Taramtamtam taramtamtammmmmm...the fifth chapter!
Enjoy! (Or not, but I really hope you will)
Chapter 5: Being a soldier
Lestrade watched as Sherlock bustled around the dead woman who lay on floor with three stab wounds in her chest. After John entered, the ex-soldier waited until the detective gave him a short nod and then knelt beside the victim to take a closer look.
"Oi freak! Still not blown yourself up with the stupid experiments of yours? Such a shame"
Both flatmates tensed up synchronically as Sally entered the room, followed by a snickering Anderson.
"Donovan", Greg said warningly but the woman just rolled her eyes, arms crossed stubbornly.
"Sally. Had fun with Anderson in the toilet?"
John bit his lips to stop himself from grinning as the Sargent's face went pale in an instant.
"Sherlock", Lestrade sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
The detective ignored him and continued to survive the body. Eventually he stood up, freed himself from the white gloves and just threw them on the ground. Anderson growled.
"She's about 35 years old and a lesbian, has a little daughter but was never married. She's nicotine addicted, smoked about 30 cigarettes a day, which is most probably the cause of her money problem. Obviously somebody lent her some but she couldn't pay it back so she killed her and stole her necklace, which most certainly is very precious, she inherited it but was too sentimental to sell it, so…"
"Wait, wait, wait Sherlock how…", Lestrade interrupted him, a deep frown on his face.
"Oh please, how have you even managed to become inspector? She's a lesbian because of the love bite on her neck which is obviously from a woman, she has pink ink stains on her shoulder, somebody probably splattered a pen in her close proximity, pink means it was most probably a young girl, she was never married because she has no ring. Maye she just doesn't wear it? No, of course not because married would mean honeymoon and that would have left a stripe on her forefinger, at least a small one. Her nails are yellow, covered up with white nail polish but it splitters already so somebody can easily see the unhealthy colour which means nicotine over use, the shed of the yellow tells me about 30 cigarettes a day. Yes, I know that because I wrote an essay about it. So much cigarettes, minimal wage, out worn clothes, this all is clear as a day, she has no money, but her nail polish and her shoes are new, so? She lent some money but couldn't pay it back"
"How would you know?"
"Well because she's dead, even you should see that Lestrade. There are marks of a necklace on the back of her neck, meaning she wore it practically every time of the day, even when she was sleeping so it must be something special to her. The fact that she doesn't wear it now, tells us that somebody took it and this woman, YES Lestrade, obviously a woman, wouldn't have risked to take it if it wasn't worth a lot of money"
The inspector mumbled darkly to himself but was interrupted by his ringing phone. With a last glare at Sherlock he stepped out and went down the stairs.
"Amazing" said John, who grinned widely at his friend whose lips quirked up a tiny bit, forming a barely noticeable smile.
"Freak", somebody hissed and both, doctor and detective turned around to face Anderson's disgusted expression. Before Sherlock could say anything though, the army doctor took a step forward.
"Stop being a git, take Sally and piss off so you two can go back fucking each other senseless in a stupid toilet. We both know that you're just jealous", he snapped, causing Donovan to gasp and stumble out of the room but Anderson just narrowed his eyes.
"If I was you, I would better shut up. I won't let myself being insulted any further by a pitiable coward who most probably got shot on purpose so he could go home instead of fighting. I bet you were just too lazy to save your friends and begged somebody to shot y…"
He never managed to finish his sentence because right then Sherlock rushed forward and punched him forcefully in the middle of his face. Then he grabbed Anderson at his collar and pressed him against the wall.
"If you say another word, just one word, I swear not even Mycroft will find your corpse, do you understand me?", the detective growled furiously while the man under his hands began to nod hectically, blood running from the foresnic's nose.
"Good", the brunet spat and shoved the shaking man violently through the open door, where Anderson quickly came to his feet again and fled out of the building. Still shaking with anger, Sherlock turned around and looked at John, who was completely frozen in place, staring into distance. Back straight, shoulders tense, chin held high…just like a soldier. The detective hesitantly called his name and finally the dark blue eyes of his companion snapped back into reality and met his gaze with a sad smile playing on his lips.
"SHERLOCK! Why the hell did you break Anderson's nose?!", Lestrade barked frustrated and stormed into the room. The man in question didn't pay him any attention, just grabbed John's hand and stomped off, pulling his blogger down the stairs and out on the street where he continued to walk briskly in the direction of their flat, not bothering to call a cab.
"Thank you", the doctor whispered, squeezing the other man's hand while trying to keep up with the long legs of his flatmate. The detective just hummed and glanced down to meet the others eyes.
"His face was hilarious", John said with an amused giggle and Sherlock laughed quietly, storing Anderson's shocked expression after he punched him away for moments he would need something to laugh at.
They needed exactly 20 minutes back to Baker Street during which neither of them spoke. The fact that they had been holding hands the whole time wasn't mentioned with a single word as they eventually stepped into their mess of a kitchen.
"You still have to clean that, you know", John sighed and drove his hands through his hair, eying the complete disaster. Sherlock, instead of answering, picked up his violin and started playing a quick, mocking piece. The doctor glared at him until he finally gave up and started to fill the bin with all various sorts of broken equipment which lay clattered around their kitchen. Some things seemingly never changed.
While the doctor was occupied with cleaning the mess away, like he always did, Sherlock had some sort of panic attack. If this wasn't strange enough itself, the cause of said attack was even more disturbing. Feelings. Emotions. They pounded in his head, slowly filled the corridors of his mindpalace and poisoned his thoughts until there was nothing left but confusion. The world's only Consulting Detective struggled with his mind and had to immensely concentrate himself not to play a wrong tune on his instrument.
This was far more difficult than expected, especially as he heard a soft humming out of the kitchen which rang in his ears, making him close his eyes. And then it happened. He put his fingers on the wrong strings and produced a high and absolutely wrong screech on his violin. Sherlock's hands stilled and John, who knew instantly that something was wrong, rushed into the living room.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine"
The blond frowned a bit at his friend's harsh voice but didn't think too much of it. It was Sherlock after all.
"Alright, I think you should eat something and then go to sleep. Chinese?"
"Not hungry"
"I really don't care, so Chinese it is"
With that the doctor dialled the number of their favourite restaurant and ordered the usual things, ignoring the sulking detective who put down his instrument and stalked away to his bedroom.
"Like a five year old", John sighted and started to stack up the remnant of their destroyed kitchen table. He would use them for the fireplace.
A few minutes after he was finished with scrubbing the floor, their orders were brought and he dragged a cursing Consulting Detective back into the living room where they sat on the sofa and ate their meal in silence. As their elbows brushed the third time, John couldn't ignore it any longer. Something in their relationship was changing, this much was clear and he had no idea how to react. The fact that his heart skipped a beat every time Sherlock's arm touched his in the progress of eating didn't help in the slightest.
When they were finished, the doctor grabbed the remote and turned the telly on to distract himself from the pale silhouette on his right side, which stared totally lost in thought out of the window.
"You will have nightmares" the deep voice suddenly announced and John nodded slowly, avoiding the others eyes and continued to stare stubbornly on the screen. He knew that. It was absolutely unavoidable after Anderson's words. Pitiful coward. The ex-soldier winced as he thought back to the previous moment at the crime scene. But during the rest of the evening he knew that sleep would come eventually and at some point he stopped fighting. His eyes fell close and then there was nothing but black.
Sherlock who snapped out of his thoughts just moments later, felt a weight on his side and his eyebrows shot up after he discovered that John was cuddled up to him, head on the detectives shoulder and the left arm spread boneless over the others chest, sleeping peacefully. The brunet stared down at his companion and didn't know what to do. Helplessly he tried to lay his arm on something that wasn't John but failed miserably and as his hand finally stilled it lay over his friend's waist. Sherlock looked up, directly into the dark holes of the skull.
"What?" he snapped as loud as he could without waking the sleeping man whose warm breath ghosted over his neck. The unmistakeable smell of John filled his nose and a pleasant shiver ran down his back. The skull continued to stare at him in mocking silence.
"Oh, shut up", the detective grumbled and carefully buried his face in soft, blond hair.
John hadn't a single nightmare this time.
Anderson is a git...
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