Most people like to have a life, whereas I prefer to sit in bed thinking of ways to make Sherlock a writhing mess of distraught.
John emerged from the hallway and regarded the harsh-looking body on the sofa. The atmosphere in the room had changed and the intensity had been increased; suddenly John wanted to drop to the floor and not get up.
"So," John started, "I threw the box out."
"Mmm." Was all he heard from Sherlock. Clearly the other man was thinking and John thought that maybe that wasn't such a good idea during his obvious state of mind. Especially when he realises he isn't going to be able to use, but knowing Sherlock, he'd find a way. John needed to be careful.
"I'm going to let Lestrade know I didn't find anything." John headed for his phone in the kitchen.
"Yes." Sherlock acknowledged quietly. It seemed as if he wasn't actually listening, which he probably wasn't, but nonetheless, John did ring Lestrade and explain that he hadn't found anything. Lestrade was understanding and voiced how glad he was that nothing was found.
"Okay. All right I'll tell him." John laughed into the phone, "yeah, thanks, and bye."
John ended the call and turned towards the living room and looked at Sherlock's slim body laying on the sofa. Well, he definitely needs to eat something. John cleared his throat and rolled his eyes when Sherlock didn't even glance at him.
"You hungry?" He tried perhaps too quietly.
"No."
It was times like these when John didn't feel like a flatmate but more like a mother, "When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"
"What day is it?" Sherlock asked absent-mindedly.
"Sherlock..." John sighed heavily.
"It wasn't long ago when we, well you, ordered Chinese." Sherlock was now looking at John and he looked very distracted, but not because of John's talking.
"That was two nights ago, and you hardly ate any!"
"I told you I wasn't hungry."
John made a loud sound in his throat that was similar to a growl or a frustrated sigh, he then calmed himself down and took a deep breath, "I am going to make you a sandwich and you are going to eat it, okay?" John was already halfway to the kitchen when Sherlock spoke.
"John I-"
John looked at him dangerously, "you what, Sherlock?"
Sherlock was silent, and if John wasn't mistaken, there was something akin to fear in his eyes before it disappeared and he forced a smile. "Nothing. Do we have any blackberry jam?"
John also smiled, "yes, in fact, we do."
And the conversation was left at that. John made Sherlock a blackberry jam sandwich and he did eat it, well, half of it before he spoke. "What did Greg want you to tell me?" Sherlock asked from the sofa, half eaten jam sandwich in one hand, typing at the laptop with the other.
"Oh, that someone else has been reported missing."
Sherlock paused. "What?"
"Yeah, er, some man called Henry Saint. Was reported last night." John said as he turned a page of the newspaper.
Suddenly, Sherlock was standing, half of a sandwich back on the plate and he was headed for his coat on the door. John stood as well, "What's going on?"
"Don't you see? Another man- another victim!"
John nodded slowly as Sherlock put his scarf on and looked down at the plate on the coffee table, "you didn't finish your-"
"We don't have time! She's probably plotting it now." Sherlock gave a small, sinister smile before putting his coat on.
"Plotting what?" John asked as his own coat was shoved into his arms by the other man.
"Are you really so blind, John?" Sherlock asked, gliding down the stairs. John followed quickly behind and sighed as Sherlock was already hailing a taxi.
"How could this be another victim? It hasn't been two months." John questioned after they climbed into the taxi.
"Tina Regent put her off - she's losing her touch, but why is she doing this?" Sherlock hissed to himself as he looked out of the cab window, restless in his seat.
John eyed him up before speaking again, "where are we going?"
The answer to his question arrived ten minutes after he'd asked it as they pulled up outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock practically threw his money at the cab driver and rushed into the building as John followed behind, wondering how this man could be so energetic when he barely ate and slept.
Sherlock barged into Lestrade's office, ignoring a sneering welcome from Sally at her desk. She set John a questioning look and he just shrugged before entering Lestrade's office quietly. Immediately he heard Sherlock's voice and saw him leaning over the desk, face only inches from Lestrade's, speaking lowly but if John was honest, Lestrade looked a bit threatened.
"-most likely that the family will know his location so get me their address. Now."
Lestrade blinked a few times and nodded. "Fine. Fine." He coughed and backed his chair away from his desk - more likely from Sherlock's deadly stare - and left the room with a panicked look towards John. Sherlock turned around to face John, who by now, was staring the other man down with a hard look. "Want to tell me what that was all about?"
"What do you mean?"
"I have never seen him move so fast - and he's a fully trained officer - so." John finished, crossing his arms.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering around the room before focusing on John. He really wanted to know what was going on inside that head. "We don't have much time. If we're going to find Henry Saint alive, we need to work fast, and the last thing I want to do is to sit around, giving reasons for my actions."
"Right, so you threaten police officers instead."
"I didn't threaten him."
"You were leaning over him, Sherlock - trying to intimidate him!"
"Intimidate, yes."
"You-" John was going to rip his head off in a minute, and he would have done if it wasn't for Lestrade rushing back into the room and handing a file over to Sherlock.
"I've got officers scouting neglected areas-"
"It's obvious you're not going to find him, she's killed six other men successfully, do you really think she would make it so obvious." Sherlock muttered whilst looking through the file.
Lestrade turned to John as Sherlock sat in the chair behind the desk and began muttering to himself whilst looking at the file. "Are you sure you didn't find anything, because that. That was not normal behaviour." Lestrade whispered and flicked a glance at Sherlock before looking at John again.
John swallowed hard and nodded, "I looked everywhere, I turned the entire flat upside down, even my own bedroom. I even asked Mrs. Hudson I got that desperate."
"He must just be having one of those days then." Lestrade scratched the back of his head before the file was launched at the wall behind Lestrade, only inches from his head.
"Jesus Christ Sherlock, what the fuck?" Lestrade yelled turning to face the taller man standing behind the desk.
"Some bloody moron spilled coffee over the personal details section of the file, most likely Anderson because the coffee was black with two sugars, and only an idiot such like Anderson himself would try to wipe the coffee rather than dab to avoid smudging the ink!" Sherlock huffed in annoyance and ripped off his scarf, "who the hell drinks coffee when looking at confidential police files!?"
Lestrade glanced at John before speaking, "I'll go and see if I can find a copy."
"Probably too late now anyway. Henry Saint is most likely dead." Sherlock muttered taking his phone from his pocket.
Lestrade turned to John before leaving, "see if you can calm him down."
John nodded as Lestrade left, closing the door quietly behind himself. John was suddenly at loss for words and unsure of what to do. How do you deal with a frustrated Sherlock?
"Anything you need?" John asked. Oddly enough, his voice sounded so tiny to how it usually sounds.
"Replace the Met with people who have an IQ higher than five and I'll be satisfied."
John crossed the distance between them until he was standing in front of the desk, "I really think you need to rest, this case is getting to you."
"I don't need to rest-you need to rest." Sherlock paced back and forth.
John blinked, wow, that was a very bad comeback. Proves my point though. "One of these days you're just going to crash and I'll have to be the one to pick you back up."
Sherlock didn't reply, instead he kept pacing and muttering to himself. His phone beeped in his pocket and he grabbed his quickly, flicking over a message that he'd received. John saw his eyes lighten and he dashed for the door. "Holland Park." Was all he said before he ripped open the door to the office and yelled at Lestrade who bumped into him, "Get everyone to Holland Park, that is where he is-Holland Park."
Lestrade took a moment to recover from the yell, it was quite a comical site to John, the poor officer looked like he almost had a heart attack. Suddenly, twenty-odd Met officers were pushed into riot vans and paramedics were already on the way. It was rushed and busy on the crime scene when everyone arrived.
Sherlock, however, was calm and content, walking past the reinforced police officers and heading to the abandoned toilets hidden by a few trees near the east side of the park. Lestrade looked at John questionably and jogged after Sherlock; John followed along with the officers behind him. "Oi, where are you going, you said Holland Park."
"Yes, this is Holland Park." Sherlock said swinging the door to the male toilets open. He covered his nose and mouth once the door was open, John grimaced and coughed at the smell. It was vile. It was the most indescribable smell imaginable.
"Christ." Lestrade waved a hand at the smell, "smells like he's dead."
"No." Sherlock mumbled into the scarf before darting forward. A few moments after he went in, John and Lestrade exchanged glances before they heard, "what are you waiting for, I need your help."
John rushed in and saw Sherlock kneeling on the grimey floor, his hand on the shoulder of, who John assumed to be, Henry Saint. His body was battered and bruised, he had blood stains on his shirt from his broken nose and Sherlock was holding a clear plastic bag that evidently, had been ripped off of Henry's head. Henry was leaning against the wall in a sitting position, barely conscious.
Within seconds, Lestrade called for the paramedics and the place was infiltrated with police officers, searching the stalls and female toilets too. Sherlock left the male toilets and coughed a few times when he removed his scarf from his mouth and nose.
"You ok?" John asked feeling slightly ill.
"I'm fine." Was all he got as a reply.
"How did you know he was in there?"
Sherlock regarded John for a moment before turning to look at the park, filled with interested parents and children all looking on at the scene. "Henry Saint, also known as Fesrey Dufrae, was homeless for two years. I thought I'd recognised his name somewhere. This is where he slept in the winter, he said it reminded him of his childhood; when his father brought him to this park."
John blinked a few times, "Sorry, you 'recognised' his name?"
"Yes. When I was on the streets, we met. He called himself Fesrey, he was very friendly." Sherlock nodded at the memories and John gawped up at him. "Of course after I deduced him, he broke down and told me everything that happened in his life."
"Right. Well...right." John looked around the park. "And how did you survive in the winter?" It was genuine curiosity and it made Sherlock look at John with surprise. He opened his mouth to answer but closed it again, looking back towards the park.
Finally, he spoke, "I knew people."
John frowned and began to speak again before Lestrade trotted over, "he's not that badly injured, looks like we got to him just in time."
"All of the victims died in the same way." Sherlock said.
John and Lestrade exchanged glances, "what?"
"She kills them all in the same way; suffocation. She smothers them..."
"But the bruises on Billy Rege-"
"They were far too light for it to be strangulation. I'm disappointed, John, I thought you would have seen that." Sherlock began and John looked awfully offended. "The bruises on Billy's throat indicate more of an affectionate feeling towards him than the others."
"Affectionate?" Lestrade scoffed, "how does that look affectionate to you?" He pointed towards the stretcher with Henry's body being carried out of the dirty toilets.
"She's a psychopath." Said Sherlock immediately, "this is her way of revenge, or proving a point or...or..."
Sherlock trailed off, deep in thought.
"Well, I-"
"Sentiment!"
"What?"
"Never-mind." Sherlock muttered.
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "Right. We're done here for today, good work Sherlock."
Sherlock muttered something incoherent and walked off, passing under the newly placed police tape. John smiled weakly and followed after him. He grabbed Sherlock by the elbow and pulled him round to face him. "What the hell is wrong with you?" He began, "you threaten Lestrade, you throw a bloody police file at his head and now you're sulking off a crime scene!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and rubbed at his temple, "Be quiet, John."
John blinked a few times in astonishment, "'Be quiet?'" He repeated, "You want me to 'be quiet?'"
"That is what I said."
"You-" John thrust a finger towards Sherlock and poked him hard in the chest, "don't you tell me to 'be quiet' when you're the one who decides to stomp around the living room and play your bloody violin at ridiculous hours of the morning. You're the one who doesn't quite know when to shut up in a conversation that clearly is insulting someone. Don't fucking tell me to 'be quiet', you insentient arse!" John was about ready to explode. He felt a lot better getting that off his chest; if Sherlock wanted to play this game, then so be it.
Although, John wasn't quite sure what this game was.
Sherlock looked down at John with wide eyes, he looked more shocked than John had ever seen and that made John feel a little bit proud and a little bit embarrassed at the same time.
"Now get a bloody taxi before I stuff your body in the ambulance." John pointed towards the main road and Sherlock started walking onwards, quickly. John followed suit, feeling maybe just a little bit bad about his outburst. Sherlock was a handful, and although he was John felt compelled to just deal with it all without complaint, well he did complain here and there, but he'd never had an outburst like that before.
He would talk to Sherlock later and apologise, but right now he just wanted to get back to Baker Street and have a shower. He could still smell the putrid toilets.
Jawn go easy on him pls, he's having a hard time.
I only know the basics of cocaine withdrawal so forgive me if I don't write that much into it, I've already done a lot of planning and research for this fanfiction, I don't feel like frying my brain. When I'm around family, I'm like freakin encyclopaedia now. "Did you know a body's decomposing process is determined by the temperature of the room it's in?" - yes, brilliant way to start a conversation with somebody you've never met before.
Next time: Drug withdrawal starts to fully kick in when little pieces of the crime begin weighing down Sherlock's brain. John feels the full effect of Sherlock's withdrawal.