Kind of an inbetween-y chapter, this one. Lots of grouchy detective, though :D
NOTE: The tune Sherlock plays on the violin is the theme to 'Requiem For A Dream'. Not seen the film, but the music is amazing. Youtube it if you haven't heard it, really.
Of his many talents, patience was not one that Sherlock particularly prided himself on. He could exercise it if necessary, but aside from those rare occasions, he considered it a mainly fruitless exercise that could be avoided by bluntness and on occasion, bribery.
It was surprising, therefore; he reflected as he scowled at his flatmate from across the room, that he put up with John at all.
It was hardly his fault that he had been punched in the face by a serial killer, he was definitely unaccountable for the bandage plastered across his nose, and it was far from unreasonable that he should be put out by both facts – and as such, it was painfully unfair that his flatmate was allowed to laugh at him as he entered a room. The dressing was neither comfortable, dignified or in his mind particularly necessary, and as such, a decent flatmate would do him the courtesy of at least ignoring the dratted thing.
He had considered inflicting the same injury on John, and seeing how he liked it, but Sherlock had the nasty feeling that the doctor would accept it in that irritating, tolerant manner, and he was not in the mood to deal with the unfathomable benevolence of John Watson.
He satisfies himself instead by throwing a cushion – what the hell it was doing in the kitchen, he would never know or care – at John's head. The resulting grunt of indignation brings a smile to his face.
The show of happiness is short-lived, the upwards curve of his lips drooping back into a far more serious expression. Dropping his gaze from his flatmate, he kneads his lower arm with his thumb, running it over the patches secured onto the skin.
The creak of the floor and the rustle of material on skin heralds the arrival of John Watson behind him.
"Is that…?" John asks, still holding the missile in his left hand, and peering over Sherlock's shoulder with interest. The detective smiles, and watches the other man's features switch from intrigue to disbelief in a moment. Always good for entertainment. "Sherlock, is that five patches?"
"Remarkably observed, Dr Watson," he remarks, cocking his head to the side, and subjecting the doctor to a sarcastic stare.
"I thought the idea of nicotine patches was to wean you off the addiction," John states lightly, shaking his head. He goes to the drainer, and rummages for a glass. There was a clean one in the cupboard, but Sherlock neglects to tell him. Instead, he watches him rinse one plucked from the sink itself, revelling in the irony of John worrying over the use of nicotine, and observing the differences in the ways the water tumbled over skin and glass.
Sherlock makes no response, just continues the methodical kneading of his arm, as if by pressing down on the patches, he could somehow make the effect stronger, force them through the skin.
"I started out with one," he says finally, pale eyes flicking upwards as John joins him at the table. "But it's not working. It's infuriating."
His gaze drops again, teeth clench, and a hiss of irritation slips between them.
"Well, please don't add anymore."
"I can't," Sherlock admits, frowning. "Ran out."
There's a moment of quiet, as John takes a drink of water. Sherlock watches, disinterested.
"It's blindingly obvious what's going on," he says, more to himself than to John, although from the doctor's stance, he can see he has the man's attention. "Certainly in the broader sense, if not in detail yet. It would hardly be difficult for Moriarty to hire some fresh killers, but until the Met can do their job and obtain new CCTV footage I've got nothing to go on. And that could take some time, knowing them. These murders are almost daily, John. There's innocent children dying, and I'm the one person who could actually help, incapacitated by incompetence on the part of this country's law enforcers."
Wound up, Sherlock scrubs his hands through his hair in frustration, and looks at John to gauge his reaction. The frown creasing the man's features demonstrates the expected objections to his criticisms of the police force, but Sherlock's more interested in the glint in his eyes. The expression brings a surge of indignation.
"Stop looking pleased about my caring!" Sherlock orders him, kicking him under the table.
"I'm not," the doctor retorts, but the smile emerging contradicts his statement, and only causes Sherlock's chagrin to grow.
"Don't lie to me," the detective tells him, a little more aggressively than he'd intended. He gets up, deliberately plucking John's laptop from the table in favour to his own. Triumphant, he sweeps from the room, with only a passing: "you're shocking at it anyway!" by way of acknowledgement.
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3am comes and goes. Sherlock sits on his bed, his back against the wall, long legs drawn up to his chest. He's got his violin clasped in his hands, and every few seconds pale fingers move deftly to pluck the strings. The melody itself is haunting, even played carelessly by an absent-minded detective. It moves effortlessly from the quiet to the exciting. Played with the aid of a bow, the music would be quite flawless.
Sherlock's eyes are unfocussed as he plays, his mind offering him suggestion upon suggestion as to where he should begin his search for the consulting criminal – and discarding each as quickly as they emerge. They were all too pointless, too obvious… too unoriginal.
Also, watching the shadows creep towards his feet, it occurs to him that Moriarty was probably the man who deserved to be considered his arch-enemy. Mycroft was more an irritation than a threat.
He's cold by now, not having moved for hours. The pale skin poking from his pyjamas is icy to the touch, and his bare feet are tinged with purple. Goosebumps run up and down his arms, but he doesn't notice. His mind is fixed intently on its own workings, and on the puzzle that he had to solve.
The minimal effect of the nicotine patches has long worn out, and it's done nothing for his concentration. His statuesque exterior hides the panic escalating in his mind, the terror at the newfound emotions of the past few months. Sitting on top of his covers, shivering, Sherlock experiences something resembling guilt. His mind begins to consider the lives that would have been saved, the pure torture of being burnt to death that might have been avoided, if he had spotted what he'd clearly still missed – and the lives that could still be saved, the pain avoided, were he to discover it now. He hates the emotional investment he seems to have unwittingly developed with this case, and worse, a solution still seems far off. His stomach churns at the idea of those children burning…
The flat is completely silent. It's only then that Sherlock recognises he's stopped playing his violin. Sighing, he discards it on top of his covers, and walks through to the lounge to clear his head. It's almost precisely as he last saw it, except that the TV remotes have been moved from the sofa to the arm of the chair. There's a pile of books that have been rearranged too: presumably after John knocked into them, and spilled the tea onto the now freshly scrubbed carpet about a foot away.
Strangely, the deductions that came so naturally seem unimportant now: what use was observing the actions of his flatmate, if he couldn't stop people dying?
The clock on the mantelpiece reads ten to four.
The mood he was in, it was never going to be a good idea to stray into the kitchen. He does so anyway, padding silently in bare feet, his eyes blinking rapidly in the glare from the streetlight outside. He can hear John snoring faintly upstairs, and knows he's safe.
The whole process is a rather desperate scramble. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears; his fingers fumble on the lid of the margarine tub: candle, powder, acid, water…tip the solution in so slowly, then a welcome sting and…oh God, he'd needed that.
Release.
When John staggers sleepily down at half six Sherlock's still smiling. He's investigated several rather unlikely ideas of Moriarty's whereabouts online…and whilst this exercise had wielded no results, he's able to look at the situation more positively: it was a simple process of elimination. It was a large undertaking, yes, but with his abilities it was not impossible – and surely a few more child murders were worth it if Moriarty was captured.
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By mid-morning, the effects have completely worn off, leaving behind an extremely irritable detective. Worried, angry – his nerves are stretched to breaking point.
"How difficult can it be to wheel out a few corpses?" he snarls at Molly. He's well aware he's being unreasonable and insensitive, but she is being incompetent, so they are more than square.
Molly looks like she's on the verge of tears. Again. Her lower lip trembles.
"It's not that simple!" she exclaims. The timid annoyance in her voice grates on Sherlock's battered nerves.
"Molly." Sherlock says, fighting to keep his voice calm. "I need to compare all the dead children. Therefore, one would assume it was blindingly obvious that I wanted to look at all of them…them, Molly! In the plural!"
He watches her, teeth clamped together. She opens her mouth several times, as if to contradict him, but swallows, apparently deciding against it. One further chew of her lip, and she takes a step backwards, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit. It takes some restraint on Sherlock's part not to utter an exasperated 'Hallelujah.'
"Fine!" she agrees shrilly, blinking hard, and scurrying from the room.
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The next few hours are a blur of cab rides, taking samples, bickering with Lestrade over his 'attitude', and quick-fire texts to keep John informed.
Police incompetent. Plenty of evidence. SH.
Damn! Even the evidence they missed points to Jenkins. This is thorough in the extreme. SH.
Lestrade has requested you keep me on a leash. Would advise against it. SH.
Hardly my fault his suggestions are ridiculous. SH.
Do you think Moriarty would repeat himself? Debating whether to further investigate school staff. SH.
A reply to indicate you're still alive would be appreciated. SH.
He continues relaying observations to John for some time, until he gets a message, not from John, but sent from an unknown number. He guesses the sender easily, and sighs.
Can you please stop texting John at work.
Resisting the urge to send her back a petulant 'No.' and instruction regarding the use of question marks, Sherlock stows his phone in his coat, fixing his eyes instead on the back of the cabbie's head.
By the time he clambers out of the taxi and pays the man, by the entrance to Bart's, he is not only irritable from the re-emerging feelings of worry and tension, but his head is also pounding painfully. He can feel a thin film of sweat on his forehead too, and wipes it away with the back of his hand. It's a relief to settle himself down in the lab, and set about working through his samples from the crime scenes. He's hardly expecting anything new now, but it's reassuring to properly examine everything himself, so he can be certain that no shortcuts have been taken, every eventuality considered.
As seven o clock crawls closer, Sherlock gathers up his notes and results, and heads home. He feels terrible by now. The testing might have helped put him at ease, but the throbbing of his head is becoming unbearable, and he feels feverish.
By the time he stumbles in the door of the flat he feels positively sick. His hair is sticking to the sweat running down his forehead, he's shaking violently, and there is little he wouldn't sacrifice to rid himself of the splitting headache.
Taking deep breaths, he makes his way to the bathroom, leaning his burning forehead on the cool tiles, and letting out a moan of relief. The relief is short-lived. The room begins to spin around him, and still shaking, he stumbles to sit on the edge of the bath. He takes deep, ragged breaths and squeezes both eyes shut.
"Sherlock?"
Even the gentle concern of John Watson's voice causes a violent stab of pain through his head, and he groans by way of answer. Faintly, he can make out the man's silhouette in the doorway to the room.
"You look awful," John observes, lowering his voice as Sherlock winces violently and continues to tremble.
"I feel sick," Sherlock states, shortly.
"You look sick," John concurs. There's a pause, and Sherlock manages to raise his head to look at his flatmate. Despite his grey pallor that he can see reflected in the mirror, Sherlock realises that John is not shying away. In fact, he moves from his position in the doorway and joins him on the edge of the bath. Experimentally, Sherlock rests his head on the other man's shoulder. The warmth that rushes through him glorious.
"You're warm," Sherlock informs him, shivering violently. John says nothing, just offers an arm around the detective's shoulders.
He still feels awful, but John's warmth helps: Sherlock burrows gratefully into the crook of his neck, and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing of his head and the nausea, and just concentrate on the comfort of his flatmate. He feels his eyelids droop, and allows them to do so, listening to the pulse in John's neck.
When he wakes, the nausea has intensified. He lurches away from John in panic, and throws up violently. Even then the other man doesn't leave, sitting steadfastly on the edge of the bath as the detective leans over the toilet.
"When did this start?" he asks, as Sherlock takes deep, shaking breaths. "You seemed fine this morning."
"Afternoon," he mumbles, embarrassed.
"I suppose it could be a 24 hour thing," the doctor suggests, frowning. Sherlock watches his eyes flick over him, and feels ashamed. He knew both the cause and the cure, and realises for the first time that he couldn't take John's disappointment, not on top of the burning children.
"Why are you still here?" he asks instead, peering at John with as much curiosity as he could muster from his position on the floor of the bathroom.
"Sarah's annoyed at me," John tells him, smiling. "And there's nothing on TV."
They glance at each, and Sherlock manages a watery smile to match John's. Interestingly, he discovers that he experiences the same warmth from John's words as he derived from sitting directly beside the man.