Chapter 6

Sometimes,/it is the most/broken/rooftops/that know the most/amazing ways/to paint/the walls with/light.

-Tyler Knott Gregson

"He's here John," Sherlock whispered to his friend beside him, "Phone Lestrade."

Sherlock's grey eyes darted left and right quickly, his senses hyper alert. He heard scratching, tapping, clicking, there were far too many smells to differentiate, it was impossible to concentrate on one thing.

"Shut up," he spat, turning his attention to John as he scrolled through his phone's contacts.

"I didn't, say anything," John replied, looking around confused.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

"I'm stepping outside to make this call, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Sherlock shot his friend an exacerbated scowl before watching him walk out of the building. What did he know? The killer was here, hiding, and he needed to find him before it was too late.

Sherlock and John had traced the killer to an old parking garage in West End. There were five floors and Sherlock had him cornered on the top level. After coming to the conclusion the third killing hadn't been intentional, the case solved itself, all within an hour, just as he'd expected. The murderer, Curtis Hamurlund, had gunned down two women and one man for one thing: prestige. How petty people truly were. This man had quite literally killed his competition. Of course, people metaphorically killed people to gain position everyday, but he hunted three people down and murdered them in cold blood. Well, his dignity would now rot in prison faster than the corpses of those he'd gunned down. People were despicable.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a grinding sound on his left; shoes on concrete. Time was up; he needed to act now, with or without John. Keeping his eyes locked to his left Sherlock reached into his waistband and pulled out his 9mm handgun. With silence and precision he turned the safety off and readied the weapon for firing.

"I know you're here!" Sherlock shouted in an attempt to draw his adversary out from his hiding place.

Silence. This was getting boring. With practiced stealth, Sherlock began stalking to the pillars against the far left wall. He needed to put an end to this; it had gone on for long enough already, it wasn't fun anymore. Where was John? It didn't take this long to make a phone call. He kept his steps light and quiet, peering around the parked cars, hunting for his prey.

The silence was deafening, it clogged his senses and clouded his mind. Where was John? The question kept repeating in his head. As the silence weighed on, he felt himself begging for the sound of John's footsteps to resonate through the cement walls. Nothing. He continued his search down the left wall, sneaking glances in every hiding place, each one of them empty. When he'd reached the end of the wall with still not so much as a tiptoe from John or Curtis, Sherlock felt his cheeks grow hot in frustration. This was not going as it was supposed to. He should be home in his pajamas studying his newly acquired bacteria specimens under the microscope, not here searching for an inferiorly intelligent murdering idiot.

Preparing himself to start back at square one and return to guarding the elevator and stairwell, Sherlock turned on his heels. Though instead of the empty stone walkway, a pale main with bright, blonde hair greeted him.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the man hissed before landing a crippling blow to Sherlock's midsection, forcing him to drop his gun and keel over in an attempt to catch his breath, "I was wondering how long it would take you to figure out the little mystery."

Sherlock glared through his eyebrows at Curtis Hamurlund as he gasped for air, his chest burning with each intake of oxygen. The pulsing ache in his abdomen ruined his attempts at righting himself, even the slightest movement turned the ache to a sharp, stinging stab. His thoughts traveled to John, he didn't see him so that must mean he was safe. Still on the phone with Lestrade perhaps, or maybe waiting for him to arrive down on the ground level. Sherlock was completely alone, his weapon on the ground, nowhere in sight and a murdering lunatic standing victoriously above him. He darted his eyes back and forth, searching for his gun, it must have fallen underneath a car.

"Looking for this?" Curtis snarled, dangling Sherlock's discarded pistol in front of his eyes.

Sherlock let out a defeated sigh before the butt of his gun came crashing into his temple. He groaned as the pain seared through his entire head, the blow throwing him to his hands and knees. His blood dripped from his wound onto the pavement inches from his face, staining the porous grey crimson red. He felt the warm, wet trails it made along the side of his face and down his nose. A mix of salt and metal stung his nostrils and filled his mouth as he gasped for air. His vision was blurry as he tried to regain control of his senses, but his attempts were quickly cut short when a foot landed another deadly blow to his rib cage, causing him to fall on his side. He cradled his arms around his throbbing midsection as the pavement brutally grinded against his seeping gash. He heard the maniacal laughter of Curtis, but nothing else. John, where are you? John. John! JOHN!

Sherlock's pitiful attempts at screaming his companions name came out as inaudible mumbles, earning him more condescending laugher from Curtis Hamurlund. He would not let it end this way; this man would not get the best of Sherlock Holmes. He would not be defeated curled in a ball on the ground. With a roaring groan Sherlock pushed himself up onto unsteady feet, he swayed from side to side and back and forth as he tried to regain his footing, tried to ready himself to fight. His eyes refused to focus, his left shrouded in a hue of blurry red.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Sherlock asked in a patronizing tone, raising his limp arms up from his sides.

Gunshots echoed through the dark, cement walls, the crack of gunpowder haunting with a tragic finality.

Everleigh watched the minutes tick by on her leather strapped wristwatch; just ten more minutes, then she could go and enjoy two days off. It seemed that with every passing hour only five minutes was taken off the clock. All the patients were cared for and waiting for test results, charting was done, she'd even cleaned the entire break room and locker room to help pass the time, but still it dragged on at an agonizing pace. Her mind floated to music for the first time in a long while. She heard the notes of her unfinished piece chiming in her head, so peaceful and soothing. Just as the melody came to her favorite part, an abrupt vibrating in her pants pocket shook her from her trance. Unknown number.

She'd been getting more and more calls from unknown numbers, never a message and always more than one call after another no matter how many times she ignored it. A creeping unease set in whenever those words greeted her, something was not right. She hit ignore, but before she could even get the phone back into her pocket it went off again. Unknown number. It had gotten to the point where she had considered calling someone about it, the police, the phone company, anyone that could give her answers, but instead chose to suffer in silence. It had worked for so many years, why would it backfire now?

Finally, the clock read 7:00 PM and Everleigh felt the life return to her once more. She bade goodbye to the shift relieving her and walked beside Sam on the way out.

"Any plans for the weekend?" he asked her, shoving his hands in his pockets as the cold October air hit them.

"Nothing. Maybe play the piano, read a book, I don't know," Everleigh replied, watching her breath cloud out in front of her, "How about you?"

"Just, reading lines."

"Ah, well, if you need any help you have my number."

"Yeah, thanks."

Ev smiled as Sam broke off and headed to the covered bus stop she'd been in earlier with Sherlock. A smile crept onto her lips as she remembered the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the way his baritone voice seemed to rattle her very soul. And she'd given him the last of her cigarettes. She blew her breath out in a huff at the realization she needed to go to the market to get more, this day was just never-ending. She reached her hand into the pocket of her coat, only to find it empty. She dug through both coat pockets and her bag, coming up empty handed. With an exasperated sigh the realization hit her, her car keys were sitting on the bench in the employee locker room, she remembered taking them out of her pocket just moments before leaving, and even remembered the mental note she had made herself to not forget them. Good job, Ev, she thought to herself as she turned around and made the chilling walk back into the hospital.

Everleigh muttered under her breath as she trudged her way through the puddles from the rain earlier in the day, water splashing up the back of her legs. As she got closer, three police cars and an ambulance came to a screeching halt at the entrance to the ER, men yelling and the night crew rushing out into the cold with stretchers. Her interest now peaked, Ev jogged back to the building and into the growing crowd.

The first thing she saw was a man being pulled out of the back of ambulance, a sheet over his head, blood seeping through the sheet in his abdomen area. Second, John Watson was standing near a police car, talking to a 30 or so year old female dressed in a pants suit, a detective if Ev had to guess. And third, an older man, around 40, with grey hair was arguing with a tall, curly haired figure shrouded in a long black coat. Sherlock. He wasn't facing her, but he looked to be unsteady on his feet, holding on to the rear of the police vehicle he stood adjacent to. Ev made the quick decision to check on Sherlock before going to talk to John, she didn't like the way he swayed or how his shoulders seemed more slouched than normal.

"I don't need a doctor! I'm not going in there," she heard Sherlock shouting.

"Sherlock! You're bleeding from your head, that needs stitches!" the older man he was with preached as if he were talking to his son, fingers pointing and everything.

"What's going on? Sherlock are you all right? Oh good God!" Everleigh yelled as soon as she was within earshot of the two men, grimacing when Sherlock turned to face her.

He had a three-inch gash going from his temple to over his left eye, which was practically swollen shut, a purple bruise triumphing over the pale white of his skin. He hunched over slightly, his right hand holding the left side of his ribcage as his breaths came in short gasps. He looked awful.

"What happened to you?" she asked, placing a hand gently on his left cheek and turning his face to better inspect his wound.

When her skin met his, he inhaled sharply, it was impossible to tell if it was from the pain, or shock that she had so freely gone and touched him. He stared at her through bewildered eyes, his whole body tensing. Her hand was cold from being outdoors in the autumn night, soothing his throbbing cheek, her touch gentle and soft. Her face was filled with concern, her brows furrowed until they almost met in the middle, her mouth down turned and her teeth clenched. Just as it had when she'd grabbed his arm, his mind went quiet. No longer did he hear his own berating about everything that had gone wrong that evening, or Lestrade's ridiculous pleas for him to check into the Emergency Room, or John's scolding about going after the murderer alone, it was quiet. Her fingertips grazed lightly as she pulled her hand away, leaving little trails of warmth in their place. For a split second Sherlock swore he felt, longing? No, that was impossible.

"You need stitches," she told him, "Come inside and I'll do it quickly for you."

"Told you!" Lestrade yelled back with a smile as Sherlock regrettably followed Everleigh into the hospital.

They reached a small exam room at the rear of the department and Everleigh dug around in the drawers searching for a suture kit as Sherlock sat atop the paper covered table. He'd always loathed hospitals, being a patient in one anyways. The white was off putting, couldn't they paint the walls something less, obnoxious? It almost burned his eyes looking at the walls in the industrial lighting shining from above his head. His feet hung off the end table, swinging absentmindedly like a child would, causing Ev to smile as she prepared a tray to do her work with.

"So, what happened?" she asked him as she donned gloves and turned to face her very impatient patient.

"I caught a murderer," he stated, bored of her questioning already.

"Oh? The one from a week ago?"

"Yes."

"I see he did quite a number on you. How'd you end up beating him in the end?"

"John shot him through the heart."

"Oh."

He looked at her through the corner of his eye, smirking at her apparent discomfort from his answer as she wiped his cut with iodine. He spoke nothing but the truth. After he'd mustered all his strength to stand on his feet, taunting the killer to finish what he'd started, Sherlock heard gunshots fire through the garage. He'd expected to feel an immense amount of pain shoot through his stomach and chest, but instead watched as his assailant fell to the ground in a bloody heap, revealing the 'heroic John Watson' to be standing behind him, smoke still billowing from the tip of his gun.

"All right, going to numb you up, this may pinch a bit," she warned as she prepped the lidocaine in its syringe, flicking the top with her forefinger, "Why do you do it?"

"Do wha-ahh what?" he asked, stuttering his word as she pricked the needle into his already sore skin.

"Hunt down criminals, put yourself in danger like this."

"Because I'm the only one who can."

"Perhaps but, you could do so many other things with your skills and intellect, yet you choose to help people with your talents. That's very admirable in my opinion."

She gave him a small smile as she placed the syringe down and grabbed the suture needle. Admirable. That wasn't something he'd ever been called before. It was usually show off, arrogant, rude, bastard. Never had he been called admirable before. He caught himself smirking, the right side of his face lifted into a happy little smile. Before he could correct it, she'd caught sight and her smile grew until it touched her eyes. Her whole face lit up, her white teeth shined in the light, her eyes sparkled and her laugh lines broke free from below the layer of frost that encased them. It was hard not to smile along with her, but he managed to bring back his mask of apathy.

"I enjoy solving cases," he finally answered, trying his best to sound convincing.

She didn't believe him, but went along with his ploy, not wanting to make him more uncomfortable. She threaded the first line of string through his skin, carefully ensuring the skins placement to avoid causing a terrible scar. Sherlock's eyes fell as she worked slowly, his fingers jittering and his feet swinging in embarrassment. She knew there was so much more to Sherlock Holmes than she thought anyone knew. She kept her fingers light as she held his head in place, his dark curls brushing the side of her finger as she mended his broken skin, catching a glimpse of the broken man beneath the surface.

"Why do you do what you do?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"I want to help people. I always said I wanted to make a difference in one person's life," she answered, frowning at her words.

"Have you?"

"No."

"Being a doctor not filling your philanthropic needs?"

"I suppose not. Not yet at least."

A deep sadness settled into her heart, that gnawing, scathing feeling that she didn't matter, and never would. It was a selfish reason to be doing her profession, she knew that, but it drove her to succeed like nothing else ever would. She liked helping people, mending the wounded, healing the sick, but deep down she knew the root of her motivation; the undying need for admiration. She longed to be loved, be a beacon of light when the darkness surrounded someone; she just wanted to matter. She wanted to be the one someone told stories about, how she'd changed their life, made them a better person, saved them from the impending abyss, but the longer time went on, the farther into her own darkening prison she fell. She began to realize that perhaps first, she needed to be saved.

"All right, you're all done," Ev spoke quietly as she placed the gauze over Sherlock's newly acquired eight stitches.

She placed a reassuring hand on his cheek, letting it linger for a moment. His eyes closed as her warm hand held steady on his face, where had this kind of nurturing been his entire life? He'd hurt himself so many times as a child, yet today, at the age of 31, was the first time anyone had laid a reassuring hand on him. A hand to let him know they were there, that they cared. He swallowed hard before standing up, breaking the contact between them, banishing the corrupting thoughts from his mind. She didn't care, not about him anyways. This was her job and he had his, which was what his mind needed to focus on. Only now, he'd solved his case, leaving him prey to the stalking demons that took advantage of every break, every moment of sanctuary silence. There would be more work; no doubt he'd have an inbox full of work sitting on his desk at home. Oh, and yes, his new bacteria! Oh it was going to be a good night.

"Thank you," he said, nodding his head to her.

"You're welcome," she whispered back, the sadness setting back into her eyes.

With one last empathetic look at her, he opened the door to the exam room and left, not looking back, erasing the past thirty minutes from his mind completely.

A/N: This one was hard! Not sure why, but I hope you guys like it. Thank you to Cassie, Breathewithme, and Gilgal185 for your kind words! You have no idea how much they mean to me!

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