you ask, yes its Anderson, Sherlo…" Lestrade trailed off, staring blankly towards me. Sudden realisation flickered across his face. "Uh, John...?"

"Lestrade…" I nodded curtly, smiling politely at the DI. I knew what was coming.

"Sherlock, he's where exactly…?"

"At home… He, uh, refused to come…" Lestrade frowned.

"Right… Did you tell him it's a-"

"A murder, yes. God knows how many times."

"But he never turns-"

"Turns a case down? Yep, told him that too…"

"Really? What is up with him?" Lestrade shuffled his notes impatiently, and then paused. "This morning, you called, asking for Sherlock?"

"Ye-es… Why?" He beckoned me over, shoving the case notes into my hands. "'Florence Harper," it read, "was reported missing at half three, due to not returning home and of the lack of contact between herself and her parents… She was last seen walking down an alley at a quarter to three by a group of friends...' So what has Sherlock got to do with this?" I asked, waving the paper about.

"What time did you last hear of him? See him, even?"

"Around - two… I'm still not getting it…" I replied.

"And at half two he called me… Moments later, the girl goes missing… Coincidence or have we got our first suspect?"

"First susp - No… You don't think he…? He couldn't have…"

"I don't know; that's the thing. But he's now our first suspect. Believe me, John, if this is the case, the whole of London is going to suffer… However, I can't just let him go on by, even if he is Sherlock…"

The pointless discussion continued, and it left me thinking, could I trust him? Could I really trust my flatmate, even if he is a sociopath? So he can be arrogant, cold, untidy and down right disrespectful, but I know he opens up to me more than he ever does with others, so could that mean he trusts me? He's shown me that he can be caring, thoughtful and that he actually has a heart! But could I put all my faith into this one, odd man?

Against all odds, I believe I can.

That was what I thought at the time. But now? I'm not so sure. As soon as I arrived at Baker Street, I was once again greeted to silence. The living room was left in its usual state, papers scattered around everywhere, experiments left abandoned on the table, including the violin – all of Sherlock's, of course - proving that the said man hadn't yet emerged himself from his room.

"I'm back…" I called out, from the bottom of the stairs. No answer. "Sherlock?" Still, none. Tentatively, I made my way up to his room, questions beginning to creep into my mind. The annoying thing was, I knew that they still weren't going to be answered. Could he really have done it? Can I really be sure that I can trust what ever he tells me? Will he tell me? I neared closer to his room… I thought I said I trusted him… Am I beginning to believe Lestrade's idea? Then suddenly, I stopped, aghast. I swear that I could hear muffled sobbing coming from his room. I walked towards his door, unsure of what to do. What could I say? 'Are you alright'? No… He'd hate that… To – mundane… 'Sherlock, are you – crying?' That definitely would not do. But it would have been better than what I did… I regret it badly…

Hand on the door; I opened it slowly, trying to control my expression. He was sprawled out on his bed, but faced the wall. He was shaking uncontrollably, letting the tears flow. I didn't know what to do…

"Sherlock…"

He froze.

"We need to talk…"

Nothing, I let out an exasperated sigh. What is happening? I had thought, Why? Why all this now?

"Just… Just stop!" I had yelled, oh god, did I yell at him. Why did I yell at him like that? That surely wasn't me… Was it?

But he did stop.

Just like that.

That was too easy…

"You disappear for hours, leaving me here… alone… worried. You don't reply to any of my calls. NOTHING!" Pausing, I glanced at the whimpering form, why hadn't I just stopped there? "Then you return, not telling me anything about what you did, where you went… None of my business? Or are you hiding something…? Tell me, Sherlock… TELL ME!"

He said nothing.

"Lestrade called, as you know…" I had spoken quieter, alarmingly quieter. "So I went. It was a murder of a girl, Sherlock. Ring any bells? Or is it, like Lestrade said, a coincidence? With you disappearing, bored, then a sudden murder?"

Slowly, he turned round to face me, grief-stricken, betrayed. The tears stained his face.

"I…" he whispered, his voice hoarse from crying. I froze. What had I done? I didn't say anything, too shocked from my outburst… but I did the best thing a friend could do.

Nervously, I had stumbled my way towards him. Once within my reach, I hugged the whimpering form tightly, attempting what I should have done in the first place: give him comfort. But he didn't return it. He just tensed up, showing another emotion; scared. One I didn't want to see him use…

"I'm… sorry…" I finally said at last, once he had quietened down.

All I got was a muffled whimper.

I deserved nothing else.

Comment by theimprobableone

you told him? smart move…

Comment by J. Watson

Not helping…

Comment by H. Watson

Poor Sherly, do you know why he cried?

Comment by J. Watson

No… My – outburst didn't help matters… I'll speak to him later…

Comment by H. Watson

You better, little brother. Where is he now?

Comment by J. Watson

Huddled next to me on the sofa, asleep (for once…) He looks exhausted.

Comment by H. Watson

Aaw =]

Comment by M. Turner

So that's what the noise was!

Comment by M. Turner

It's Mrs Hudson…

Comment by youknowwho

You think, Dr Watson, that he did that? Like I said, you can be rather peculiar at times…