Chapter Text
'Let me get this straight,' Lestrade sighed as he collapsed onto the park bench, 'You're telling me that whoever committed this act of idiocy, is the same person who killed several people two years ago.'
Sherlock was barely paying attention, his eyes glued to the small screen on his phone, 'Yes, I am.'
'Dare I ask,' the forlorn Inspector muttered, 'Why you think that to be true?'
'I don't think, I know. There's a difference.'
'That may be the case, but until there's hard evidence and someone's been arrested, I can't just take your word for it.'
'Don't you always just take his word for it,' a sly voice said, nearly inaudible.
'Shut it, Anderson.'
'Yes, Anderson, be a good boy and go do something useless-'
'Shut it, Sherlock.'
Anderson took a step forward, Donovan a step behind. Sherlock, in return, slipped his phone into his pocket and glanced once, twice up and down the offending person, as if he were a small dog yipping bravely.
'Why should I be quiet, when this idiot clearly can't grasp the concept that I am a Consulting Detective-'
'That's not even a real job-'
'Oh and what you do is? The reason I'm hired is because you're too stupid to be able to do your job properly, so yes, you do have to take what I say and believe it. You know why?'
Throughout the conversation they had become closer, until Sherlock's curved sneer matched his posture, he was lent over Anderson like a viper, fangs bared. Anderson, however, had his chest puffed up and face scrunched into a tight knot, not dissimilar to a bull dog.
Donovan and Lestrade stood either side of them, the detective inspector ready to break up any possible fight, whilst she was only looking to add to the trouble, 'Please freak, you're not the only one who can solve cases you know, we weren't just hired for nothing.'
Seeing where Donovan was headed, Anderson piped up, 'Although why they hired a psychopath I'll never know. One day we'll be standing 'round a body and you'll be the one who put it there.'
Sherlock let out an animalistic rumble, his hands clenched into fists. Anderson wavered slightly, his tough exterior giving away to his sudden fear.
Then, he stopped. The heat was extinguished from his fiery gaze in brief attack of sadness, loss and hopelessness. The smooth curves that he had dug into his own palms were relieved of pressure as his hands became slack, arms hanging limply by his side. His posture changed from threatening to vulnerable as his mouth dropped open, as if he couldn't find the words he needed. He sent a tortured look directly to Lestrade.
As his knees began to give way, he swayed over to the bench.
Sherlock wasn't akin to feeling like this, like everything was suddenly very worthless and had no meaning, as though every happy moment he had abandoned him. He felt lost, alone and empty.
He was scanning his memories for any sign that this might have happened before, or if he had consumed something that his body was reacting to.
Lestrade's persistent shaking dragged him from his thoughts, Sherlock pushed him back with his arm, relieved that he had gained function back to his body.
The voices (namely Lestrade's) became steadily louder, swirling and thumping like a bass drum until he could clearly make out what he was saying, 'Sherlock! What's wrong, are you ill?'
'No-I,' He looked dazed and self-doubting, a combination that Lestrade found worrying, 'I feel like something very important was taken from me, only I don't know what.'
'You don't think,' Donovan asked, her brow knitted in confusion.
Anderson joined in with a breathy laugh and a shake of his round head, 'No, not Sherlock, it couldn't be.'
After taking in what the other two had said, Lestrade quickly turned to Sherlock and asked if he was in any physical pain.
'Yes, my left shoulder at the back, it feels like I've been punched,' subconsciously Sherlock dropped back into his deducing monotone, 'No damage, psychosomatic. But what bought it on, I've never shown any sign of this before. It may be neurological, but that wouldn't make any sense.'
Lestrade urgently demanded to see his shoulder, Sherlock refused saying that there was nothing wrong with him, but wielded as he was showing no sign of backing down.
By this point Sherlock was standing, his back to the three onlookers, coat and jacket strewn on the bench.
Lestrade had gone onto the tips of his toes and was peering down the back of his shirt.
Sherlock heard collective gasps from behind him, he spun round, hand flying to his shoulder, 'What is it?'
Before they had a chance to reply, he had begun attacking his coat in search of his phone. Upon finding it, he used the reflection to get a better angle, 'I see.'
His shoulder wasn't inflamed, the skin wasn't damaged, and there were no breaks or fractures, only the usual smooth expanse of skin and a glowing red mark, the size of a one pence coin. It shone from his skin like a beacon of light, it glinted with the same intensity of an evil cartoon characters eye.
It could only mean one thing. Whomever Sherlock was destined to meet, not necessarily to fall in love with, but still would have played a large part in his life, was gone, dead, no longer.
'I see,' he repeated.
Silence fell over the quartet, none of them quite had the words to convey their sympathies.
It had been approximately forty-five seconds since they had passed. Forty seconds since Sherlock had felt where they had been shot. Thirty-three seconds since Donovan had wondered, thirty since Anderson had denied the possibility, and twenty since Lestrade had asked how he was feeling. Sherlock had said, 'I see,' five seconds ago.
As quickly as he was first hit with the feeling of dread, an overwhelming sense of hope crashed upon him, nearly suffocating him with relief.
His heart was hammering in his chest. The others took a step back in surprise as Sherlock leapt to his feet, a welcome burst of energy tingled from his head to toes, rushing through his body as fast as rain falls from the sky, 'Someone must have found them, I can feel it,' He spun around in a moment of sheer lunacy, 'They must be using the re-fibulator, my heart is racing beyond-I can't-ah!' Sherlock broke of, clutching a hand to his chest as he tried to control his erratic breathing.
'Take it easy Sherlock,' Lestrade supported him from the side, waiting until he regained composure.
'I'm fine. Let me go.'
Lestrade looked at him skeptically, 'Jesus Sherlock, what the hell just happened?'
'Apparently whoever I'm destined to meet just died, and then was saved.'
'Poor girl, doesn't know what she's in for,' Anderson had already returned to his spiky nature, annoyed by his temporary concern for the man he loathed.
Donovan, however, was still taken back by the events that had unfolded before her, 'But are you okay? I mean, what just happened…I'd always assumed you'd never, you know.'
'What?' Sherlock snapped, 'That I didn't have a soul mate,' He said rolling his eyes at the phrase, he then looked at Anderson, 'No one said the person was going to be a woman, or that we'll fall in love and ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.'
Seeing the large possibility of another argument rising between them, Lestrade quickly intervened, 'Alright that's enough, from both of you. Sherlock, go home, we have enough here to catch the bastard. No buts! That's an order.'
'I don't take orders from you!'
'Would you like me to call your brother?'
Sherlock headed to the main road in search of a cab.