Hey, everyone! Sorry about that delay - it went on much longer than I had intended. I just finished a play, and now I have to go through the seemingly never ending process of graduation. Ah, that word makes me ecstatic! The story is almost over, though. Just a couple more chapters to go and possibly an epilogue. Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking with me. It means a lot. And a HUGE thank you to the awe-inspiring starrysummernights! Without her, this story would be crap. Be sure to send her some love and read a few of her capturing stories. I love you all! XOXO
About an hour and a half later, Sherlock, Lestrade, and the rest of the Scotland Yard stood outside yet another ornate house in which a murder had taken place. This time, John wasn't standing beside Sherlock. The good doctor was sitting on the floor of the already waiting ambulance car. Sherlock worriedly glanced over at the ambulance while Lestrade gave him a rundown of everything that the rest of his team had found while the detective Sherlock had been dealing with the crisis with John. Sherlock couldn't quite listen to Lestrade while he kept looking at John to make sure he was okay. Suddenly a pair of fingers snapped in front of his face, making him jolt and blink, startled, before he frowned in annoyance.
"Sherlock! Right here! I know you're concerned about John, but he is-"
"In shock!" Sherlock snapped irritably, worry and concern over his lover making him ruder than he normally would have been.
Greg, frustrated, ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Yes, but the professionals are taking care of him. Not saying it's not important for him to be okay – but he will be ok. He just needs a little time…and he's in good hands. MacMillan is a good chap and he knows what he's doing. Besides, this – this murder right here – is important. I shouldn't have to tell you that. Now focus, will you?"
Sherlock snarled and pushed past Lestrade. He knew he was being unreasonable but seeing John looking so shaken…so fragile where he normally was strong and in control...he didn't like it.
"Yes, they found the murder weapon – the knife, the girl, the chloroform, and the lack of fingerprints. They found all that but they missed one thing." Sherlock barked as he snatched a pair of latex gloves and a mask from Anderson's equipment and stormed into the house.
Lestrade and Anderson exchanged a look but quickly followed the consulting detective into the house, eager to see what he'd found.
Impassively watching the men storm back into the house, John shakily breathed into a bag, trying to erase the gruesome images he'd seen from his mind. He felt almost sick with shame for the way he'd reacted in front of everyone, but even now, almost twenty minutes later, he couldn't really fault himself. He hadn't been able to control his own body after he'd seen…what he had.
A paramedic – MacMillan, Greg had said his name was- placed a bottle of water beside him and patted his shoulder gently. In a low, soothing voice, he told Johnthat when he was ready they needed some information from him about what had happened, and that a Miss Carolyn would speak to him.
John lowered the bag from his mouth and sighed into the cool evening air, breathing in the calming scents of the night air. He wished this bloody case would just solve itself and leave him and Sherlock out of it. He wished he'd never played Nora Rank's stupid, gorgeous piano on the first day of the investigation. He wished he and Sherlock could still be in the music room, making music and, at the same time, making love without a certain DI barging in and ruining everything with this stupid case.
John knew that wasn't fair. This was what Sherlock did- he solved crimes- and John was always there to help him as much as he could. He didn't want Sherlock to stop taking cases. He didn't want to see the manic, excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes – that look that he got whenever a new, interesting case landed in his lap – to be extinguished. But…John wanted this case – this horrible, seemingly never-ending case – to be over and done with. He'd be a lot happier when it was.
After a few moments of calm breathing and sipping the blessedly cold water, John saw a young woman walking toward him with a gentle and compassionate expression gracing her features. He inwardly snarled at her, knowing she was purposefully putting on a front because of what had happened inside the house. If Sherlock were with him, he'd give the story in enough detail that this young girl would need to back off purely for her own sanity. But Sherlock wasn't there, and John was too nice and too ready to just leave to give a horror story of everything that had happened. The woman sat next to him on the floor of the ambulance, a little too close for his taste, and took out a notepad and pen.
"Hello, John. My name is Carolyn Tate." She offered John a hand, which he took, surprised by her firm grip. "I'm just going to fill out a report for the ambulance here and then we'll let you go. Is that all right?" She beamed at him, face a mask of concern and John sighed.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine."
"Great. I know this may be difficult, John, but could you possibly describe what happened?"
John sighed and gestured vaguely. "Sure."
"Wonderful. Take as much time as you need."
John snorted when he saw Carolyn discreetly reaching for a small box of tissue, he resented the insinuation he'd need it, and launched into his tale.
An Hour and A Half Earlier
John and Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, both with completely different thoughts on their mind. John was embarrassed to death. He kept replaying the way Lestrade had walked in on him and Sherlock, what the older man had seen, and flushing. He didn't know if he would ever erase the memory of the look on Greg's face. John was sure the detective inspector would never look at him the same way again. John knew he himself would probably never be able to look Greg in the eye again. Not after the other man had seen him covered in come and being humped by Sherlock.
John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He couldn't stop thinking about how sticky and gross he felt, not having had the time to clean up properly. After a few moments, he turned to Sherlock, hoping maybe he had an idea of how long this would take…only to find a dark, stormy expression on his face. Without so much as a word, John turned back and decided against speaking. He could wait.
Beside him, Sherlock was stoic and calm. To the outside eye, he looked as if nothing was wrong but inwardly he was still aching for release, having been denied an orgasm so rudely because of Lestrade. Sherlock was exceedingly grouchy. He'd had John right where he wanted him – he'd been planning that seduction almost a full day – and then for Lestrade to barge so impolitely in… Even if he did have a case, Sherlock still felt very, very put out.
His phone beeped and Sherlock quickly pulled it out, frowning as he read Lestrade's message.
You'll want to leave John outside on this one, Sherlock. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. GL
How absurd. Why would he leave John outside…on anything? John always accompanied him to crime scenes and he'd never had an adverse reaction yet. Lestrade's team on the other hand… Sherlock would never let him live down the fact that two of his "best" officers had thrown up all over a body once, destroying precious evidence.
Please, Lestrade, don't be absurd. He's a retired army doctor. I'm sure John has seen much worse than your crime scene. He can handle this. SH
Sherlock I know but. What I'm saying is that he will not want to see this. It's…worse than the last couple of times. GL
Sherlock rolled his eyes, sparing a brief glance over at John, before thumbing out his reply.
He'll be fine, Lestrade. End of discussion. SH
When the cab pulled into the driveway, John and Sherlock were met with solemn faces and adverted gazes. John quirked his eyebrow a bit, feeling completely thrown off by the deliberate attempts of NSY to not look directly at him.
"Sherlock, do you know what's going on here?"
"I thought you'd know that, John. It's a murder." Sherlock replied as if John was speaking nonsense, or in some made-up language.
"Yes, thank you, smart arse. I mean there's something different going on here."
Sherlock only hummed before lifting the police tape for John to walk under, "Apparently this victim is a little worse for wear."
John nodded as they met Lestrade. The detective inspector was frowning at Sherlock as they walked into the house and seemed to want to say something but kept glancing at John before shutting his mouth. He shook his head, muttering something about "jumped up, genius consulting detectives being too fool headed to listen to good advice" as he led them towards the crime scene.
John had a sinking feeling as they walked through the foyer towards the back of the house. He didn't know what was going on…but it was something important.
"The killer has completely changed his tactic with this victim." Lestrade said as they paused outside the bedroom door. "This girl didn't even live here. She was homeless. This house in particular, along with several others in this neighborhood, has been on the lot for a few months now. I'm going to go ahead and warn you…the smell is bloody awful. You might want one of these."
Lestrade pulled out three masks and handed one to John, who gladly accepted it. Sherlock looked as if he was going to turn it down, but a firm warning glare from John altered his decision. Lestrade glanced between John and Sherlock again after their masks were secured. He obviously didn't want John in the room and this bothered John. What was so horrible behind that door that the NSY team didn't want him in there? Lestrade, always true to his word, didn't exaggerate the severity of any situation. One could always count on him for accuracy and cold, hard, even unpleasant, facts.
Keeping this in mind, John followed Sherlock and Lestrade inside the room, braced to see the worst.
The room smelled rancid, the scent of decaying flesh and blood making John grateful that his mask filtered out the worst of it. The sight before them was devastating.
The young victim of this crime had been homeless, judging by her unclean appearance and layers of ratty clothing. Like the other woman, this young lady's body was drenched in blood. She had already been turned over and examined, accounting for the smell which filtered through the room.
John walked around to her, pity gracing his features, and knelt beside her, looking back at Lestrade and raising his eyebrow in silent curiosity.
"The forensics team determined she was knocked out with chloroform, brought here, and then murdered. John, you really don't have to examine her." Lestrade said, stepping forward as if to physically drag John away from the body.
"What aren't you telling us?" John asked, tired of feeling as if Lestrade was keeping something from him and just ready for it to be out in the open.
Lestrade sighed, glancing at Sherlock, but the detective was waiting for him to reply as well. Finally, Lestrade's shoulders slumped and he motioned at the body.
"Killer left a message for us. It's…on her lower abdomen. Have to shift her jeans down a little to see it."
Sherlock and John shared a confused look before Sherlock knelt and watched as John carefully lifted the girl's shirt, pulling her jeans down below her hips, revealing the message.
John sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening. "Oh, god." He murmured, sitting back on his heels and staring, stunned at what he saw. He could feel his heart racing, his breathing whooshing in and out at a quick, too shallow pace.
"John –" Sherlock reached out to him.
"Air. I..I need air." He stammered, staggering to his feet and dashing from the room.
On her torso were the ever present roman numerals. This time, VIII was carved into her body; victim number eight in the gory countdown. The third and – Lestrade wanted to promise – the last woman to die for this case. Below her navel, however, was a new design. Right above her pelvis, in haggard lacerations, was written, "John H. Watson".
"And that's when you collapsed?" Carolyn asked – her voice still annoyingly soft and concerned even as she wrote furiously in her notebook.
John took a deep breath. "No. Once I got outside I threw up in the bushes, and then I collapsed." He replied snappishly. He was growing very tired of this woman and her questions and he just wanted to bloody go home.
"Oh."
Before Carolyn could ask another question, Sherlock appeared by John's side. The detective placed a gentle hand on John's shoulder and looked at the woman beside him.
"If you're quite finished gathering information, I would prefer to take my partner home. Now."
Carolyn gave John an understanding smile, clucking her tongue at him in a very condescending way, and gathered her belongings. "Of course. I understand. John has been through something very traumatic I do hope you feel better soon and never fear- I'm sure Scotland Yard will get to the bottom of this. Have a relaxing rest of the night, you two."
After a few minutes of paramedics checking on John one more time, Sherlock arguing with said paramedics, and John gripping Sherlock's hand repeatedly to signal his readiness to leave, the pair was finally free. They walked away from the crime scene and found a cab back to Baker Street.
Once they were inside their flat, John walked straight to the kitchen and began his tea making process. It always managed to calm him…but he stopped mid-sequence, placing his hands on the counter, and lowered his head. Sherlock watched him intently, deducing everything from his body language. Despite every obvious thought, vexation, and concern that screamed from John's posture, Sherlock saw one thing radiating from his love; pure, unaltered, fear. This struck a sympathetic chord in Sherlock, making him fearful as well.
John was the strong one, the level headed one, the one who knew what to do and how to slow down when everything was barreling at top speed around them. If he was fearful- and he was rightfully so- then Sherlock felt as if he had cause to feel panic in his throat, clutching at his lungs, making it hard to breath. But…he had to tamp that nervous feeling down – for John. At this point in the case, everything he did was for John. For all he knew….John was the next victim.
John finally lifted his hands from the counter and brought them to his face. His thoughts were far away from the piano competition (which wasn't even a day away anymore). His mind was fixed on the way his name had looked, carved into the woman's body, smeared in her own blood. The young lady had lost her life just so this Demitri kid could send John a gruesome message. It wasn't right. It didn't seem fair to her to have died just for that.
Beneath the righteous anger over the girl's tragic death, was another emotion which John hated: fear. The psychotic killer was after him now, and there was very little he could do to stop it. John's nerves were hanging by a thread and he feared the worst: that Sherlock would fail to solve the crime and he would be killed. He had faith in Sherlock- he always did…but this was different. This was a different situation where three women – seemingly out of ten that would eventually be dead – had already been murdered and Sherlock was no closer to solving it now than he had been a week earlier. It was possible – John swallowed thickly – it was possible that Sherlock could fail. He'd failed to solve cases before, John knew, through no fault of his own. It was possible…this would be one of those times.
And then Sherlock would be left alone, and who knows what would happen to him. John would be dead and Sherlock would be here, in the flat, all by himself. John remembered how Sherlock had acted once when John had been away for a conference. He'd been gone for three days and when he got back, Sherlock had flung himself across the room at John and demanded he never leave again. If John were gone…what would happen to Sherlock?John shook with petrifying fear.
Sensing John's decent into his thoughts, Sherlock crossed over and wrapped his arms around his little love. Gently turning him around and guiding him to the bedroom, Sherlock stripped John down to his pants and sat on the edge of the bed with him. It concerned Sherlock how compliant John was, and how easily he moved beneath Sherlock's control. It was usually John who was so firm, so solid and in control. Sherlock had to remind himself that now was not the time to deduce anything, or to even say anything.
Suddenly, Sherlock remembered something. His mind took him back to the first night of the case, when he and John had had a row and the one thing which had sapped the tension from his lover's body was the massage he gave.
Moving behind John, his legs pressed to either side of John's body, Sherlock reached and grabbed the bottle of lotion John kept on his night stand. He poured some into his hand and warmed it between his palms. John, shaking himself out of his fugue, was about to ask what he was doing when Sherlock wordlessly began kneading John's wound-up muscles.
It felt heavenly. Sherlock's long fingers moved, dancing along John's muscles and releasing the tension from his body. John lolled his head back and rested it against Sherlock's shoulder, relishing the contact of their skin together. After ten minutes of this, John let Sherlock lay him on the bed and pull him into his arms. Sherlock held his John close, ran his fingertips through John's soft hair, and peppered his face with kisses.
Sherlock didn't demand an explanation. He didn't pry for information and didn't try and grasp what John was feeling. All Sherlock did was hold John and let him know through his actions that he would always be there.
"John, I…" Sherlock stopped himself. He didn't want John to worry and, after the gruesome message they had seen, he was afraid anything loving he said would be heard by John as a good-bye.
Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing, clutching John closer to him and hoping he could convey, through his body, what he meant.John, I love you more than life itself. I love you more than the Work. I love you more than science and cigarettes and sex with you and your tea. I love you so much that I want you here with me every day. I can't imagine a single day without you by my side and I don't want to. You are everything to me, John. There's nothing I won't do to make sure you're safe with me, where you belong. I. Love. You.
"John, I will get us out of this. I promise."
John turned his face into Sherlock's neck and breathed in his intoxicating scent.
"Sherlock…" John stopped himself. He didn't want Sherlock believing he was about to give up on him.
Sherlock, I'm fighting. I'm trying, and I'm going to make it out of this mess with you. After this is over, I'm going to spend every day making sure you know that I'm never leaving. We're going to make music together. We're going to make love, we're going to dance, we're going to do everything joyful, and we're going to forget about this case. I'm going to fight to the end of this and I'm going to fucking grin when that psychopath is locked away. It's you and me, love. We're going to finish this tomorrow at the performance.
"Sherlock, I believe you. We'll make it."
Both men were spent on words unsaid. Everything they wanted to say, but feared saying, they buried deep inside their bodies and locked them away. John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock and let Sherlock slide his long leg between his. Silent kisses were exchanged and both men fought with everything they had against the fear that the moment they were sharing could be the last time they were in bed together. Neither man wanted to think about that. It wasn't going to happen.
John reached up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, relishing the soft contact and pressed his forehead against Sherlock's.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Sherlock pressed his lips against John's in a lingering, wet kiss, and sighed. John held Sherlock so close, that their bodies ached. Neither one of them cared, though. With a soft sigh, John relaxed his body and stroked Sherlock's hair from his forehead.
"Tomorrow."
Sherlock nodded. "It ends tomorrow."