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“Mrs Hudson! We’re going to the crime scene, don’t prepare dinner for us!” John shrugged on his coat, slowly turning his coat collar up against the wind and stepping out into the shining sun as Sherlock stepped out beside him, smiling.
“It is a murder, John! A murder! It has been so long since it came up! Petty thefts were becoming too boring!”
John laughed, seeing Sherlock practically vibrate in his coat. It was nice, seeing him again like usual, after Moriarty was found killed on the rooftop, and Sherlock being in a desolate, depressing mood for about a month or two, refusing to eat or drink anything. Seeing him back to normal, not that it is ever normal with Sherlock, made John smile softly at the mad man that he is so in love with. With Sherlock’s prowess for summoning cabs, they immediately got into one and went to the crime scene.
Greg was standing there, narrowing his eyes and tapping his feet impatiently against the concrete floor. John willed himself not to grin widely as he hugged Sherlock, who blinked, looking blank.
“Thanks for taking this case, mate, really appreciate it… The body is around here…” Greg showed him into the darkened, cordoned off bathroom, where a woman laid in the washtub, drowning in a pool of blood. John internally cringed at the gory sight, the window spattered and the floor painted with flecks of red. Sherlock had been walking around the body, muttering a string of nonsensical words, at least to John, under his breath as Greg watched.
It would be very funny if Sherlock slipped on the floor though, John mused, which can hopefully, but slim chance convince Sherlock, using the blog, to blackmail Sherlock into washing the dishes for a month.
…no, that would be hilarious.
Before he could react, Sherlock happened to skid and fall on his face, with a loud thud, causing John to crack up.
Greg, who was too busy taking notes to even notice what happened, looked up confused. “Why are you laughing mate?” John just pointed slowly to the floor, where Sherlock was getting up, pouting and dusting himself off, rubbing his head and smearing a lot of blood which streamed down his face. Clenching his jaw, he tried to wipe it off, only to make it smear more, causing John to giggle again. He looked through the rest of the house in annoyance, his eyes giving a sweeping search across each and every room. Eventually, Greg just stared at them before he sighed and asked, “Any ideas, mate, that you could share? About why she died or how?”
John gazed at his brilliant madman who sighed, bored, and started to rattle off deductions aloud.“The woman is a single mother, who works in an insurance company, told by the id on the table, her own son killed her, who is a medical student who has access to blood, if you check the hospital he is a trainee at Bart’s Hospital, as seen from the photograph mounted on the wall. You will find that there has been blood from donations, at the hospital, missing. He hates his mother, and thinks that her father died because of her, as told by the state of the room, and other areas that concern the boy in the house, he still lives here, despite hating her, by using her guilt. She blamed herself for her husband’s death for a long time, as told by the state of her wedding ring, and she kept trying to appease her son in all ways, like paying expensive universities for his studies despite her poor financial state told by the sparse furniture in her house, but she still has a bit of self respect, and is not completely consumed by her grief, shown by the neat and reputable state of the house. She spent a lot of money buying him expensive gifts, such as the ecosystem of electronic products in his room despite her debts, which she is paying off every month, from the papers tucked in the room. He had electrocuted her, with the dangling wire outside the window, it had reached long enough when he had nicked it with a sharp knife from the window in his neighbours house, into which he sneaked into by lock picking, which he practised on his cabinet with the pins found on the dresser in his room. It is probably a knife used for cutting meat, as the wire is snapped cleanly in two, and it looked like it didn’t take much effort, and after the deed, he filled the tub with the blood he stole from the hospital. The son will be at the hospital now, in the middle of a surgery, possibly, and he is planning to go abroad tonight directly from the hospital, judging by the emptiness of his cabinet. Is that enough to go on for?”
Greg shook his head, as if something unexplainable clawed at his mind. “Alright, mate, thanks for your help, really appreciate it after, you know, that happened…” He patted John on his back delicately and left immediately, which left John feeling incredibly uncomfortable, and confused. What was that all about?
—
John sighed as they made their way back to Baker Street, Sherlock walking slightly ahead in front of him, in silence. That was probably nothing. He was just getting paranoid after Moriarty, there is really no need to worry at all. He glanced at Sherlock, who looked deep in thought.
“Is it about the case?” John asked, feeling slightly apprehensive, for some reason.
He looked startled to be shaken out of whatever he was thinking. “No, the case was simple, hugely disappointing.” He tone had an undertone of irritation to it, and that resolved John’s question on pushing for information.
As they slowly made their way downhill, a black, sleek, limousine rolled on beside them, and Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “Mycroft has come to grace us with his presence again.”
John couldn’t help copying him as the car stopped beside them and the driver opened the door to the backseat, where, indeed, Mycroft was already waiting. Between Sherlock’s annoyance and Mycroft, this is going to be a long day.
He reluctantly got into the car behind Sherlock, feeling disconcerted. First Greg, now Mycroft. Something doesn't feel right. John looked around in the interior of the car, which remained the same as ever, luxurious and elegant.
“Why are we brought here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, looking very pissed. Mycroft remained silent, as if he never heard Sherlock throughout the entire car journey. As they slowly pulled up before 221B Baker Street, Mycroft spoke up.
“Dr Watson, I trust that you will remain safe. Do take care.” With that final sentence, he left as quickly as he arrived.
—
As soon as Mycroft took his leave, John rounded on Sherlock.
“What was that all about? Greg was acting weird, and now, your brother? Did you end up blowing up something again? Or are we getting arrested?”
He scoffed, side-stepping him and throwing himself on the sofa. “John, if we were really getting arrested, wouldn’t Gavin have arrested us at the station? And, no, I did not ‘blow up something’ as you so eloquently stated” He flipped through a science magazine, avoiding John’s eyes.
John stared hard at him, but gave up on getting an answer and busied himself by making tea. He set the other cup on the table and plopped into his chair, going through a half-read book when Mrs Hudson entered, and beamed when she saw John.
“Oh, John, you are finally back!” She engulfed John in a hug right after John was able to move the cup out of the way. Phew. He took a closer look at her face and frowned. Her lower lip was trembling, her brows were lined with tension, and she seemed very upset in general.
“Mrs Hudson? What’s the problem? Did someone hurt you?” John was, to say the least, alarmed. What was happening? Why is everyone so… off? He patted her on her back absentmindedly, while his thoughts flowed on and on, like an incoming wave.
She gave him a watery smile. “You look better than you did the last time I saw you, John. I thought you were moving out, away from this…” She sniffed and wiped her tears away. “But it is good to see you are coping, dear.” She got up and walked out of the room again, leaving John uneasy. Why was Mrs Hudson crying? Was he truly not seeing something that is right before his eyes? Speaking of right before his eyes, he glanced at the detective lounging quietly on the couch. Something was really wrong. Why else, then, would Sherlock be so… silent after a case? Usually they either went to eat at Angelo’s, or he played some of John’s favourite pieces on the violin, which is sitting at the corner of the room, gathering dust from the lack of use after Moriarty’s death. He frowned. For the past two months, he had not seen Sherlock really eat, in front of his eyes either, nor had he been talking to anyone else except John? He did send text messages though, right?
John leaned back, troubled. What is going on? Was it something, perhaps, about Moriarty? He also had not been checking his blog either, after Moriarty’s demise. They, by that he means the general public, still think that Sherlock is a fraud, and he was not comfortable seeing such hateful comments anymore that he stopped checking his blog.
What was he truly missing? Every now and then he glanced at Sherlock, just to see if anything changed at all, but no. He was as still as a statue, just staring off into space, and it’s unsettling because John was sure he was not in his mind palace.
“Sherlock, I need you to explain to me, what the hell is going on here! Everyone’s been acting weirdly today, Greg, Mrs Hudson and even your bloody brother! It is driving me mad!” He huffed, panting.
The detective snorted, which twisted his sharp, poker face into something entirely different, like… disgust? Or was that pity?
“John, as always, you see, but don’t observe! It is clear, as broad as daylight! Why would everyone be afraid to broach on a topic, something they had been treading around all this while since you bloody locked yourself up in the flat for months? Why?”
John started at that, angry. “That was because you had locked yourself up in here, and I just stayed with you! You had no case, after Moriarty! A-and I just stayed here, along with you!”
This time the detective’s eyes softened slightly, and John was sure that now it was indeed pity, and it almost pushed John over the edge but something made him stop.
“You never swear, you posh git. Since when did you swear? And anyways, how did you slip and fall without a single blood mark on your coat, and nor did Greg notice anything, otherwise he would have laughed!”
Sherlock sighed. “You still don’t see it, don’t you? I really do need to spell it out. I was never here. I died, up there, when I jumped down from the rooftop after leaving my ‘note’, and you didn't even attend my funeral, did you? You shut yourself up in here, imagining and convincing yourself that I was indeed, still alive. But, you need to move on, John. On and away from me, and find yourself a new life because this is not going to work out. And at no point in time are you going to contemplate ending your life because you knew I wouldn’t want that to happen. Please.”
As soon as he finished talking, he just disappeared, vanishing into thin air, away. John sank to his knees, bemoaning the loss of his beloved. It like an old wound being ripped open again, raw, broken and utterly painful. And somewhere far, far away, the real Sherlock was on the streets, constantly searching for a new way to dismantle Moriarty’s network.