Heart Echo

Chapitre IV. Bloody trills

9:12, the following day, 221B Baker Street
The situation hasn't gone further. Moriarty didn't show himself, what was absolutely strange, because if he threw evidence, his next step would have been another crime. Its trajectory is usually difficult to track, that is why he plays with Scotland Yard, throwing theories and evidence on crime scenes. But most likely, these are just intermediaries that are a direct thread to Sherlock Holmes.
The detective rummaged in the newspapers and tried to find at least some evidence of direct or indirect fault of James, but nothing was right. John was absent, and it was the best part of time to do it. Sherlock started feeling embarrassing while taking John with himself. Well, he's a doctor and a very intelligent one, but how can he help? He's so... Emotional. Sometimes too much. But he's his friend, maybe even more. Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist his small hints to intimize their relationship, but he's married on his work, and love will ruin everything. He was considered in it profoundly.
At the same time, he tried to comprehend that Jim had hired rats that follow every step of himself, and they would never miss the moment of an inadvertent fall into the abyss of vain.
Looking at the paper chaos, he noticed the bow under it. Sherlock came up and examined it and realized that it wasn't made of the same tree that his native violin was. What is more, the main part of the violin was not found. “What is it doing here?” He began to recall all of his last visitors, but they physically could not throw a bow under a pile of literature.
Sherlock touched the horse’s hair on the bow and it easily dropped on the floor, and then a small ball was visible on its end, like a tiny microphone. Someone followed him, and these are definitely not clients. Someone came to their home without an invitation ... And then Holmes heard his friend's joyful appeal behind him:
“Sherlock, how are you? I found out something here when I met Lestrade..."
The sociopath instantly approached John and brought his pointing finger to his lips, hinting to shut up. His eyes met John's, and this second was like an eternal one. Then he crushed the microphone and waved his hand, allowing him to continue. “What was that, Sherlock?” whispered John.
“You can talk normally, nothing out of the ordinary, just snooping on one of Moriarty’s pawns. And you'd better try not to trick me, you were going out with this frivolous girl, didn't you?”
- It's my private life, and YOU'd better not to involve in it! YOU NEVER LOVED ANYONE, AND YOU NEVER WILL!
Sherlock looked at him calmly. He didn't show any emotion, but John did. He was upset of saying those words, so he put his hand on his mouth. Then, after a confusing pause, he continued:
“Don't you think he would have come here and slipped this buttonhole?”
- Obviously no, he doesn't have to pay attention to himself. Moreover, he would have done it in the most extreme case, - he went up to the window, looking at few people going smootly on the street and said:
- This is the part of hell in which he will receive frostbitten limbs.
John stood thinking about the detective’s words while the other examined the bow. Flicking his finger through his horse's hair again, he noticed reddish spots on his fingers.
- What is it, Sherlock, smudges? Dried blood? - John said, approaching to Sherlock's back.
- No, most likely rosin. People rub horse's hair with it so that the violin sounds more smoothly. “You can buy yourself some, by the way, your violin really requires it.” - John said while opening the new newspaper.
- Oh, come on ... But wait. If the hair is rubbed with rosin, it was used very recently...
- And by the way, particles of rosin were found under Caroline’s nails. Her fingers were rather long and thin, she often played on plucked instruments, - John admitted.
- Perhaps she brought the bow into the flat, but where's the violin?
Suddenly, a sound of crash was heard on the first floor. Sherlock undoubtedly went on the stairs, and John picked a gun, following him.
Then everything became silent. Sherlock and John slowly looked out of the stairs and found Mrs Hudson laying on the ground unconscious. Near her head a broken violin was laying... And suddenly they saw HER.
- Miss Garnett? Look, she's crying over her! - John whispered.
Truthfully, there was standing Yolanda, showing shock on her face. Her hands were trembling, and she called:
- MISTER HOLMES, DOCTOR WATSON, ARE YOU HERE? SOMEONE, HELP!
Sherlock told John to sit quietly and pointed at the killer, who was sitting behind the wall, looking and puling up the gun at Ms. Garnett.
John wanted to run to her, but Sherlock grabbed him by the shirt and murmured:
- John, it's a trap, there's a killer nearby, and if you want to stay alive, stand here!
- But Mrs Hudson is dying, and Yolanda needs help!
- They'll be okay!
- Sherlock, you're just a fucking senseless machine, finally let me go!
- No, I won't...
Sherlock pulled John to himself. He wanted to grab his hands together, but suddenly he was slapped in the face. John quickly made the shot, but a second after it, he felt blood running from his stomach. He moaned: 'Sherlock...' and rolled down the stairs without forces. Yolanda gasped, trying not to cry...
Then Sherlock cried at her:
- Call an ambulance! Now!
But she made a fake smile and hissed:
- It's all your fault! If you didn't make John so underrated and heartbroken, he'd be in a much better state! But it's your nature, coldness is in your blood! You don't have any feelings, you selfish idiot! Now sit and cure him with your cleverness!
Then, she calmly opened the door and went away.
Sherlock quickly pulled Mrs Hudson's body to John's and called Lestrade to get police and ambulance. Then his heavy tears fell from his cheekbones on the floor. He grabbed his scarf and wrapped John's stomach, still losing blood, praying:
- Please, don't leave me...