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All told, the case had lasted for five days, three hours, and fourteen minutes. Five days, three hours, and fourteen minutes of missed meals and no sleep, John thought, all for Sherlock to realize too late that the maid had been a red herring and the victim hadn’t, in fact, been taken from London. By the time he puts two and two together and they arrive at the crime scene, Peter McBeath has already killed his ex-girlfriend (the daughter of their client) and himself.
This doesn’t stop John from throwing off his coat and running to the victim’s side, from pressing his hands against the wound in her side and trying to find a pulse.
“We’re too late, John. There’s nothing you can do,” Sherlock grits out between clenched teeth, fisting his hands.
John looks down at the body, at the pallor of her skin and notes how she has long since stopped bleeding, and pulls his hands away.
“Damn it!” He yells, “an hour earlier, maybe less, and we could’ve stopped this!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Sherlock shouts, turning to face John, “Don’t you think I’ve realized that if I hadn’t messed up, if I had just been a bit quicker, she would still be alive?”
John is shocked into silence by the pain-stricken expression maring Sherlock’s usually controlled face.
“Let Lestrade and the idiots on forensics handle this. I’m going home,” Sherlock says, aiming for an air of indifference, but falling spectacularly short. He turns his back to John and strides quickly out of the warehouse. John follows behind him, running into Lestrade on his way out.
“He looked unhappy,” Lestrade says, glancing back at Sherlock, “he knows there’s nothing he could have done, right? This case had the rest of us stumped from day one.”
“He expects more of himself. Not used to being “beaten,” you know?” John takes a step forward, hoping to follow Sherlock back to the main road, but Lestrade grabs his arm, stopping him.
“Hey, mate, maybe you ought to wash that blood off your hands before you go any farther?” Lestrade says, gesturing to John’s hands.
“Right, of course. Thanks,” John answers, going off in the direction of the flashing lights and ambulances.
In the time it’s taken him to get cleaned up, Sherlock has smoked three cigarettes and is working on a fourth from his spot on the pavement.
“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” John says quietly, taking Sherlock’s hand and pulling him up to stand on the sidewalk.
“I wasn’t sure how long you were going to be, so I decided I would just wait here. And I had some cigarettes still in my pocket, so…” He looks down at his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Come on, let’s get home,” John says, coaxing Sherlock to a nearby cab. John tells the cabbie their address and then gets settled in the back seat. The first few minutes of the ride pass in silence, John looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock resting his head on the window.
“Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock turns slowly from his position pressed up against the car door.
“There was nothing more you could have done. You know that, right?” Sherlock sighs heavily, and looks away from John.
“John, as usual, you have completely misunderstood the situation. It was me who missed those clues in the house, me who fell for the maid’s story, and me who didn’t realize that she was still in London until it was too late. Taking all of that into consideration, I would have to say that yes, I could have done a great deal more to stop this from happening.” Sherlock turned and rested his head against the window again, closing his eyes.
“You are human. You’re allowed to make mistakes sometimes, just like everybody else,” John says, easing Sherlock’s hand out of his coat pocket and intertwining their fingers.
“What about when those mistakes cost someone their life?” Sherlock asks quietly, his eyes bright with tears, “is it still okay then?”
John runs his thumb in gentle circles around Sherlock’s hand, and then pulls it up to press it against his lips.
“You did your best, Sherlock, and that’s all anybody has a right to expect. You’ve saved so many more lives than you’ve lost, and there are some things that are out of your control.”
Sherlock shifts from his position against the door and rests his head against John’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into the cloth of John’s coat, squeezing his hand tighter and passing the rest of the ride in silence.