Chapter Text
“You were going to take that damn pill weren’t you?”
“Of course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up”
“No you didn’t. That’s how you get your kicks isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”
“Why would I do that?”
Death by murder by suicide, a pretty clever way to die. Un-blameable had it have been unsuccessful. It would have been his prefect opportunity, Lestrade would have easily been able to have caught the cabbie, Rob or whatever his name was, without him. But then John had saved him, he clearly had poor judgement, or was simply ignorant of what Sherlock really was. A murderer. Because that’s what he truly, wasn’t he. The pink journalist would have been alive if he had caught him sooner, she had been at that press conference Lestrade had held, the one where Sherlock had been busy messing about with the phones. He could have saved her.
He slammed his balled up fists into his head, then left his hands in the nest of his mussed up hair, groping his scalp.
“Sherlock!” John’s voice radiated through from the living room, bringing a single ray of light into Sherlock’s otherwise darkened world.
‘He’s probably going to leave you’ hissed the voice at the back of his head ‘He probably saw the toes in the fridge, what kind of freak has toes in the fridge’
“It’s for an experiment” He muttered back.
Heaving himself off of his bed, he traipsed through to no doubt be told by John that he’d seen sense and was leaving. He was certain that the distance between his room and the rest of the flat had somehow stretched itself. He did a double take when he saw that John in the kitchen plating up two sandwiches.
“W-what’s this?” He questioned, perhaps John was simply planning on poisoning him. He wouldn’t blame him, in fact if anything he might thank him. Sure his parents might be upset slightly, but then they’d go back to their tap dancing or whatever it was that they did now a days, and Mycroft would probably rejoice and it’d save the government a lot of money on Mycroft’s monitoring of him, in case he fall back into what he would deem unsuitable habits.
“Sherlock?” John was staring at him intently, and speaking to him in the way in which one would speak to a wounded animal. Concern he noted absent mindedly, perhaps he wasn’t trying to poison him then.
“Hmm?”
“I said I made you some lunch… It’s just you didn’t really eat yesterday, or the day before...” he tailed off.
“I don’t eat when I’m on a case”
“But you’re not on a case, unless you’ve taken one that involves you spending about a week alone in your bedroom , barely eating or talking , and not even taking your laptop or phone in there with you…” He nodded his head towards the table in the living room where both lay.
‘Wow, that was really clever of you Sherlock, genius truly. Even Anderson could come up with something better than that’
He clenched his eyes shut in order to no retaliate, the whole having an argument with yourself thing , Sherlock decided, probably was enough to turn even the brilliant John Watson running for the hills.
“So chicken okay for you?”
He yielded and plunked himself down, picking up the sandwich and examining it with distaste.
“Sherlock… Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, absolutely fine.” he snapped, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m composing and simply can’t be disturbed’ and hastily retreated to his room, abandoning his sandwich uneaten.
John searched the living room in hope of finding his laptop to search for a job. As fun as it was to prove a point with Sherlock, that wouldn’t get the rent paid. He sighed and laid his hands upon his hips, gazing around the room in hope of carelessly finding it, his eyes came to rest upon Sherlock’s violin upon its stand.
‘It’s a drugs bust!’
‘This guy a junkie?!’
‘You may want to shut up now’
Memories from the night Sherlock had almost been killed by the cabbie Jeff Hope, came flooding back to John. He collected his jacket and phone and left the flat.
Sherlock heard the flat door slam closed, ‘He’s probably left you this time’ the voice jeered. Sherlock propelled into action, scouring every inch of his room for evidence of Mycroft’s pathological need to interfere in Sherlock’s life. When he found no bugs, he flung open his wardrobe and retrieved a small, heavy dark wooden box. The hinge of the lid opened easily due to its frequent use.
‘Use it.’