Chapter Four

It had taken a few days to get used to it. Sherlock would still try to hide anything empath-related from John before remembering that he knew. John would look forward to Mrs. Hudson's visits, watching Sherlock the whole time to see their landlady's jubilant attitude rubbing off on him.

There was even a visit from Mycroft, mostly trying to threaten John about what would happen if he told anyone about Sherlock. Not that it worked; Mycroft had stopped unnerving John about ten seconds after he had first met him.

But the verbal sparring match was interesting to watch. The more Mycroft pressed Sherlock, the more Sherlock pressed back. It made John wonder: if Sherlock hadn't been born with this empath gift, would he just be a mild-mannered member of society?

That was also the day the two of them had come up with a signal for the both of them. Any time Sherlock felt the emotions becoming too much, or if John sensed that Sherlock needed a break, then one of them would quietly clear their throat and then scratch at the front of their shirt right over their heart. Sherlock had thought it a bit cliché, but hadn't been able to come up with anything better or more subtle. So, the signal had stuck.

They had practiced this unloading of emotions a couple times in the privacy of Baker Street so that the first time in public wouldn't raise any eyebrows. After all, how would that look if John suddenly staggered under the weight of Sherlock's gift? This was meant to be inconspicuous.

And now, they were headed to their first crime scene after coming clean to each other.

Sherlock and John walked into the crime scene, approaching the group of officers gathered in the middle of the room. One of them turned around, and John almost rolled his eyes.

"Ah, freak's here," said Donovan, crossing her arms as she faced them.

John practically felt Sherlock's minute shudder next to him.

Anderson turned around and glared at Sherlock. "We've already solved it. We don't need you."

"Lestrade's text would seem to disagree," said Sherlock, striding right through the officers to investigate what they were standing around.

A few of the other officers—the ones that actually respected the detective—eased back to give him room. Sherlock knelt down over whatever was on the floor, and John eased around to the other side to have a look. It was a bloody shirt with several jagged slices in it. Sherlock had his magnifying glass out and was looking at the bloody holes.

The sound of crying came to them, and John glanced up to see that a woman was sitting in the corner, being consoled by an officer as she cried.

John eased over to Lestrade. "Who is she?"

"The wife," said Lestrade. "She found the shirt and hasn't been able to locate her husband."

John looked down at Sherlock, who was frowning at the body. John stepped closer and knelt down across from him. "What is it?"

Sherlock glanced up at him and then over at the wife before looking back at John, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. "There's nothing."

"Sorry?" asked John quietly.

"There's nothing there," Sherlock told him. "I don't feel her sorrow."

"What does that mean?" asked John.

"She isn't sad," Sherlock told him, a smirk appearing on his face. "She's…satisfied. Happy, almost."

"So, she did this?" asked John.

"Definitely," said Sherlock.

"How are you going to prove it to them?" asked John.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Give me some credit, John." He abruptly stood and faced Lestrade. "The wife killed him."

"What?" asked Lestrade as the wife shot her gaze over to Sherlock.

"The cuts in the shirt were made by a single-bladed mezzaluna," Sherlock told them. "It's a unique kitchen utensil, used to chop herbs and usually only owned by professional chefs. Considering the wife's predilection for cooking, she would most likely own one of these knives."

"And how did you come up with that one?" asked Anderson in annoyance.

"The length of the lacerations," Sherlock told them, gesturing to the bloody shirt. "That, and the fact that the spread of blood around the middle of the cuts is wider than at the ends. This speaks of the shape of the knife: the center is deeper than the sides, suggesting that it is a curved blade."

"And why would it be the wife?" asked Donovan in irritation. "Someone could have broken in and grabbed it."

"Then why is there blood on the proximal interphalangeal joint on the little finger of her right hand?" Sherlock pointed out.

Everyone looked round to the wife as she attempted to hide her hand behind her back. The officer next to her forced her hand out of hiding, showing them the blood on the outside of her little finger near the first finger joint.

"The two handles of the mezzaluna would have placed the ulnar side of the hand against the body, thus coating that side in blood," said Sherlock.

Donovan shook her head as an officer hauled the wife to her feet and cuffed her. "Oh, yeah? If the wife killed him, where's the body?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned away from the infuriating sergeant.

"Anyone could have done this," said Anderson. "Just because she has some blood on her hands? She's the one who found the shirt!"

Sherlock's jaw clenched at the anger and disgust he was getting from the two Yarders. Why couldn't they just leave him be for once?

"Ahem."

Sherlock's eyes jerked up towards John, who was rubbing absentmindedly at the front of his shirt. John's eyes caught his for a brief moment before glancing away again. Sherlock inhaled and then exhaled, calming himself as he focused. He gave his mind a gentle push, and the excess frustration and irritation vanished. Sherlock, for possibly the first time ever, was able to breathe freely in the presence of Donovan and Anderson.

John, on the other hand, tried to hold in his gasp at the flood of negativity that rushed through him.

"Why are you always so quick to blame the ones closest to the victim?" demanded Donovan.

John's jaw clenched as the anger he was feeling built and built.

"Her husband was just kidnapped, possibly killed," Donovan threw at Sherlock.

The tension was coiling inside him like a snake, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

"Exactly!" said Anderson. "And here you are accusing her of murder! You really are a freak."

John suddenly turned to the two of them, fists clenched in anger. "You know, I am sick and tired of the two of you coming down on him!"

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the shocked looks on everyone's faces, especially Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade.

"Just because he's smarter than you, you have to put him down?" John almost yelled at them, gaze hard and fierce as he advanced. "You are really that jealous?"

Amid her shock, Donovan scoffed indignantly.

"Yeah, I said jealous, and you know you are," John bit off. "Do you have any idea how much damage you really do?"

Sherlock's eyes shot over to John. The emotions were getting to his head, and it was affecting that filter between his brain and his mouth. He had never been exposed to the two officers' feelings before. Perhaps they needed more practice before doing this again.

Sherlock instantly relaxed, letting his gift reemerge within himself. John's tension disappeared in an instant, still upset at Donovan and Anderson but not overly so. Sherlock smirked in delight, as all he felt from the two of them was surprise. It was a nice change of pace.

John cleared his throat and crossed his arms defiantly. "Now, if you don't mind, my colleague would like to finish." He then stepped aside to turn the floor over to Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked as he gave John a grateful look and then looked over at Lestrade. "The husband is buried in the rose garden in the backyard. I won't bore you with the details." He then turned and headed out of the house.

John turned and followed him, not paying the authorities any mind. He caught up to Sherlock, and the two of them headed down the street towards where they could catch a cab.

"Well, that was interesting," said Sherlock with a genuine smile.

"Did I really call them stupid?" said John in disbelief.

"I think you did," smirked Sherlock.

"Think I'll ever be able to show my face again?" asked John with a slight smile himself.

"Why not?" said Sherlock. "It wasn't that far-fetched that you would defend a friend."

"But I did yell at a police official," John pointed out.

"I think their boss will pardon you," said Sherlock.

"I think we need more practice," said John.

"My thoughts exactly," said Sherlock, smiling over at John. "Thank you, by the way. That was a relief."

"No problem," said John. "I think they needed a good talking to anyway."

"Doubt it'll do any good," muttered Sherlock.

John shrugged. "You never know."

Sherlock glanced over at John before shoving his hands into his coat's pockets. "Thai?"

"Perfect," John replied.

"My treat," said Sherlock.

John scoffed. "Yeah, it's always a treat when the owner owes you."

"Not this time," Sherlock told him. "It's a new place. Haven't met the owner."

John raised his brows as he looked over at Sherlock. "Well, then, lead the way."

The two friends continued down the streets of London, John eagerly listening to Sherlock's deductions of the people around them based solely on the emotions he was picking up. Sure, they would need more practice before trying anything like that again, but it was a nice feeling knowing that they could rely on each other to do so.

The end!