AN: so, I'm a little unsure whether to carry on with this story because, I didn't get any reviews on the last chapter and feedback hasn't been all that great all the way through... but yeah, if you have any form of opinion then leave a review or something. Also I'm taking prompts.
Enjoy!
Lily x
It had been quiet for nearly twenty minutes.
I had therefore become very suspicious.
Sherlock had been forcibly dragged, under heavy protest, into Lestrade's office about half an hour ago because he'd found a suspect in the Johanssen Murder Case, as to why he was a suspect, I'd stopped listening half way through in the full and certain knowledge that I would get a blow by blow account of Sherlock's brilliant deductions when I got home. Anyway, unfortunately for British society, the suspect was The Honourable Philip Albright, Son of the Viscount Albright, all of which meant fuck all to me but apparently had caused sensation in the papers and was the reason Sherlock had been dragged into the Office at ten o'clock on a rainy December morning. And we'd only been on the case two hours. It really was amazing. It usually took Sherlock quite a long time to annoy Lestrade this much.
After The Viscountess and Viscount had marched imperiously into Lestrade's little office, for the first ten minutes there had been shouting and screaming and threats of legal action, before, as I have said before, it all went quiet.
Apparently my dear friend was the source of said silence, as his voice was the last I heard before it all went quiet. I was quite impressed by that because, while Sherlock can be rude (stubborn, pig-headed, ungrateful, inappropriate, the list goes on...) I very much doubted that he could silence twenty people with one observation. And then I remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes I was talking about.
My doubts stopped, only to be replaced with fervent prayers to any God that was listening
'Please God don't let anyone beat him up, I don't think I can deal with the whining.' My religious epiphany was interrupted by some heavy thumps and a short groan. Oh shit. I put my head in my hands and muttered
'Do you want me to become an atheist? Because you really aren't doing yourself any favours you know.' And the like. I rose from my own personal little circle of hell, to see the Viscoutess sweeping majestically around the office trilling
'I really have never been so insulted in my life! My son is an Honourable! Do you honestly believe that he is a common killer Mr Holmes?'
To be honest looking at the hulking shape of her husband, I had to say yes. The man was enormous, with wide set eyes and hands like dustbin lids. You could have stuffed a mattress with the hair on the backs of his hands, and the fact that he was smartly dressed only contrived to make him look like a monkey that had been strategically shaved and put in a suit.
For the second time in his, relatively short, life, Sherlock had been hit and sent reeling backwards against the desk while Lestrade shouted at him and Dimmock sweated and held back the Honourable Philip, who was desperately struggling to get at Sherlock. Meanwhile in the time that I had been stood there The Viscountess, Lady Venetia Albright, as she insisted on being addressed, had pointedly fainted and recovered three times before finally having to resort to having noisy hysterics in a swivel chair, and for a large woman that was no mean feat.
I was enjoying the little tableau from the door when Sherlock dropped his hand from his cheek and in a snarl that practically froze the room solid said,
'Yes Madam, I do. I very rarely take social class into account when investigating a murder, and certainly not in this case. The honourable Philip quite clearly killed Miss Antonia Johanssen, in no small part because he is wearing a shirt with her blood on it. Good grief, he has made no effort whatsoever to hide the evidence of his crime, my lady! When she was found Miss Johanssen had traces of blood under her fingernails, from the position of her hands and the fact that the blood was still fresh when she was found it is fairly obvious that she had scratched at her killer just before she died, assuming that the man who killed her was the same height as Miss Johanssen, which we know he was, the scratch would have been on his face and as you can see madam, The Honourable Philip has a scratch on his face.' Unusually Sherlock was not looking at all smug, in fact he looked angrier than I'd ever seen him. The Viscountess shifted uncomfortably and said
'But how do you know the killers height? This is all just guess work!'
Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave her a pitying look 'Oh please Madam, you must have heard of me and if you are not a fool, you'll be able to reach the conclusion that I never guess.' She went strawberry pink and scowled at him as he continued 'I know that the killer was a man, because I found a shirt underneath the bed. I know that he was the same height as Miss Johanssen because the Shirt had the same measurements as Miss Johanssen's t-shirt, despite clearly being a recently worn men's work shirt. And I know the killer was your son, because he's wearing a shirt with blood on it, the shirt found in Miss Johanssen's room had his DNA all over it. Not to mention the fact that a note was on the hall table of the victim's house signed Peter Gabrhilt. I mean come on! Did you really think using a different first name and an anagram of your second would fool anyone? What are you, a bloody vampire?' he was smirking now, and as soon as I saw the look in the Honourable Philip's eyes I knew that was a mistake. He broke free from Dimmock's hands and leapt at Sherlock, his teeth bared.
There was a split second as Philip hit Sherlock squarely in the chest. Before all hell broke loose. Dimmock reached the struggling pair first, dragging the Honourable Philip off Sherlock and pressing a gun to the back of his neck as Lestrade sat on his legs and cuffed him as quickly as he could. I skipped over the writhing Philip ('Accidentally' kicking him in the groin as I passed. Well anything can happen in confusion like that...) and raced to the prostrate Sherlock, who was lying, breathing heavily on the floor.
He had a long bleeding cut over one eye and seemed to be winded. I dragged him upright and shook him a lot more roughly than I'd intended to.
'Are you alright?' I demanded. He didn't even respond. I shook him again as the panic started to rise.
'Answer me Sherlock!' he opened his mouth and gave a hacking cough.
'Sherlock?' I asked him nervously 'Are you alright?' he gave me a look that could have been construed as comforting, until he ruined it.
'I will be when you get off my chest.' He wheezed. I sagged with relief.
A few minutes later, Sherlock and I were sat on the step of an ambulance. He was snapping at everybody having been wrapped in an orange shock blanket and given a cup of sweet tea by an extremely patronising paramedic, who at that moment was crying softly some way away.
I sighed 'If you're planning on another suicide attempt anytime soon, do tell me.'
He smiled slightly 'I have to say, I did not expect him to react like that.'
'I'd guessed.' I said rolling my eyes. 'You were quite lucky you weren't killed.'
He snorted 'John, you could have taken him. For chrissake Mycroft could have taken him. Piece of cake.'
AN: so. Stop? Continue? Go away and stop bothering us? Review!