A/N: Sorry for the delay. I had my birthday and all to deal with so I didn't have to time. I saw the new Star Wars and it was freaking amazing!

Also, I've been working on the one shot I mentioned. I am nearing the end but if I finish all my homework tomorrow as I plan I should be able to finish it while I babysit.

So there's that.

Working on the next chapter for this fanfiction, by the way. About time, I do anyways.

Enjoy.

PS: This is one of many future installments of actual Sherlock Holmes stories being translated into my AU. I enjoy the books as much as BBC so expect them every so often. If anyone can guess which one this is, kudos to them. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock

Paint It Black

Chapter 20 – Tinct

John POV

A few hours later the two of us managed to get out of the god-forsaken laboratories and slowly made our way over to fetch a cab. The driver was more than surprised to see two bloodied men – although the blood on me was Sherlock's and not my own – and didn't hesitate a moment to take us to the nearest hospital. Luckily, and unluckily, this was the same hospital that Mary happened to be working shifts at on the time of our arrival.

I had never gotten a parent scolding as a child. I was a fairly good, obedient son and, for the most part, any trouble I got into was due to Harry trying to "man" me up. She always thought I was "too much of a sissy" and, me being the younger, I would do anything to not be called the sister from her.

But if I got in trouble it was mostly her who got scolded and not myself. My parents weren't blind and knew when I was in the wrong or when it was, in fact, Harry who told me to kick the football at the elderly couple's window to test if I was too chicken or not.

So to say that Mary's scarily calm lectures about my sanity and will to live was "downright mental" scared the hell out of me was nothing short of the cold truth. I could take it if she was screeching her lungs out or yelling, but it was when she closed herself off that I knew I was in trouble. It was utterly terrifying, army captain or not.

Sherlock, of course, took it with ease. He didn't seem bothered by it at all which I despised and admired him for because he was getting the brunt of the scolding for apparently tainting me.

I was wondering if I should stop her before she had an aneurysm or worse.

It got to the point that Sarah was called in and pulled her out before apologizing and checking me over. Afterward, I requested my own medical kit and professionally fixed Sherlock's sutures as well as managed to persuade him into a CT scan. I didn't think that would have been possible.

Luckily, it seemed he was perfectly fine and with a brief fix from Sarah to help align Sherlock's broken nose, we were patched up more or less.

And then we went home.

That's where we were a week later. Sherlock was testing the serum – again – and his mutterings of specifics and doses being "right" and "incredibly absurd" kept circling the flat. Considering the fact that he had done this the entire time since we had gotten home, I was used to it and ignored the mantra in favor of working on the same drawing from a week ago. The box had been moved by Mrs. Hudson when she cleaned in our absence, but I had the image in my head.

It was the event. The color that allowed me to remember it and the sparse sentimentality of the detective at the time that I found incredibly unfounded and rare.

I didn't mention the moment to him, the color, and he didn't either. It was territory we both didn't favor in testing.

Hatching penciled lines across the parchment, I glanced up at Sherlock as he concluded loudly that "Nothing at all was peculiar in the mix once again" with his classic tone of irritation and disbelief.

I, on the other hand, was not nearly as annoyed by this result.

The man who kidnapped me was a scientist so the odds that his serum – a serum he had perfected over several months – would be noticed through a microscope and with several other chemical variations seemed incredibly unlikely. He created most of the agencies I fought against in Afghanistan and he was one of the only pliable color scientists. That being said, he was incredibly smart. Now, I wasn't sure if he was smarter than Sherlock, but he was definitely intelligent on a higher plane than myself.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't going to accept this. He was the "world's only consulting detective" and thus he should automatically figure everything out. If he couldn't find something soon, he was going to go mad – and it was already questionable if he was with those around him. They don't need the driving incentive, not that he would care anyhow.

My lips curved up as Sherlock stomped his foot like a child and once again threw away his mixture of "whatever x the black chemical" into the sink. Luckily, the beaker didn't shatter this time. I more or less lost count of how many glass flasks, beakers, or otherwise that he had broken over the week. Still, I was more worried that Mrs. Hudson was seeing dust sprinkle from the ceiling with all the racket or perhaps the pipes rusting than I was with Sherlock's tantrums. Not out of disregard but of habit.

It came in stages. First there were the exclamations:

"This is absurd. There should be something in your blood but no matter how many times I compare the serum to your sample it is not at all alike."

Then the false giving up:

Sherlock turned off the Bunsen burner and grabbed all his dirty experimental containers and through them in the sink. Staring at the mess like it had somehow offended him, he placed one hand on the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

Lastly, it was the sudden spur of inspiration that got him into performing more experiments. This made the cycle start all over again.

"Perhaps if I mix the sample with Hydrogen Peroxide. The chemical rebound may cause the alterations to appear or even separate considering the obvious inflation that is when blood is mixed in."

Shaking my head to myself, I tilted my pencil sideways and began shading in some of the hatched lines. Absently, I awaited Sherlock to grab some sort of glassware that would be abused with his experiments. The clinking of glass hitting glass and a small pop and hiss to signify him turning on the Bunsen burner. Or even some sort of aroma or sound to hint his new experiment.

However, it seemed he was done for the day. Again, something that wasn't entirely new. The consistent "unfathomable results" always tended to wear him out sooner or later.

Now, he was going to probably sit somewhere in a close proximity of myself and then rant and repeat his conclusion which was going to be the same as every other result from this past week.

Nothing. Unaltered. Changes or the lack thereof.

So, no, I wasn't surprised when a moment later Sherlock crashed against the sofa. God only knew that with his reacquired injuries that should be the last thing he should be doing but it was clear he wasn't going to listen to it. Mr. I-want-my-stitches-out-as-soon-as-possible squabbling about the restriction even though it was clear he wasn't acting on the claim.

"I tested your blood," he began and leaned against my shoulder. I glanced at him with a raised brow but said nothing as I went back to my sketch.

"And? Did you find anything?"

Sherlock groaned and crossed his arms over his chest. "It was what I didn't find. There is nothing wrong with your blood, John. Absolutely nothing. If the serum did anything to your anatomy, cellular or otherwise, it is not showing in your blood."

Nodding, I started to lightly shade the shadows of the corner to my imaginary box. "Are you going to want a stool sample next? Or will I have to give you a part of my bone marrow?"

"Don't mock me," he spat out, tensing like a cat before relaxing reluctantly. "No. I doubt I will find anything in those as well. The scientist seemed to have manipulated the structure of the serum to make it nearly undetectable until it was active from what I have gathered."

"So you're saying that this is probably inactive in my body?"

"That's the only plausible conclusion. Yes."

Those words didn't help the anticipation I was feeling, but it did settle some of the uneasy tension. If Sherlock didn't find anything, then that means that nothing was currently happening. Right now, there was nothing to say and nothing to be worried about. Out of sight and therefore out of mind.

"Then, I suppose we don't worry about it, yeah?"

Sherlock stared at me for a long moment. I wasn't meeting his eyes and refused to see what would be there if anything was going to be there.

All this week he had acted completely different compared to his usual antics. Staring at me as if I was supposed to get something. Pointless little touches or questions pertaining to my health. A few times I swear I caught him actually trying to appear pleasant which was a tad frightening. It was like having one of those stone statues staring ominously at you in hopes to relay a message, or maybe even a weeping angel in Doctor Who.

I was used to annoying Sherlock. The Sherlock that complained to me on the operating table and refused any sedatives. The Sherlock that made me join him on a case almost immediately after I met him at our new flat. That Sherlock I knew like the back of my hand.

This… was different. I was a little worried if he was getting sick. God only knows how often he ate or slept in the past week alone, not to mention ever.

I kept avoiding his prodding stare until the moment Lestrade came unceremoniously through the doors without a knock or greeting to mark his entrance. A case file were cradled in his hands with worse handwriting than my own when I'm supposed to be printing my name legibly.

At the same time, I gave up on my drawing, deciding it wasn't nearly as good as before. Ripping the paper, I tossed it into the waste bin and turned to stare at the breathless inspector and not at the disconcerted man next to me.

I mean, I was already having issues telling people that the two of us were not a romantic relationship. We were purely friendship in our soul mating. Apparently, that was harder to believe than the fact that Sherlock actually had pleasant moments upon occasion.

But it seemed that Lestrade didn't necessarily see or care for he completely ignored the borderline amiable stare Sherlock had.

"Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade," I greeted in hopes that Sherlock would look away – and that he gratefully did. Eyes glittering like a child on Christmas morning with hopes of getting the one gift he always asks for, his thoughts almost did an entire one-eighty. It was so… Sherlock that all I could do was roll my eyes.

"John," the inspector nodded in my direction before returning to his professional posture. "Sherlock. I have a case."

"Well, obviously." Sherlock shook his head in disbelief as he chided the inspector and I could see the inspector's smile fight to surface under the serious façade he created. "I hope it's worth it. Since you didn't text me the details, I assume it is either off the record or too perplexing to actually type out."

"They are always worth it, Sherlock. Just not to you. Also, you are also right, annoyingly so. This case is to remain off the record until completion." Lestrade took a deep breath before opening the file and reading off of it like so:

"Recently, there have been multiple cases that seem to roll back all the way to 1869 and have continued with each descendant of the beginning victim. The first was Elias Openshaw who was recorded to receive a letter with five orange pips enclosed within it. Not soon after he was found dead in a garden pool. The next was Joseph Openshaw who also receives the very same letter and then dies as well, in a chalk-pit. As you can see, this case has been going on for one and a half centuries. For fifty of those years, the murders went mute, for reasons unexplained."

Sherlock looked intrigued. He looked so in-depth that he could barely contain the bouncing of his fingers across his knee. I leaned back against the couch as I watched his anticipation roll off in thick waves. I knew most of it went with the order of the case and the incredulity of it all, but I also knew that Sherlock thought it was one of Moriarty's cases. It was hard to deny or agree with the assumption.

At this point, I was trying to keep from being anxious myself. The stupid detective was practically infectious.

"And I presume they have started again? This is a lot of research, Lestrade. Even for you or the Yard."

"Exactly. Back then it was dubbed the "Five Orange Pip Murder."" I glanced up and rose my brow inquiring at the detective.

"The Five Orange Pip Murder?" It was an incredibly ridiculous name for an equally ridiculous case but still.

Lestrade nodded grimly. "It's not as amusing as it may seem, doctor. Actually, considering the ridiculousness…"

"Ridiculous for the yard you mean," Sherlock interjected.

"…I cannot breach this to the board. However, I recommended this young man to see you, Sherlock." Lestrade closed the file and handed it to Sherlock. Almost immediately, the detective began to go through the files, scanning them as quickly as he flipped the pages. "Will you have him?"

"Depends on what kind of case he brings."

Lestrade let out a sigh before moving aside. Behind him was an antsy young man who seemed to look at every nook and cranny like eying a potentially lunging lion. Even at his young age, gray hairs were beginning to peak through from the pure stress of whatever case he planned to tell us today. Hands increasingly shaky at his sides and continuously rocking back and forth on his heels, he was the image of paranoid. He was like prey outrunning the predator and certain it was impossible.

"I think I'll hear the man, inspector. You can leave." Sherlock peered curiously at the young man as I had although I was pretty sure he saw more than I could have ever predicted. Little things like what he had for brunch or what his father did for a living. A part of me was absolutely flabbergasted with this idea that he claimed to be "obvious deduction". The other was fascination, as annoying as that was considering what a complete prat the man was.

Standing with only a few aches and pains protesting my movement, I dragged the consulting stool from beside my armchair and placed it directly in front of Sherlock before sitting beside the detective.

Now it was time for the judicially-unaware Sherlock Holmes to either accept or refuse the client. I myself would have taken it regardless of the simplicities, although I was partial to danger and adrenaline when taking my military junkie lifestyle prior to this. Still, listening to the clients weren't always interesting and often held a dull "help me figure out if my wife is cheating on me" or "figure out why my grandfather's investments went to this stranger and not me" note to it.

A few times I did attempt to walk away or do something else while he listened to a client, but I realized too quickly afterward that if I didn't understand what he was talking about it made him especially childish. Repeating how I didn't listen to the case because making tea was obviously more important or even mimicking my responses or questions and not even bothering answering them.

In the long run, it really wasn't worth it so I remained by his side dutifully and curiously.

The man didn't move from his spot in front of the door, even when the inspector closed it upon his leaving. Sherlock didn't seem particularly hasty to assure the man it was okay to sit down without being murdered, so I took to the common courtesy of niceties.

"You can just sit there unless you prefer to stand, whichever works to your liking." The man nodded numbly before sitting on the small stool with his hands on his lap. God it made this feel a lot more like scolding a bloody child than taking a case.

"The case," Sherlock prompted and the man physically jumped in his seat as if he forgot about us.

"Right," he cleared his throat thickly. "Right. My name is John Openshaw. You heard most of my predicament from the inspector so what is there left to say?"

Sherlock's rolled his eyes. "The Yard's version of your case is the condensed story without the gory details I assure you. Since I am a detective, I don't need a version with facts stripped aside that were deemed unworthy and useless. That is for me to decide alone and not some atrocious law enforcement agency."

Blinking, the man nodded again. "Okay. A while back, as in 1869, my ancestor Elias Openshaw came back from his time in the United States. In the States, he was a planter in Florida and served as a Colonel in the Confederate Army due to his beliefs that the coloured iridescence didn't deserve as many rights as the white iridescence. It didn't matter if a white person's soul mate was coloured, he didn't approve of it. Additionally, he also was a strict believer in accepting the motives of the Saturation Sorority and the Faded Resistance, as much of the South believed in compared to the North's default of denying the compromised divisions.

"Little was known what actually happened to him and when he returned to England, he settled in Horsham, West Sussex and never spoke of his time. Every time he was prodded for it, he would ignore it or simply say "it was in the past". He was a very reclusive man with the only company being the nephew, my great-great grandfather. His uncle would never let him enter one specific room containing locked chests pertaining to his time in the States. Considering his mate was found in the states and died there prior to his returning, my grandfather always assumed it was because of his Discoloured nature.

"Time passed by with little to no occurrences until one day when Elias Openshaw received a letter postmarked Pondicherry in India that arrived for him. It was inscribed with "KKK" and only contained five orange pips." The younger Openshaw's voice wavered at the mention of the letter but he cleared his throat and continued. "The letter sent Elias into a frenzy and night after night the smell of burnt paper came from the locked room. A will was even written which was almost as odd as the sudden taking to a drink or shouting forth in a drunken sally with a pistol in his hand. It was almost as if he was expecting death."

"And did he die?" Sherlock asked apathetically to which Mr. Openshaw nodded solemnly.

"Yes. Two months later he was found dead in a garden pool. My great-great father returned to his father, Joseph Openshaw, and, albeit mourning and upset about the sudden decease, went on a good year and a half without any occurrence. On January 4, 1885, Joseph received the very same type of letter except from Dundee. Inside were instructions to leave "the papers" on the sundial. Knowing the letter, my great-great grandfather attempted to urge his father to call the police to no avail."

John licked his lips as a shuddering breath wracked through his body. "Three days later Joseph was found dead in a chalk-pit. He was also Discoloured like Elias so most of the Yard assumed it may have been suicide and not murder as his son thought. As for my great-great grandfather, he remained hidden and as reclusive as his uncle and thus the weird murders stopped."

The man shrugged as Sherlock eyed him with a curious brow. "Basically," he began. "My great-great grandfather assumed that if he remained hidden and associated with society at the minimum, he would not die by the "KKK" and would never receive the letter with the five orange pips."

Sherlock hummed to himself as he mulled over the information. I myself was still reeling in the incredulity of these cases. "I would assume that they have started again if you have come to me, yes?"

"I hear you are the best," Openshaw agreed.

"Don't feed his ego or I would never hear the end of it," I muttered under my breath in which Sherlock sent a glare at my direction.

"It purely depends on the evidence given in accordance to my skills, Mr. Openshaw," Sherlock replied smoothly with a cool smile in the direction of the client. "Speaking of which, do you have any clues that could help the case you present?"

"Ah, yes." Openshaw reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a stale piece of parchment. It seemed to have been taken good care of considering the still legible handwriting. "This was a page from Elias's diary marked 1869. According to what I can assess, it says that orange pips have been sent to three men, two of which fled and the third having been visited."

Taking the piece of paper out of the quivering man's fingertips, Sherlock barely glanced over it before nodding and handing it back. "I'll take your case. Despite the time that has passed, I assume that they will have record of all the letters they have sent. Therefore, I advise that you leave the diary page with a note telling of the destruction of the Colonel's papers on a garden sundial, preferably at the house that he lived at if not the house that I assumed you inherited from your great-great grandfather."

John Openshaw hesitated as he took in Sherlock's advice and I could vaguely understand why. If he was planning to be killed by the same band of killers from nearly a century and a decade ago, it wasn't hard to believe the hesitance of potential death was heart-stopping. He was already paranoid enough as it were.

But then he nodded and left with only the barest tremor on the doorknob marking his fear.

Sherlock hummed to himself and leaned back. Raising a brow, I turned to face the space-y detective.

"Sherlock?"

"It's absolutely enthralling how a group from the 17th century can last this long," he mused to himself before continuing a tad louder. "The KKK is the Ku Klux Klan I'm sure you realized. At the time, it was anti-Reconstruction as well as anti any rights regarding coloured individuals, whether Iridescence or otherwise. They based their stature and motives on the Saturation Sorority mostly from what I have gathered. A hierarchy sort of government in the South."

I knew of the Ku Klux Klan but I knew telling Sherlock that wouldn't stop him from thinking his thoughts out loud. "Yes, but didn't it disband in March 1869?"

"That's exactly what I was thinking," he sent a small smile in my direction. "It's safe to believe this may have been due to the Colonel maliciously taking their papers away to England. It may have been a manifesto for their group and without it they had nothing to go by."

A sigh escaped the detective's lips as a smirk lay heavy to replace the apathetic expression from earlier. "This case. It's one of Moriarty's. It has to be."

I stared at the detective in disbelief. Of all things to be thinking of, he's still mulling over the blasted criminal like an interesting toy. Not of the case in general but of who was running it. This wasn't like Sherlock to immediately jump to the criminal in accusations that were probably well-founded.

"Sherlock," I began as I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You shouldn't be thinking of him but of the case alone. This man is practically the next kill if we don't save him."

Before Sherlock could open his mouth, I continued on. "There is a life at stake, Sherlock. Actual human life – Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

The cold gray eyes that have burned blue into my mind swerved to meet my own. It was hard to find anything in those orbs. They say the eyes are like a window to the soul but if that's the case Sherlock may as well not have one.

"Will caring about them help save them?" he questioned slowly and I shook my head. "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake. Save him, John? I don't take cases to save people. I take cases to cure my boredom and alleviate any sense of satisfaction in my abilities. What personal value comes to the client is not a part of my worries as a detective."

"And you find that easy, do you?" I laughed aloud but it even sounded false to my ears. "Ah. Right. You're a machine."

"Right," he responded softly. "I am a machine. Is that news to you?"

Standing up, I dusted off my trousers and fetched my jumper. "No. No."

It took a long moment before Sherlock even responded to that. In all actuality, I was very surprised that he bothered to at all. "…I've disappointed you."

Fetching my mobile, I turned around to face the perplexed detective. Sarcastically, I sneered back. "That's good. That's a good deduction, yeah."

Sherlock stared at me with the oddest expression before closing off his face and looking away. "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

I scoffed and shook my head and opened my mouth to argue but instead something different came out. "You know what? No. I'm going out. If you need me, text and I'll see if I'm heroic enough to save you from your distress call regarding your boredom."

My feet were two steps out the door when I heard a "John" chase after me.

The soles of my shoes turned on their own but Sherlock wasn't staring at me. He was staring at the skull on his mantle or perhaps the Cluedo board pinned to the wall. I wasn't sure and I didn't care.

"Don't forget the milk."

If my glare had any sort of power or force, Sherlock would be either pinned to a wall of a pile of ash on the floor.

"I won't," I bit back before slamming the door.

And that's how I found myself a half our later at the closest pub with Mary at my side, rubbing my back as I cradled a shot between my fingers I had yet to down. It wasn't because the alcohol wasn't good but the situation entirely.

Primarily, I did not want to become a drunk like most of my family. Secondly, I didn't need to get drunk nor did I even want to. I honestly didn't even know why I had this shot in my hands in the first place.

"I don't know, Mary. I really don't."

Mary rose an inquisitive brow and took a sip of her water. She didn't normally drink and apparently she thought I would need a designated driver with how I appeared when she saw me. Definitely not the "Knight in Shining Armor" sort of look I hoped to have. "You don't know what, John? The soul mate? The flat? The murders?"

I shrugged and then let out an angry sigh. "I just… don't know. He's a brilliant man. He's so extraordinary that I hate him for being as intellectual as he is. It's like he's a drug. Morphine or Dilaudid perhaps. He's addicting and possibly bad for me, but I can't seem to get off. It's ridiculous. He is the most stupidly brilliant man I have ever met."

"Not as ridiculous as the fact that you seem to trust him with your hormonal teenager life," Mary replied nonchalantly before continuing. "So it is the detective that you are going on about. Well, seeing as he didn't physically harm you, I truly have no need to go and kick his arse. I'm all ears for you, though, John."

"First of all," I began. "Yes, it is about Sherlock. Second, I don't need you to kick anybody's arse for me. I'm a fucking captain from the army. I can do whatever the hell I want and make it look good at the very least."

"Yeah, yeah," she dismissed. "It's the alcohol talking. You know that you're really a teddy bear that's as menacing as the fluff inside."

"I haven't even had my first drink!" I protested before adding seriously. "And I can always suffocate someone. A stuffed bear is almost as efficient as a pillow."

"Just drink your shot, John, before it gets warm."

Knocking the shot back, I watched as Mary ordered another one and placed it in front of me.

"You need this."

I shook my head and pushed it away. "No, I really don't need any more than that one. I need to be on my feet for the case."

Mary feigned surprise and let out an obnoxiously loud gasp that made me question if I should glare at her or play along. "Oh? Look at this! John Watson refusing a drink, and from a woman at that. Perhaps this Sherlock is a good influence on you after all!" She snickered and nudged me when I pointedly ignored her. "I think I could learn to love this fellow, John. He has my very important seal of approval."

Rolling my eyes, I concluded that I couldn't remain angry at her. It was practically impossible. She was too happy and bubbly and supportive. Hating or disliking Mary Morstan was like hating rainbows if that was possible.

Actually, I wondered if Sherlock hated rainbows. I already knew his unfounded ignorance to the solar system (Primary stuff!), but what did he feel about common weather phenomena? Knowing Sherlock, he probably did hate them.

The thought of Sherlock sent another wave of anger through my spine. Bitter emotions that tasted of metal and frustration for someone who didn't understand them. Stupid people. Stupid, brilliant detectives and their lack of understanding emotions! Or even the pure value of life

However, I didn't want to rant Mary's ear off about him. I'm sure she was already tired of him considering how many times I have visited the hospital or needed her aid since he and I joined in cahoots.

Instead, I decided to ask one of the main questions that plagued my mind since Sherlock's strange change. "What did you tell him anyways? At the hospital? He won't tell me a damn thing and has been acting differently since."

"Patient confidentiality, John," Mary wagged her finger as she chided, taking the drink I denied and downing it in a go. I could see a pleased little smile waver on her lips and my suspicions were concerned.

"You told him something."

"Well, obviously," she remarked, exasperated. "That's what people do when they ask to talk to someone. They talk. Chat. Converse. Come on, John."

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it."

Pushing the shot glass away, she immediately took a swig from her water. "And what if I did talk to him? It's all confidential and I cannot reveal confidential information."

"He wasn't your patient," I reminded her and she shrugged.

"Yes, but you are, and I'm keeping information confidential from the patient." She stubbornly tilted her head up as I stared in disbelief.

"That's not how it works!"

"Too bad!" she remarked with a smug grin.

Sighing, I smiled at her and pushed her aside playfully. "Why couldn't you have been my mate? It would have been great. I would have been happy with you. I know I would have been." Mary let out a soft sigh and then caught herself. I could feel her gaze swerve to stare at me questioningly.

"Are you saying you're not happy with him?"

"What?" I blinked and thought back to what I said before shaking my head. I suppose I did sound like I wasn't happy but still. "No. No, not at all. It's just…"

I couldn't find the words. They just left me. I wasn't unhappy with Sherlock. God no. I was probably happier than I have been in a long time. Granted I have dealt with my fair share of idiotic moments as well as euphoric, I still didn't exactly hate being around Sherlock. I've been annoyed at him. I've despised him a few times even. But I have never gone as far as to say I was unhappy.

"I know what you mean, John." Mary smiled at me fondly like I was an adorable puppy that she wanted to take in. "You're adorable when you're speechless by the way."

"I am not adorable. Adorable are kittens or perhaps hedgehogs. Maybe either or in a jumper. Not me."

Plucking a piece of my jumper, she stretched it in the hook of her finger and then let it go. "And what do we have here? A hedgehog in a jumper. It seems that you characterized yourself without knowing it."

"Why am I a hedgehog?"

Mary tilted her head as if confused before sighing. "They are exotic creatures for one. That means they are wild and still a little untamed and your adrenaline antics is definitely related to this. Secondly, it takes them a long time to fully trust a person and you cannot deny the fact that you don't trust people, John. If you hadn't known me for as long as you have, I doubt we would be as comfortable as we are now. I'm sure you wouldn't talk to Sarah like you do with me." Tapping a manicured finger against the wooden counters, she continued. "I'm sure there is more, but mostly you are a solitary person. I remember when you said you never wanted to mate and you were fine with that. Hedgehogs are, for your information, very solitary creatures."

Completely proud of herself, Mary nodded her head firmly with a broad grin on her lips. "So, yes. You are a hedgehog. In a jumper. And therefore adorable."

I felt my eye twitch as I looked away from her in what was definitely not denial. She snickered beside me and watched the football game on the telly as I ignored her.

Pushing the empty shot glass from hand to hand, fingers barely touching it as it shuffled to and fro, I glanced out the window at the night. Seeing as it was only a Tuesday, there was no foot traffic at all. The only comfort was the streetlights that gleamed off the musty sidewalks in a warm grey.

I was about to peer back at Mary who was going on and on about something Sarah did when I spotted someone stumbling through the streets. Normally, I might have stared at them questioningly, but upon closer inspection I realized it was Mr. Openshaw. The same man who was supposed to be on the tube home.

He definitely was not where he was supposed to be. Instead, he appeared clammy and pale. He kept looking over his shoulder and around him frantically as if something, or someone, was following him.

"Hey, I'm going to head out." Standing up, I began to leave the counters when Mary's slim fingers wrapped around my wrist.

"John?"

Smiling at her with as much reassurance as I could muster, I prodded off her fingers. "I'll be back. Promise." I let out a breath as she eyed me suspiciously. "If not, I need you here to phone Sherlock." I pressed my mobile into her hand and began to walk away with haste in case I lost the man.

"Where are you –" Mary began but I shook my head.

"I can't, Mary. Half an hour. Give me that much."

Without a second thought of the risks I was taking, I ran out to follow the potential victim with a vain, soldier hope of saving him from the threat that pursued him.