Denial | A Johnlock fanfiction

Red Eyes

John was sitting on his chair, reading the paper with a cup of cold forgotten-about tea on the table next to him when it started. Sherlock rushed through the front door of their flat at 221B and didn't even glance at John as he sped passed him, collar turned up covering most of his face except his eyes. They were red as if Sherlock had been crying. Crying? John had never known Sherlock to look so distressed, except that one time on the Baskerville case. But that was different, there was ample and obvious reason then.

"Sherlock?" John called out as Sherlock rushed up to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

John got out of his chair quickly, rushed to Sherlock's door, and pressed his head against the wood. It was cold against his skin, but ignoring it he listened carefully. It was silent. He raised his fist and was about to knock when he heard a quiet sniffle. He paused for a moment, debating whether or not he should knock on the door or leave Sherlock alone until he came out. After a minute of debating in his head, he turned away from the door. 

He stood for a second in the middle of the living room, staring in the direction of Sherlock's door. What on earth could that have possibly all been about? As far as John knew, Sherlock had only headed out to Scotland Yard to help with some of the paperwork on the recent case they had just finished working on. That was it, nothing more. At least, that was what Sherlock had told him before rushing out of the house two hours earlier.  

There was very little chance that Anderson or Donivan could have affected Sherlock this much, and Lestrade wouldn't have said anything that would cause Sherlock to come home in tears. Maybe it was something else, maybe a phone call with bad news. But what? John sighed before sitting back in his armchair. He picked up the newspaper but was too worried about Sherlock to read a single word. He rested it on his knee and stared at it as he thought.

His eyes, bright red and threatening to cry, his collar, turned up to try and hide it. Walking past John quickly, not even stopping to say hello before shutting himself in his bedroom. This was unlike Sherlock. He was usually open with John about these things, telling him how stupid Anderson had been when seeing him or how 'Gary' had said something so ridiculous it made his blood boil.

John tried to turn back to his newspaper, and he took a sip of his tea before grimacing. Cold. He groaned before tossing the paper aside and pushing himself up again. He looked back towards Sherlock's door. He knew he should try and comfort him, at least ask him if he was okay. Something stopped him, however. Maybe he was in shock from Sherlock's unusually vulnerable appearance. 

"Sherlock?" He called once more in a last-ditch effort. 

Still no response.

It was only two in the afternoon, and John had been hoping to spend the day with Sherlock, if only for his silly quarrels, small talk, and amazing deductions, Sherlock was a pleasure to spend time with. John knew he wasn't going to come out for a while, so with yet another sigh, John walked towards the door and pulled on a jacket.

"I'm popping out for a bit," John called out. Again, no response.

John didn't go anywhere in particular, he just wanted to get out of the stifling air in baker street. He walked down the busy roads of London. It was just after lunch on a Tuesday, and the place was packed full of tourists. He turned into a quieter part of town, just houses and corner shops, away from the tourist attractions and high streets. 

He walked around the block a few times, stalling going back. He didn't want to go back yet when he didn't know how to cheer up the strangest of roommates. But soon the air grew too chill, so he headed back around half-four. 

When he got back in, it was clear that Sherlock had left his room to get things. The violin was gone, and Sherlock had left the key in his usually locked drawer. John walked over, curiosity getting the better of him, and opened the draw as quietly as he could. There was a box of cigarettes, an old tablespoon, and a lighter inside. He frowned. Perhaps he'd taken some cigarettes out? There can't have been much else in there.

John decided to make some food for himself and Sherlock, even though he knew that he wouldn't come out of his room at least until he left for bed. John took decided to make baked potatoes, even though they took a while to make. He put the oven on full wack and got two large potatoes and some tin foil out, wrapping one of them up for Sherlock (Sherlock HATED crispy skin, he liked the skin soft) but left his unwrapped. When the oven was done heating up, he threw them in and set the oven's timer for a little under two hours before plonking himself onto his armchair. 

He took the tv remote, bored and looking for something to do, and began to flick through the channels to try and find something to watch. The news had information about the case that Sherlock and himself had solved, but gave no appreciation to either of them, only to the people who worked at Scotland Yard. Could that be why Sherlock was upset? No, Sherlock didn't care for recognition, did he?

John switched off the TV and decided to pull out his laptop and update his blog. That always cheered Sherlock up, though he wouldn't admit it out loud. John could see Sherlock's eyes light up when he read it, although he would say it was ridiculous aloud. John got to work writing about their latest case and titled it 'the left-handed litigator' after the murder's profession and the fact he was (obviously) left-handed as Sherlock had deduced from where the man stabbed his victims. 

The Left-handed Litigator: Dr. John H Watson

We were having a quiet evening at home when Lestrade called to tell us about three homicides. Sherlock, of course, was over the moon. Not a surprise, he's been so bored recently. We left Baker street and made our way to the third of three homicidal crime scenes to see a man in his late fifties laying dead near the Victoria tube station.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to deduce that the person that had killed him had been left-handed, due to the three stab wounds on his body having slices from where the killer had pulled the knife out violently, dragging down the left of his body.

I inspected the body also, and my medical opinion was that this was done with an illegal butterfly knife. It was also clear to me (and of course to the one-and-only-know-it-all Sherlock Holmes) that the perpetrator had stabbed the victim more than once in the same locations, going over the stab wounds, indicating this was a violent and depraved act.

The same was true of both of the other victims, all of which had three stab wounds on the right side of their bodies, although the location varied slightly on each. The police managed to identify all of these people, but at first, couldn't find a link.

Sherlock and I, however, managed to discover that these people had all been to court within the last three months. The first victim, Joane Brown, had been to court for suspected fraud, of which she was found innocent. Michelle Hornton was in the same court around a month later because of a business deal gone wrong at her expense, and the last victim, Michael Preston, having gone two weeks later for committing fraud, which landed him a hefty fine.

It turned out they had all worked closely with a litigator and had all worked with the same one, Richard Bowmen. When the police searched his home they found a butterfly knife and gained enough DNA evidence from his clothes and knife to charge him with the murders of Brown, Hornton, and Preston, as well as for Criminal possession of a weapon. 

Of course, Sherlock said the case was too easy.

John finished with enough time to spare to get out some plates. He dished up the food and called out for Sherlock to get his food. After he didn't get a reply, he covered Sherlock's plate with foil and put it back in the oven to stay warm, hoping he would come out to eat it later. 

He sat at the table to eat, his mind once again fixated on his younger and more troubled roommate. He just wished that Sherlock would talk to him, but he knew that Sherlock's mind worked in weird ways and that he should just give him some space. Still, he couldn't work out why Sherlock had been crying. John finished his dinner and went to wash up, his mind still focused on his partner in solving crime.

What if he didn't come out tomorrow? No, Sherlock would have to get bored eventually, and as soon as Lestrade was on that phone, Sherlock would forget all about whatever had made him sad in the first place.

John just hoped he was right, and that things would be better in the morning.

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AN - please leave a comment if you want more! It means the world to me!