Chapter Text
We are called out to a crime scene in the middle of a pretty spectacular row.
I'm in the kitchen—the shopping forgotten on the table beside me—taking a tongue lashing for suggesting Sherlock take a case from Mycroft to stave off the boredom.
“That is the fourth time,” he growls at me from his place in front of the living room windows. He's got a finger pointed at me and his voice is thick with irritation. “Four times you've suggested I call my brother this week, John! Stop skulking around here, acting the blithering nanny! I am not so bored as to need your interference,” he says the words as if they taste revolting on his tongue, "or Mycroft's for that matter. If you need something to occupy your time rather hovering over me, I suggest you call up any one of the slags you can't seem to get enough of instead!”
I simply stare at him. Slowly, carefully, I let my face go blank but cannot force my hands to unclench from the fists they've formed at my sides.
“Fine,” I say tersely. “Fine, I'll get out of your hair.”
I move to the door and have just grabbed my jacket when his phone pings with a new text. I'm down the stairs and out the front door, fuming, when he suddenly catches up to me.
“There's been a murder, Lestrade requires our assistance.”
I don't stop to look at him, instead I continue down Baker Street in the direction of Sarah's flat.
“Have fun with that,” I snap over my shoulder.
Sherlock's hand is suddenly clamped around my elbow. When I jolt to a stop with an almost imperceptible gasp he lets go immediately.
He knows not to catch me unawares. He knows my nerves are constantly brimming under the surface. I whip around to glare at him the second I've regained control over the undue panic.
“What?!” I seethe.
Something like guilt flashes briefly across his features but is quickly replaced with haughty indifference.
“Lestrade requires both of us.”
It takes everything in me to force myself into the taxi Sherlock waves down.
The sight inside the church makes me fall back a few steps while Sherlock strides forward, pushing past me undeterred. The structure is not a large one, and I can make out a fair amount of detail from where I'm frozen just inside the doors. Lestrade gives me a raised brow look and I give my head a small shake at his silent question, marching forward. I'm fine, I've seen worse.
Except that 'worse' is relative.
Because while I've seen both grisly and subtle deaths, this murder holds a court of its own. The girl (no older than eighteen) has been placed naked before the alter, her body curled forward on her knees, stiff elbows bent on the steps to the dais as if in prayer. Petit wrists and ankles are bound with ribbon and her palms are pressed together to further affirm the illusion of supplication. Because her back is facing me and her head is bowed against her hands, for a moment I'm horrified to think she's been beheaded.
I can't stop the shaky sigh of relief when I see her strawberry blond locks exactly where they ought to be. She's been blindfolded and gagged with the same thick ribbon binding her extremities. Sherlock casts me a dark look, clearly annoyed by my inability to contain myself. I ignore him and turn to Lestrade.
“What's her name?”
His mouth is set in a grim line and he runs a hand through his silver-grey hair. “Marie Debussy, according to the vicar.” He points to the corner where a pale-faced man stands with Donovan looking as though he might be sick. From the acrid smell coming from behind the alter I think he may already have been. “She's the daughter of two of his regular parishioners, but we'll have to bring them to the morgue later to confirm.”
“The daughter of, but not a regular herself.” It's not a question and Sherlock goes back to examining the body and ignoring us once he's said it.
His statement sends an icy cold spreading through my veins. Marie's head is bowed, her frizzy curls and her hands covering her face; the only part of her not on display.
“How did he recognize her than?”
I almost don't recognize my voice through the biting flatness of my tone.
The underlying question settles heavily between us and Greg turns a stony look to the robed man, but Sherlock is shaking his head. “The vicar didn't do it. There's a distinct birthmark on the back of the victim's left hand, very identifiable. He'll have recognized it from when she attended services with her parents. That the body was left here is obvious, as is the motive. The killer knew this woman. Has known her for quite some time I should think.”
“Spell it out for us would you?” I snap.
He shoots me that look, that analytical piercing look that tells me he's trying to figure me out. I stare right back at him unflinchingly. I know Sherlock well and I know the annoyed frown pulling at the corners of his mouth means he hasn't been successful at deducing me.
Good.
“Well?” Lestrade is losing his patience as well.
He tears his eyes away from mine and motions lazily to Marie Debussy's body.
“She's clean, but too clean so the killer washed her down before displaying the body; he even filed her nails and polished them.”
I kneel to take a closer look and he's right, the finger and toe nails look as though they've had professional attention, even if it's only a clear gloss that coats them.
“By the bruises and rug burn on her knees and back we can deduce that Miss Debussy was an addict and a prostitute, and so has been living away from home for quite some time—my guess is over a year, considering the extent of the track marks on her person.”
I look to the visible gaps between her toes and feel ill when I see the needle impressions are not confined to the girl's arms.
“Her parents were regulars at this church, for long enough that the priest would recognize the victim even after she'd left home—recognized her by a birthmark so it would be likely that the family has attended for years. This fact must be known to the killer. He could have displayed her at any church, but he chose this one so he knew of her past or else has known her for quite some time. He has positioned her in the form of prayer, but not only that, she's been bound, gagged and blindfolded with white ribbon—white being a representative of purification and virginity amongst other things. The killer believes she is unworthy of seeing or speaking to,” Sherlock gestures flippantly to the cross on the wall behind the alter and rolls his eyes, “God. He's set her up to beg for forgiveness for her sins. I think, in all likelihood, Molly will find she's been sexually assaulted.”
At this point I'm kneeling beside the body, taking in the bruising and the evidence of this young woman's life. I look up at the cross before me and feel something within myself hardening. Pushing myself to my feet I join Lestrade as he looks at the body as if in a new light.
“The sick bastard.”
Neither Sherlock nor I disagree.
“Cause of death, John?” Sherlock demands.
My whole body bristles with annoyance. The answer is so obvious that even the vicar could probably tell him.
“Throat slashed,” I say flatly. “Not here though—somewhere else. She didn't bleed out here.”
Sherlock simply nods and goes off to inspect the rest of the crime scene. While he flits around the church I turn to Lestrade.
“So why did you need me here?” I ask, unable to shake the terse tone from my voice even though it's not directed at him.
He gives me a befuddled look. “What do you mean? Yesterday you were begging me to find something for Sherlock. I thought this would be interesting enough.”
I shake my head, “No, me specifically. He said you needed both of us. What am I doing here that he can't, Greg?”
I've only confused him more though, because he shakes his head and looks back at Sherlock as he berates Anderson. “Not that I don't appreciate you coming John, believe me you make him bearable, but I didn't insist he bring you. I assumed you would both be coming when I texted the details, but I never specified.”
I shoot a dark look at the consulting detective and count to ten in my head.
“Did um...has something happened between you two?” Lestrade looks uncomfortable asking, but by now even he must feel the infuriated chill emanating off me.
I ignore his question. “I've got to go. Text me if you need me, but honestly I don't imagine I'll be able to tell you anything about this case that he can't.”
I stalk out of the church, unnoticed by Sherlock, and catch a cab on the main road.
I'm furious with him, but in all honesty I'm even more upset with myself. I couldn't even walk out on a fight properly! I've become so obedient to every whim of Sherlock Holmes that I'll disregard his calling my girlfriends whores and follow him diligently like a dog! And he knew that I'd come.
The cab drops me off at the flat where I bypass the living room and go right up to the third floor. I pull my old duffel out of the wardrobe and lay it open on my bed.
I need space. I need air. I need to be away from the withering looks and biting remarks that come hand-in-hand with Sherlock's manic nature. I neatly pack away my laptop, some clothes, and my toiletry kit. I consider my options.
Sarah will probably let me crash on her sofa for a night or two, but I know that I've used her for this too many times and that guilt stops me from calling her. I could call Mike Stamford, but his wife's never liked me and I don't suppose she'd take too kindly to me spending the night. I don't even stop to consider Harry.
Finally I sigh and zip up the bag. A cheap hotel it is than. I'd taken as many hours at the surgery as I could get once The Work had slowed and Sherlock had become unbearable. I've made enough extra money that a night or two away won't dip too deeply into my savings.
The gun in my nightstand is the last thing I grab, stowing it away neatly.
By the time Sherlock even notices I've left the church, I'll be far enough away to finally catch my breath.
He doesn't text me until I've been gone from the crime scene for two hours.
Where did you go? SH
I ignore it.
Meet me at Angelo's. 6pm. SH
Are you not coming? SH
John where have you gone? SH
Why have you packed a bag? SH
You've taken your gun with you, why? SH
Don't be petty. SH
John text me back, this is childish. SH
I snort at that. I'm the childish one?
At least let me know you're alright. SH
I turn off my mobile.
When it becomes clear that I will not be falling asleep, I decide to take a shower to help clear my head. The hot water works the kinks out of my knotted back muscles and I lean my forehead against the tiles.
The relationship between Sherlock and I has been strenuous at best since his return from the grave less than six months ago. A year he'd been gone. A year with me working myself sick to avoid my grief. Sherlock's faked suicide had pushed me back into my post-Afghanistan haze, wading through uncertainty without any purpose to anchor and solidify me. More than once I had looked down the barrel of my gun, considering my options. Every time I had gently disarmed the firearm, stowed it away, and waited. Waited until I was needed back at the surgery—needed by someone's injury, made useful by someone else's illness. It became routine. Work, sleep, gun, work, sleep, gun, work, sleep, gun. It had gone on for months until one day I had walked into 221B to find Mrs. Hudson coming down the stairs, tears streaming, hand over her heart. She'd simply given me a watery smile and left me alone before I could ask her what had happened.
And Sherlock had been waiting for me. Standing in front of those windows, just like he had done this afternoon. Only, six months ago he had been looking at me with worry not anger. Six months ago he had caught me when I'd passed out and then looked guilty when I'd shoved him away upon waking up. He'd been all explanations and contriteness. He had explained the snipers and his year long mission to disassemble Moriarty's web. He had even put up with the resulting panic attack and the habitual pulse checking that had gone on for weeks afterwards. He'd not said a word every time I'd woken from a nightmare only to stumble down the stairs to check if he was still breathing. And when he knew that I was ready for it, he went back to giving me his exasperated looks and biting remarks.
And I, reeling from loss to resurrection, had drunk him in like liquor. My anger had not lasted long, quickly replaced with relief. Even during the initial media frenzy that had followed, I'd stood at his side as loyal as ever. His name had been cleared months ago by Mycroft (the whole Richard Brook ordeal had been set to rest long before Sherlock's return), so I had stood there with pride, knowing that I'd been right about him all along.
Until, of course, I had realized that I could no longer trust him.
It had hit me suddenly one night when I had found myself driven to his bedroom after waking from a nightmare. I'd quietly sunk to my knees beside the bed and placed the back of my hand in front of his mouth, reassured by the steady breath that puffed back against my sweat-chilled skin. The realization had hit me abruptly, making me snatch my hand away. I couldn't trust him. Not to leave me when he saw fit. Not to make life-changing decisions without me knowing. I couldn't trust Sherlock not to ruin me again.
And so the last six months have seen me living on edge, sure that one day I'll wake up and he'll have left once more. Sure that one day soon I'll be staring down the barrel of my gun unhindered by the routine that had stayed my trigger finger for an entire year.
This morning's row has only solidified that distrust; has made me see my loyalty as pathetic neediness. His thoughtless words have severed something between us and I realize as I stand in this hotel shower that I don't have to be the one who gets left behind.
I turn the water off and step out of the shower, finally exhausted enough to pull on a vest and pants and fall into bed.